Sebastian, [ Astarion murmurs, the name bitter on his tongue. The last time he'd said it, he'd been leading a wide-eyed fool to his death with promises of romance, the words I've never met anyone like you before.
Astarion turns his head to look at him. He looks tired, the years of confinement and starvation etched into his face. He's dirty, grime-caked, although Astarion remembers him looking clean and bright-eyed across the tavern. His expression is somewhere between sad, angry, and exhausted as he slumps against the bars, watching. ]
Maybe.
[ Or perhaps he hates Astarion so much that he'd tear through Iorveth's flesh just to punish him. It's what Astarion would have done in his place. He would have done anything to get revenge, cut off his own nose to spite his face.
Not literally, of course. If there's anything he wouldn't do, it's tarnish his own beauty.
He approaches the spawn again, arms crossed, keeping a healthy distance from the bars. They won't want to take a bite out of him, but he wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to see him dead. ]
Let's play a game. All you have to do is keep your teeth to yourself.
[ "...I don't understand," Sebastian says. "Did you bring us food?" ]
Mm. In a manner of speaking, but you're on a diet.
[ Iorveth is going to have to get used to being referred to as food. He steps forward in time to Astarion proposing their little "game" and starts rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, baring his tan forearm all the way up to his elbow. ]
If we're to set you all free, we'll need at least some measure of confidence that we're not dooming half the Sword Coast to death by vampires.
[ The Woodland Fox may be a monster in the North, but it's not like he enjoys wide-scale genocide. Flexing his hand, fingers opening and closing into a loose fist, he approaches the bars of the cage and gestures with his uncovered arm to emphasize his point. ]
I'll give you my arm. [ Iorveth watches Sebastian's eyes widen, two hungry pinprick red lights sharpening with hunger. ] If you can prevent yourself and others from tearing into it for a minute, we'll see what we can do for you all.
[ Sebastian, swallowing visibly, murmurs: "I... Gods, I can try. Anything to get out of here." The others around him seem less convinced, their fanged teeth glittering in the dim, but Iorveth glances towards Astarion for any sign of a go-ahead. At the end of the day, this is about Astarion, and what he wants. ]
[ Sebastian, at least, seems determined to pass the test, but Astarion still hates the idea of Iorveth presenting himself to a cage full of hungry vampires. He'd sunk his teeth into every woodland creature he could find after his abduction, and he'd been fed — not much, but certainly more than these pitiful souls. He gets the feeling that they'd even jump at the chance to drink from a rat. ]
Keep in mind that if any of you harm my companion, I'll make sure it's the last meal you ever have.
[ Some of the spawn glance at each other, nervous. Perhaps they don't believe that they can achieve such a monumental task as resisting the siren call of blood. Others simply look defeated, as if even death would be preferable to another moment here. They're probably right. It would be a mercy to put them out of their misery.
Even so, he can't help the twisting feeling in his chest. At one point, it would have been a mercy to put him out of his misery, too.
He looks at Iorveth for a long moment, hesitant. Every cell in his body screams out not to let him do something so stupid and careless, the image of Iorveth bleeding out from the wrist flashing in front of his eyes. He steels himself, pushing his shoulders back, holding his head up high. ]
[ "You're not just grandiose, you're utterly mad" is what most people say to Iorveth when they find out what he's willing to put himself through, and it's what he recalls now, in different voices, as he approaches Sebastian and his hunched-forward posture.
It's not that Iorveth wants to cause Astarion grief. This is, in fact, the one thing he finds particularly problematic about how much he likes Astarion: that he'll find himself averse to doing something that Astarion would find particularly upsetting, perhaps to the detriment of what needs to be done.
Something to think about later. For now, it's a quick and careful nudge of forehead to forehead before he situates himself directly in front of the starving spawn. He snakes his arm through the thin bars of the cage, and watches as Sebastian's entire body spasms forward for a fraction of a second, lured by what Iorveth assumes is the scent of warm blood, of something living that he could sink his teeth into if he wanted.
"I'm so hungry," he whispers, and Iorveth feels the slide of cold fingers play over his wrist. Goosebumps crawl onto his skin, almost close to revulsion－ almost shocking, how different it feels from the welcome feeling of Astarion's hands on him.
Sebastian presses his thumb against the thin skin of Iorveth's inner wrist, untrimmed nails threatening to break the surface; the other spawn close in, inching closer, eyes like knives. ]
[ Astarion experiences a low-grade anxiety at all times, an undercurrent humming in the background of everything he does, but Sebastian's sharp nails against Iorveth's skin ratchets it up to very much in the foreground. Gods, it's distressing to care for someone. Sometimes it feels wonderful and exciting to give a damn about another person; other times, like now, it feels like a curse.
If Sebastian draws blood now, he's certain every single spawn will lunge at Iorveth and tear him apart. Impulsively, Astarion bangs a fist against the bars, rattling the spawns' cage to startle them. It hurts, though, and he clutches at his knuckles while sucking in a hiss of air. ]
Keep your hands to yourselves, too.
[ Sebastian's grip slackens, but several other spawn seem entirely unfazed by Astarion's warning, eyes still locked onto the veins of Iorveth's wrist. They must be the ones who've been here the longest. The earliest victims. Astarion grinds his teeth, lip curling. ]
Astarion, [ Iorveth breathes, a quiet dissuasion after Astarion rattles the bars. "I'm fine" is implied, despite the lingering displeasure of being perceived without properly being seen. To these spawn, he really is just a human-shaped casing for blood.
He's relieved when Sebastian's fingers peel away, but they're replaced by ones that trace the soft dip of his forearm where it bends into the joint; the new set of fingers belong to a haggard-looking tiefling who keeps edging closer, his mouth half-open. Sebastian turns to him and whispers "stop it" through clenched teeth, trying to push the intruder away with his shoulder.
"We need to get out," he reminds the other spawn, who doesn't reply with anything intelligible. Just a garbled half-grunt that makes Iorveth wrinkle his nose.
The minute ticks down, second by second. The moans behind Sebastian get louder as the time passes: someone asks for just a mouthful, another asks for a finger. Iorveth is glad to be able to tug his arm back out of the cage once the minute passes, and instinctively touches his hand to Astarion's to remind himself of the existence of a more welcome feeling. ]
[ This may be the most agonizing minute of his life, and he's endured torture. He wants to yank Iorveth away from these hungry creatures, