#i want to make astarion cry like he did over cazador's corpse

[i-miss-lotor]

So I romanced Astarion and let him ascend and I'm not going to lie, I always had a bit of a hate towards people who look down on me and call me or well, my characters, pet and such. And Astarion didn't change that, especially with the degradation part

But

Imagining the future where my character slowly becomes miserable with Astarion because while he does love her, he doesn't see her as his equal. And I mean even if you want to break up with him after the ascension and defeated brain he just doesn'tlet you (though im not there yet, i just read it somewhere). Imagining him slowly becoming furious, compelling my character to do things, to love him and then anger turns into desperation and hell, he just wants her, what can he do to make her love him again, what does she want, he will give it to her

Anyway I just want them to be happy, then miserable, then to slowly learn to love each other again with Astarion begrudgingly being a tiny bit nicer to others (cause my character mostly likes being nice but also she was an urchin, she's not above blackmail and deception and such. Ohh plus she's a bard, imagine Astarion wanting her to sing again but she doesn't so he makes her and it just breaks the trust again and again

And a scene where she escapes and then Astarion finds her and brings hell with him and kills whoever decided to help her and he's slowly breaking her spirit from the strong and defying woman she was, not realising at first that it's breaking him too.

(I especially like that little movement, swinging himself a bit when you ask if you can talk about your relationship with him and he responds "yes, my treasure?" *happy swingies, he's so happy and cute* and then cuts to him being angry and desperate and sad that his love doesn't look at him with adoration anymore, that the look he receives is not even angry but empty)

And the realization that oh no, did he became another Cazador? But no, he is better than him, he doesn't treat you like he was treated! ...does he?

[slothquisitor]

Sever

In which Gortash dies, and Karlach rages, and everyone wonders if revenge is really the right answer. Also, shout out to my fellow folks with complicated family situations. This one is for you. Astarion x Liv, 5.5k, mostly angst.

Also on AO3.

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Liv stares down at Gortash’s still-warm body and wonders when she became so comfortable with death. The first time she had ever seen a dead body had been when her sister had died, but she hadn’t been the one personally responsible for the death of another until she had been on that mindflayer ship. She knew, of course, that all of her magic, her studies, could be used in this way. But it is one thing to summon a flame and hold that warmth in her hand and another entirely to see the burnt corpse in the aftermath. 

She remembers those first few weeks in the wilderness, killing gnolls and goblins and cultists, the way she would sneak away to retch after every fight. No one had noticed, or if they had, they simply hadn’t mentioned it. Until one day, with the adrenaline rush from the fight fading, she found she didn’t need to step away. And now, as she stands over Gortash’s body, she realizes she feels…not sadness, not exactly. Instead, it’s more a sense of waste. 

There’s no sense of victory when she pries the netherstone gauntlet from his hand. Though the Emperor’s voice is full of it inside her head. But this isn’t like when they rescued the Gondians and Duke Ravenguard. This isn’t like killing Ketheric Thorm and watching the shadow curse recede. It’s justice, of a sort, but it doesn’t feel victorious. 

Karlach is beside her, having dealt the final blow with her halberd. Gortash’s blood still stains the blade, and Liv can feel the heat radiating from her friend. It always takes a few moments for Karlach’s rage to fade after battle, but this is different. She’s somehow heating up. She’s about to ask how she’s doing when Karlach speaks. 

“So Gortash is nothing more than a pile of flesh, same as the rest of us.” She’s staring down at his unmoving body, orange eyes filled with rage and grief and ten lost years. “I feel like there should be a sunset for me to ride off into. Or an orchestral swell…or something .”

Karlach finally meets her gaze. “But there’s nothing is there? I killed the bastard who ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die. Am I fucking missing something? I can’t do it anymore. Ten years, man. It’s enough. It’s enough. He’s dead and he’s no fucking sorrier now than he was before. What was the point? I’m still dying. I’m dying. I’m going to die.”

Liv feels just as helpless, just as out of her depth as when Astarion killed Cazador. Gortash deserved to die, but Karlach is right: killing him didn’t make him sorry for what he did. “We’re going to figure out your engine problem, Karlach. There’s got to be a way.”

“Got a miracle in your back pocket you forgot to tell me about?” Karlach shakes her head. “I’m going to be as dead as Gortash any day now. Any moment. And what then? Off to the city of Judgement to waste into oblivion? Into the dirt to get eaten by maggots? Is that it for me? Is that fucking all?”

Liv flinches back as Karlach flares, heat radiating dangerously. “And you, you’ll just keep going, won’t you? Watching the stars. Reading your books. Drawing, eating, making fucking love all night - all of it. All of it.” The fire burns white hot and bright. “That’s my reward for everything I suffered. That’s why I survived years of torment. The fighting, the clawing, the loneliness, the fucking loneliness …All of it so I could rot. Because the person I trusted the most gave me away to the devil!” 

And just as quick as it came, the flames diminish, banked by grief. Karlach begins to cry, face covered by her hands. “It isn’t fair. I don’t want it like this.”

Liv doesn’t want it like this either. Karlach’s anger feels different, somehow more distant than anyone else’s. There aren’t words to reach it. While she rages, screams, and yells about the unfairness, Liv has nothing to offer. Nothing that might close that distance, that might save her this. Gortash is dead, and it doesn’t matter because Karlach is still dying. Her heart still cannot survive in this plane, and it doesn’t matter what foes they defeat or if the city is saved, Karlach still won’t be. Liv fights the tears that threaten to fall. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. I hate this for you.”

Karlach wipes at her eyes. “I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to stay. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Liv steps closer, showing her that she’s not afraid, and that she’s not alone. “I don’t know. I want you to stay too.” She extends her arms and isn’t surprised when Karlach pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug. 

When she pulls away, Karlach seems steadier. “I want to get out of here. I’ve always hated this place. Stupid fucking gigantic bridge or whatever. I think I need to go be alone for a while. Scream at the sky.”

Liv understands. “I’ll find you later.”

Karlach puts a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for listening. For existing. Love you.” 

Love. Dropped so casually, but filled with so much heart. Despite all she’s been through, Karlach is unfailingly, unwaveringly kind. Quick to offer encouragement and praise, quicker still to offer comfort. It would be so easy for her to walk through the world with her fists raised, ready to fight off everything and everyone, to keep them all at a distance. But instead, her hands are out and open, a hug, an arm draped over shoulders, fist bumps, high fives. Always welcoming, always inviting. Liv doesn’t always know what to do in the face of all that, and now she doesn’t know how to respond. She wishes those words were as easy to say as they are to feel. 

Liv hates that this is the one problem she can’t solve right now. Liv knows a lot about magic, history, languages. She has received the best education that her parents’ money could buy. But this is beyond her, for now. She’s sure that with enough time and study and perhaps help from Dammon, she can find a solution, but that is time they do not have. Not with so many other problems that seem hellsbent on presenting themselves at the most inconvenient moments. 

Karlach leaves, and Liv glances around the massive office, eyes catching on their other companions. Shadowheart and Jaheira are busy tending to Lae’zel and Astarion who both got caught in those damn incineration casters that seem to be affixed to every wall in this place. She’s sure that Wyll and Gale will join them shortly, as they’d stayed below, picking off the last of the Flaming Fist who had tried to follow them up the tower. But everyone is fine. Everyone is okay.

There will be time later for her to consider how close this was. For her to fall apart while she remembers watching Lae’zel and Astarion get caught in flames. But she still has work to do right now, so she takes a deep breath and begins working her way through Gortash’s office. She rifles through cabinets, bookshelves, and desks, looking for anything that might be helpful, might give them clues about where the brain is. She keeps an eye out for anything that might implicate the people who were in league with Gortash, who funneled him support or money or simply turned the other way. Gortash seems the type to keep a list. 

Once Lae’zel and Astarion are healed, everyone else joins in too, piling everything potentially useful on the table in the center of the room. Liv pores over it all, journal entries, memoir notes, invasion plans. Painting a picture of a man with more ambition than sense. 

“There’s something over here,” Astarion says, and she glances his way. “Ah, how utterly predictable.” He pulls a picture down off the wall, revealing a safe. 

Liv abandons the books she was looking through, wandering over to this corner of the room. “Can you open it?” 

Astarion looks offended. “My dear, do you forget who you’re talking to?”

“Gods save me from certain vampires and their egos. This is the guy who rigged this whole place with concussion grenades and flamethrowers, and you’re telling me it’s a simple lock and key?” 

Astarion grins mischievously. “Speaking of ego, it’s not even trapped.”

That is surprising. Astarion is already picking the lock, deft fingers working quickly. Despite his perpetual complaints for a skeleton key, Astarion seems to enjoy this. After a few moments, the lock clicks and the door swings open. Astarion steps back proudly, waving a hand in the invitation for her to go through the contents. She steps up to the safe, already reaching for the small black book that lies within. 

“Is Karlach alright?” Astarion asks, words quiet though there is little chance of them being overheard here. 

Liv turns away from the contents of the safe; they will keep. “Were you?”

His eyes widen at the question, but he recovers quickly. “Gods, is there no fairness in this world? Karlach may have killed him, but it doesn’t change anything does it?” His words are soft, sad even. 

Liv shakes her head. “It doesn’t.” She turns back to the safe and the contents within. She picks up the book, and begins thumbing through its pages. It becomes obvious very quickly that these are Gortash’s notes, a ledger of sorts on every person who pledged him money and support. The names are written out in an inelegant hand, the black ink stains are dark and grotesque. 

Her parents' names are on page five. 

There is no ghastly surprise at the revelation, only resignation. Of course, their names are here. Of course, this is the way it is. She is so tired, so very tired. No matter how hard she tries, she isn’t sure if she’ll ever be able to escape her family. Because she can’t seem to hate them, can’t seem to forget them. So at every turn, with every revelation, she just ends up betrayed, somehow still young and stupid and naive even when she knows she shouldn’t be. 

She tucks the book away in her bag; it feels heavier than it should.

***

Gortash is dead, and Liv is too quiet. In fact, all of their companions are. It’s almost as if they didn’t have a big victory today. They’ve got two out of the three netherstones! A bad guy is dead…as are many of the Flaming Fist following him, which, good riddance, honestly. Astarion isn’t sure why everyone is being so wet around the ears about this one. 

Perhaps it is because killing Gortash has not secured Halsin’s release, and instead has revealed yet another hoop to jump through in order to rescue him. They truly have no reason to take Orin at her word, and yet, if Halsin was dead, Astarion is sure that they’d know it. The bloody notes Orin has delivered to their rooms at the Elfsong haven’t smelled even faintly of Halsin. Small comfort, that. 

The somber mood might also be attributed to Karlach. He’s never seen her like this. Even in the shadow lands, she’d remained steadfastly cheerful. He remembers detesting it, her happiness, her freedom with touch after her second upgrade. Still, he wonders if he knows a little of what she’s going through. 

So, despite his better judgment, he wanders over to Karlach. She’s sitting on one of the couches, alone but not quite alone. Across the sunken area of their rooms, she half-watches Wyll and Gale play a game of lanceboard while she nurses a mug of something that smells sweet and strong. 

“It doesn’t feel like you’d expect it would, does it?” he says by way of greeting. 

Karlach looks up from her drink, her eyes far away, lips twisted into a frown. “What doesn’t?”

He sits down beside her, on the extreme edge of the couch. “Revenge.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” She sighs. “What did it feel like for you?”

He swallows and looks away. He’s done a good job of not thinking about this, grateful for the many things that need doing that keep them all so busy. He doesn’t know if he really wants to name it, to risk giving these feelings real power outside of his own head. But somehow, he wants Karlach to know she’s not alone more. “Grief.”

Karlach doesn’t speak for a long time, hands twisting around her mug. She is almost never truly still. Finally, she wipes at one of her eyes, in a move that could be mistaken for simply scratching her nose. “Yeah. That fits.”

Astarion still isn’t quite sure what it was he was grieving anyway, but for Karlach it’s clear: her freedom, ten years of her life stolen from her. Karlach is better than most and she’s spending her last days trying to save a world that never cared about her. In his less generous moments, and of those there are many, he tells himself that ten years is nothing . Certainly not compared to two hundred. But he’s free now, and he has an eternity of immortality stretching out before him, assuming they survive everything else. And Karlach will die because someone stole her heart and now she’s bound to the hells. It’s really fucking unfair. 

“I wish I could tell you that dying wasn’t so bad, but my experience has been quite…specific….I’m sorry.” He is surprised by how much he means it. How much he wishes he could change her fate. Is this what friendship is? It hurts more than he expected it would. 

Karlach leans forward elbows braced on her knees, shoulders caved in. “Yeah. This just kind of sucks, you know?” 

“It does…” He’s not sure what else to offer; he’s not sure that there is any comfort he can give. “I was trying to think of something more profound to say, but no. It just ‘kind of sucks’.” He is not Liv, and he does not have promises to give Karlach. However he does believe that if there is a way, Liv will find it. “You deserve better.”

Karlach’s eyes look up to the ceiling as she nods. “Yeah, so many do.” She turns to look at him, orange eyes filled with gratitude. “But…thank you.” 

But he hasn’t given her anything. His confusion must show on his face because she smiles, and carefully, slowly reaches a hand up, and lets it hover over his shoulder. She hesitates, waiting to see if he’ll move away. He doesn’t, and heat radiates from the contact, warm and comforting and inviting. 

“I appreciate the check-in, Astarion.” The words are infused with her usual energy, even if it does feel a bit half-hearted. 

Astarion stands then, her hand falling lightly away. Something about this all feels too close, too kind of him. He straightens, determined to infuse this situation with more of his usual prickly humor. “We need you in your best fighting shape. With Halsin gone, who else is large enough to shield me?”

Karlach doesn’t laugh, but instead gives him a knowing look before taking a big drink. “Sure thing, soldier.” 

He tells himself he’s not retreating by leaving that sunken area, that he’s looking for Liv, but it’s really just chance that he runs into her. She’s heading for the doors that lead downstairs with Gortash’s ledger in hand. 

 “Going somewhere?” he asks. 

Liv looks nervous, unsure. “Uh…just downstairs.”

“For?” 

She holds up the book she’d taken from Gortash’s safe earlier in the day as she opens the double doors. “Percy is coming to get this.”

It’s clear that she doesn’t want to have this conversation, but that’s exactly why they probably should. He follows her without hesitation. “And you’re just going to give it to him?” 

She pauses in the hallway, and he watches her take a deep breath before she turns. “Yes.”

Astarion stares at her in disbelief. “You have leverage over half of the noble houses in this city in that little book, and you’re just going to give it away? Are you serious?” 

She nods. 

Is she mad? They need allies. She could manipulate anyone she wanted into helping their cause, into doing so many things. He’s sure that there’s quite a large number of people in that book whose dealings with Gortash they would do anything to keep quiet. And she’d just hand it off to her brother?

“Think about the possibilities here, I beg of you. You don’t have to do anything with this information tonight or even before we figure out how to take on the elder brain, but don’t just give it away.”

Liv shakes her head. “I’m not giving it away.”

“You are though. You are aware that you don’t owe him a damn thing, right?” 

“He gave us information. He helped us.”

Astarion shakes his head. “No, he helped himself. He knows you. Knows that you’d do exactly this because he asked for your help . He lost nothing telling us information we’d likely find out another way anyway.” 

“I don’t think he’s what I thought he was.”

Damn her trust, her belief in people who don’t deserve it. Not everyone is going to rise up to her expectations. Not everyone has a better version of themselves. Not everyone wants to be better. 

 “Sometimes I can’t tell if you give people the chance to take advantage of you because you genuinely believe that they won’t or because you don’t think you deserve better.” He wants to take the words back the moment they’ve left his lips. Not because they’re incorrect, but because he’s not sure he’s allowed to say any of it and still keep her at his side. 

Her brows furrow and she shakes her head. “That’s not…that’s not what this is.”

He almost wants to laugh. That’s exactly what this is. Liv is his favorite person in all the realm, and that realization alone has brought with it its own sort of terrifying exhilaration. Because he knows her. Knows her better than himself. He knows that she’s quick to smile and defaults to politeness when she’s uncomfortable. He knows that she sees the bad in the world, but desperately wants to believe the best of it anyway. And he knows her instinct to offer something to everyone she meets is borne from a bone-deep fear that if she doesn’t, she has no value.

Whether she intends it or not, offering her brother that ledger from Gortash’s office isn’t about keeping her word; it’s about giving away the only thing that she perceives her brother as wanting, and then seeing what happens next. It’s an invitation for hurt, but at least it is a pain she can expect. Gods, he can’t even say he blames her. He’d done the same thing after meeting that blood merchant in Moonrise. Still, he’s not sure how to tell her any of this. How to show her these pieces of herself without it feeling like meanness, the words sharp enough to cut.

It has been a long time since he has questioned her, pushed back against a decision. It has never been this personal, and he doesn’t know how it will go. But he loves her and he’s tired of watching her take herself apart piecemeal for people who don’t deserve it. 

He reaches for her hand with gentle fingers he hopes cushions the blow of what he’s about to say. “You keep giving people the opportunity to wound you and calling it kindness. You owe him nothing, and giving him this book won’t change who he is or was.” 

She remains fixed on their interlocked fingers for a long time. When she finally looks at him, her eyes are filled with pain. “I just want to believe him when he says he’s going to take them down because…I don’t think I have it in me.” Her breath stutters, eyes glistening. 

“They deserve to pay for what they did to you,” Astarion says. For making her feel small, for making her believe that she wasn’t worth time or energy or space. He hates them for that. 

“And then what? It doesn’t bring my sister back. It doesn’t fix my childhood. It doesn’t change that I loved them and they never loved me. It won’t change a damn thing! I can’t get what Karlach said today out of my head. I can’t make them sorry, Astarion.”

He knows she’s right, but he wants her to be wrong. “You don’t know what your brother is going to do with it. He might protect them. I watched you, that day at the Audience Hall. I saw the way their indifference affected you. It was like you weren’t there. I never want to see that happen to you again.”

She had gone so distant, and it had scared him. She is always so perfectly put together, never caught off guard for long. But that day, something inside of her had broken off and rattled around all day long. 

“And I don’t want to spend any more of my life thinking of them or making decisions because of them. I’m going to give this book to Percy before I lose my nerve, and then….I’m done. Whatever happens, happens.”

For her, that will be far easier said than done. Astarion still isn't happy that she's just going to hand the book over, but he supposes that if Percy turns out to be a shit, then he wouldn't feel very bad about killing him. “Alright. Do you want me to go with you?” 

She shakes her head. “No. I think I need to do this alone.” 

He brings their interlocked hands up to his mouth, and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “Just cast a fireball through the floor if there’s an emergency.”

She snorts, and smiles a little. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now. “I’ll try to avoid emergencies of that type.”

“I’m sure the owners will appreciate that.”

“I heard you. I promise,” she says as she steps away. And then he lets her go where he cannot follow.

***

She heads for the stairs, waiting to hear the door shut to their rooms before she leans heavily against the wall, sucking down deep breaths and letting everything Astarion just said wash over her. It’s not that she’s afraid of him seeing any of this, of the vulnerability, or the weakness. It’s just that she needs a moment alone - alone - in ways she hasn’t been since they got to the city. It’s far more convenient to stay here at the Elfsong, and she’s missed sleeping in a real bed. But she can only seem to snatch pockets of isolation. She just needs to think. 

For so long she used to tell herself that the entire world wasn’t her room, wasn’t her estate, wasn’t this loneliness that threatened to eat her from the inside. And now that she’s here, surrounded by friends and love and people, she craves isolation. She needs a moment where she can just be, and no one will see. Where she can break down, for herself only and then pick up her own pieces. 

Astarion isn’t wrong. She offers everything she can, convinced that if she has nothing to give that no one will stick around. And logically, she knows now it’s not true. That her friends care about her not what she can do for them, but that fear still lurks, still whispers in the darkness. She cannot give it space now though. There will be time later, space for her to think about all of this. But for now, she simply needs to go and meet her brother and wash her hands of all of this. 

The Elfsong is busy tonight. There is music and dancing and games. Liv catches snippets of conversation celebrations, speculations, and the inexhaustible variety of people’s lives. She feels so small in this room, surrounded by all of these strangers. There’s something kind of beautiful about it. She sits down at a table in the corner, in a place of relative quiet, and watches the people around her in their merriment. 

When Percy sits down across from her, she is pulled back from the buzz of people, from the din of voices, to this table, this moment. He brings with him two mugs of ale, which was probably wise, they’ll draw attention if they’re not drinking in a tavern. 

“You look tired,” he says.

She could say the same about him. He’s dressed just as finely as the night before, but there are deep bruises beneath his eyes as if he didn’t sleep at all. “It was a long day.”

“Everyone is talking about Gortash’s death,” Percy says as he takes a drink. 

Liv nods. “Yeah. About that…” She reaches into her lap, and pulls out the ledger she found in Gortash’s safe. “Here.” She slides it across the table. 

Percy stares at it but doesn’t pick it up. “What do you want for it?” He’s watching her closely. 

“You already gave me the information we wanted, which was not a great negotiation strategy if you really wanted me to keep my end.”

“And yet here we are,” Percy smiles, pulling the book closer to him. Perhaps, Astarion was right; Percy knew she’d do this. But he surprises her by cocking his head. “You really don’t want anything else?”

“I have some questions I’d like to ask, but there is no expectation. The book is yours either way.”

Percy stares at her for a moment. “That is fairer than I deserve. Ask your questions.”

“How long…how long have you been…this? Working against them?” This is the question that has haunted her. That there might have been more allies in that house than she ever knew, and why didn’t she know? How could she have not realized?

He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. “I’ve always hated Dad. There was an incident once, at a party. He was showing me off, making me perform for his friends. Gods, you would’ve been three years old maybe? I messed up, and his magic came for me. I think he was honestly surprised when people were horrified.

“I got sent away to Cormyr for almost four years after that so that all the gossip could calm down. When I got back, my plan was always to unseat him. To reign victorious over him and Cressida. I worked at it for a long time, until the night that..uh…” He looks supremely uncomfortable, and shifts in his chair. “Until that night.” 

She knows he’s referring to Brelia’s death. It was never spoken of, even in the immediate aftermath. Her family had been so good at avoiding it, that sometimes Liv wondered if Brelia’s death had happened only to her. 

“I watched them bury it, use their wealth and power and connections to cover the whole thing up. And I realized that I didn’t want to be him anymore.”

“So you joined the Guild?” Liv asked, trying to piece it all together to rearrange this person she thought she knew into the man across from her. 

Percy laughs and takes another drink. “No, I got my ass captured by the Guild after a monthslong spree of drinking and gambling and trying to spend as much of the family money as I could.”

“You seem pretty cozy with them now.”

He grins. “You know what’s better than a noble you can buy off? One who actually believes in your cause.”

“So what? You joined the Guild and what? Became a good guy?” 

Percy shrugs. “The Guild isn’t good, but Nine-Fingers has a vision and wants to take care of the people who have been looked down on for too long. She’s got a code. Which is more than I can say for our father.”

Still, there is something bothering her. “You knew I was trying to undermine our parents wherever I could, but you never said anything.”

Percy goes quiet then, smile fading. He is looking anywhere but at her. “Your stunts were useful distractions. Kept our parents' attention focused elsewhere.”

Liv leans back in her chair, letting the revelation hang in the air. She could’ve had an ally in that house, but instead, he’d seen her ‘stunts’ as distractions, useful to him. She had known she’d been ineffective at fighting against her parents. They had too much power, too much influence. She’d been going about it the wrong way; she can see that now. 

“Well, then. Guess that’s something.” The bitterness is evident in her words, and she wishes it wasn’t. Wishes for aloofness, for calm that seems to elude her. 

Percy runs a hand down his face and sighs. “I thought about it…more than once. But Liv, you were free, freer than any of us. I…I always hoped you’d get out. And you did.”

“Free? Free of what?”

“Their fucking expectations. Gods, I was so envious of you. They didn’t expect a damn thing of you!”

And that had been the problem. She had desperately tried for years and years to get their attention, their love, their approval. Something . They had remained horribly and terribly indifferent. It would have been kinder if they had been cruel or hateful. There had been nothing personal about it. And she was left wondering what on earth she had to offer anyone at all. But she had been envious of him too, of the attention her parents had paid him. “I guess the grass is always greener.”

“And you had Brelia and Roland anyway. You didn’t need me.”

She looks at her brother then, tries to really see who is around this mask he puts on and wears about, beyond the smoke and the mirrors and the insufferability. His last words are spoken so quickly, so automatically that she wonders if it is a question or otherwise a justification. She doesn’t know him well enough to guess. 

“Brelia died and Roland left. In the end, I didn’t have anyone. It would have been nice to have not been alone.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing good lasted in that house.”

Liv can’t help but agree. “It didn’t.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry. For all of it.”

She’s dreamed of hearing these words from her family, for them to know and acknowledge the things done to her, the crimes committed. But she is surprised at how much she doesn’t want them from Percy. She understands now that he was just another victim of that house, of her parents. His suffering was different from hers so she didn’t see it.

“You don’t have to…”

Percy leans forward again again, looking utterly lost. “No, I owe you…we could��I don’t know…” 

She wants nothing he might offer her out of guilt. And Astarion’s warning snags in her mind. “You know, Percy, I didn’t want a relationship with the person I thought you were, and I don’t know that I want a relationship with the person you are now. So…maybe this would just be easier for us both if we just let go of all expectations. You don’t owe me anything.” And she doesn’t owe him anything either. 

The severing hurts worse than she expects. The relief in Percy’s eyes hurts more. And just like that, she’s cut loose the last connection to her family. Maybe after this is all over, she might have the time to figure this all out, to understand who her brother is and if she still wants him in her life, but she is not guaranteed an after. And she knows this: that she has had enough disappointment and heartbreak in her life when it comes to family; she does not need more. 

Percy just nods, eyes fixed on his mug. “Yeah, alright. I…uh…thank you for your help.”

She stands then, her own mug utterly untouched. “I hope it’s enough.”

“Me too.”

She turns then, to head for the stairs when she hears him call her name. She turns back, and it’s still odd, to see her brother here. 

“Don’t die.”

Nine-Fingers is well-informed enough that he should know what exactly they’re up against, how the odds are so far stacked against them. But they’ve made it this far, so who’s to say? She offers him a smile she doesn’t particularly feel. “I’ll try.”

[unascended]

THE WEIGHT IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND WAS AS CUMBERSOME AS THE ONE IN HIS CHEST. Astarion took her soul coin, clutching at it like the desperate thing that he was. How was he to say no when she held out something to him - something of value both personal and literal? After everything Karlach had said, he felt as if his tongue (or perhaps his very being) had been scalded. It was as if he'd pressed against her bare flaming skin only to come away charred and cracking. There was no balm to soothe how wretched her goodness made him feel by comparison.

Even still Astarion felt she misunderstood him. Karlach was looking for something in him that no longer existed. Perhaps it never did. Or worse: if it did how did he justify, well, ALL OF IT? There was so little left of himself to make sense of because of Cazador, and so little that made sense in the world at all. (He made sense of it by believing it was all bad, even himself.) Was he responsible for the children? For every beautiful corpse he'd thrown in a muddy pit while Godey or some beady eyed werewolf kept watch? For the sex and the deceit and the way he hated it, hated his body, hated how it'd been used, hated -

Slender fingers unclenched from around Karlach's soul coin, his swimming ruby stare flickering over it in a silent battle against the urge to shed tears. No, he wouldn't cry. A single hard swallow, a deep breath, and Astarion turned his gaze on her with sharp intensity.

"Of course I want freedom," he began, tone icy and distant. "So does everything kept in a cage."

Despite the fight bubbling to the surface in him to spill past his lips, his fingers curled around the coin one final time. This time he pulled his hand back, pushing it up between his middle and index fingers to begin rolling it over his knuckles. Flippant treatment for something so priceless offered to him, maybe, but he had no intention of giving it back now that it was his. Maybe it'd make a good bargaining chip when they reached the Shadow Cursed lands in a couple of days. If he were lucky enough to meet Raphael again. (If he could bring himself to truly part with it.)

"The difference between you and I, darling..." His tone was more biting than his expression - no, his eyes denoted fear. Fear of himself. Perhaps of her getting close to him for real and hating what she saw. "The difference is you had the free will to run. If you were corrupted you didn't stay that way, but I don't think you were. Zariel might have cut out your heart, Karlach, but a part of you still held onto it even when it was hopeless. Even when it was stupid to."

There was a soft metallic clink as Astarion's thumb caught the edge of the soul coin and flipped it into the air. Snatching it up, he finally pocketed it and leaned forward with folded hands resting between his spread thighs. With his head bowed he could see all manner of tiny critters scuttling through the dirt at his feet. He grimaced, plagued by memories of the bugs he'd eaten when he was starved and rats were off the menu.

"Mine stopped beating two hundred years ago. You clung to your love for this plane and the people in it to get you by. I learned to hate it. Faerûn has its mildly redeeming qualities, sure, but... I had to hate it. Because if I didn't..." The fingers of his left hand squeezed his right so hard he felt his bones ache with it. "Maybe I would have died. Maybe someone else would be in my place. I would be forced to face the idea that there might have been people who loved me once, and I had to accept that there never will be again. Not really."

Desperation crept into his voice again, like a starved beast prowling in the night. Cazador had carved him hollow of all hope. He'd lived two centuries stripped of even the most basic agency over himself, and she expected him to play hero? "Why should I save anyone but myself? Oh, I'm sure you think your reasons are so compelling. So no one else has to feel what we did. That's so sweet, Karlach, really, but since when did anyone look at ME and think that?"

Burning red eyes caught the firelight when he finally looked up at her again. In his gaze there was a well of rage and misery so bottomless that it put the Abyss to shame. Even if he knew she was right, he had to argue. He couldn't just not - he had to make sense of it. He couldn't.

"For two hundred years I've had to live with knowing that the objectively right thing for anyone who came across me to do would be to put a stake through my heart. The right thing to do would never be to save me. To help me. To take pity on me for being tormented every moment of my miserable existence. No one looks at THIS -" His fangs flashed at her, left hand dropping the right to jerkily point at his own gaping maw. "- and thinks I'm suffering. They see a monster and they leave it to rot. Or hunt it. Even the Gods wouldn't help me. So why should I help anyone?"

With his vitriol drained like a pus-filled wound, Astarion deflated. Any anger in his expression melted into sadness because he knew she was right. Even so, he had no idea how to go about righting whatever was so wrong with him that he'd ended up here to begin with.

"I don't know how to be better. I hardly think I know what better is to begin with. But if it helps you be better - I'll keep the coin. I'll make sure we fix your engine. I'll see to it you never have to go back there." A tear carved a wet valley down his cheek, setting his teeth on edge and his shoulders stiff. He looked, maybe, like he might want to say: But I want to try. Instead he said, "That is at least some good I can do. You would do it for me."

BEING GOOD NEVER CAME WITH A REWARD IN AVERNUS . Devils sought to exploit you, and to ruin you. To take any hash of weakness, any give, any falter, and they would use that - take, and take, and take, until there was nothing left. All devils were unapologetically like that - no matter what kind of pretty face they'd put up or feign of innocence. There was always something more going on behind the scenes, because those skeevy little fuckers were sly. In the beginning, Karlach really wanted to be good, and she did all she could to help those that really needed it. A passing ration here, a slip of a refugee there - but it didn't last long. That good heart of hers was sullied the moment Zariel honed in on her potential, and tore it free of her chest. That good heart of hers was sullied when Zariel cast it away, and perverted her body. Shoved something dripping with malice into a place it didn't belong. It had no home in a body like Karlach's - and every other little pet project died from this procedure.

WHERE DID THEY DIE , SHE WONDERED ?

Was it from breaking all of their ribs? Rending their flesh from the very bone, tear through arteries and shoving long metal tubes in through their limbs? Was it from bloodloss, or just sheer fucking pain? Was it fast, or did it take days to die? Perhaps it was when Zariel ripped out the still-beating heart from their chest, pulling it before their very gaze, with a wicked gleam in those soulless eyes. Or when their heart was severed, nodes being forced into a machine on the table next, infernal metal tubes attached to it next. Was it when the engine roared to life - did it scorch them from the inside, out? Did they survive the process, then? No. None of them did. Every creature who was forcibly perverted by Zariel's disgusting machinery that was not some denizen of this plane died from the procedure. It was too much stress for their bodies to handle, too much trauma. Too much pain. NO ONE WAS MEANT TO SURVIVE THIS PROCESS . That's why it was called experimentation, why the engine was a prototype. It wasn't meant to inhabit bodies - just cold steel. It wasn't meant for someone living.

BUT BY SOME FUCKING MIRACLE , KARLACH DID .

She was the only one. Every other subject died on the table, bloodless, scorched, debauched, and aberrant. Countless pounds of flesh and bone, thoroughly strung out like macabre feast suited only for the utterly deviant and twisted monsters with their own special places among the Styx. The ones who willingly serve Zariel, and beg for all of her attention like touch-starved mutts. It was most deplorable - and yet, when her body recovered, she yearned for that same attention. Malice loves malice, and that thing shoved into her achy-breaky body loved nothing more than it did Zariel. THUS BEGAN THAT VICIOUS CYCLE OF OBSESSION , OF ADDICTION , AND IT WAS FUCKING RUINOUS . Karlach tried her best to keep her wits about her, but it was impossible to think when she was fighting for her life one moment, and high off of Soul Coins the next. Her moral compass, with time, began to skew. Help was few and far between now, and after only six years in Avernus, did that hope start to dwindle and die. She never stopped looking for a way out- but sacrifices were made, and they were no longer on her plate. It was about controlling what she could - and too many innocent victims of the Blood Wars were spared by her axe. She never wanted to kill them - but she could hear the murmurs. The hopes. That another tiefling would come, like herself, and they could become another fleshy experiment.

In that, a line was drawn. Morality fighting with her skewed compass, battling like her consciousness did her addiction, and she felt wholly unworthy to be the judge, or the jury. BUT SHE WOULD BE THE EXECUTIONER . Even if that did nothing more than shorten what fate they were destined to have - she could save them the agony. It wasn't something she was proud of. It wasn't something she would even mention, not ever. Speaking it into existence would only solidify Wyll's statements, calling her a devil, a monster. She would stick to her guns, she was a victim of the Blood War - but her hands were not clean. They never would be, and not enough water in the planes would wash away the atrocities she had to commit.

That level of self-loathing from Astarion was quiet. Too quiet. But Karlach was one who could pick out that thousand-yard stare - she saw that, too, in the mirror, if she spaced out enough. Keeping it covered was the real trick - and her blind optimism would have to do. It wasn't fabricated, not really. BECAUSE SHE WAS A FREE WOMAN . Just not as free as she wanted to be. That, and the sins of her past would drag her down like a ball and chain. Even still, she had to march on. This time, it's not just about her, anymore. They all need to survive this, and they all need a big, strong rock to lean on. Her eyes flicker up to meet his again - and he looks utterly deprived of care. Care for the things about him, or care for himself? Outward, inward? It would take a bit to suss out, she suspected. He said he doesn't care - but it felt like a cover. He cared about something - and maybe that was freedom. She latched onto this.

" Nay, let's say you don't care. " Karlach amuses this thought, hands kneading together with contemplation, and her vented shoulders deflate a touch. " Still better than hate. There's not a lot of things I hate, Astarion. List is quite stubby, if I'm honest with you - but I'll let you in on a secret. " She didn't get closer, for fear of making her companion who had gotten closer to her heart in the past decade than even she had been into a crispy little critter. But, she did lean in a touch, ensuring her gaze met his own with blazing intensity. " You want something more. And it's freedom. " She pauses, to survey any change in expression, any hint of admission, before she leans back slowly, allowing the weight of her words to settle in. Then, crimson hues shift to the stars above, and she watches him - the movement of his head, of those little peeping scars on his throat. A certainty. MAYBE RIGHT NOW , HE WAS A FREE MAN . Good things weren't meant to last. All the more reason to treasure them most.

" It's always a gamble, y'know. Saving others. Acting selfless. " She continues on, after that brief pause, shoulder shrinking in at how her engine revs. Bathing in blood made her oily blood pump - and indulging sex made a low heat brew in her belly. Two things she desperately needed, like him, but she had some atonements to make. THAT , AND SHE COULDN ' T INDULGE IN MUCH OF ANYTHING WHEN SHE BURNED LIKE HELLFIRE . " But it's not an expectation. " Karlach continues after that beat, lips tugged into a pointed frown. It was hitting a little too close to a proverbial home, and that ragged laugh that left him was forced. Too devoid of humor for her to entertain. When she swallows, it's thick. Her tongue feels thick.

" Sometimes we gotta do things 'cause they're right. 'Cause maybe, you and I wouldn't be in the places we're in now, if someone had done it for us. I'm not gonna sit here and ponder on all the what-ifs, since that's just shite, but-- " And she sighs again. This wasn't just for him, after all. But his words made her engine stir - and it wasn't with innocence. " All I've done is gone berserk. I don't know what it was like in your shiny palace, but don't think it was any better or any worse than what it was like, in Avernus. I had to do a lot of shit to survive, 'n... A lot more than that. It's war - and there are no winners in war. No one comes out the way they went in. If I'm honest with you, if I let myself go berserk again? I . . . I don't rightly know what you'll see. That being said- " And she leans up, shoving a hand into one of her pockets - where she squeezes what's inside. There's a beat of hesitation, but she intends to make a promise. She produces something strange - soaked in the stench of brimstone, and utterly haunting in the palm of a hand. A strange, infernal coin, that she was desperately holding onto. She almost flinches, holding it out - but forces her arm to steady. Offering HER Soul Coin to the rogue. " Can't risk it. PLEASE , TAKE IT . "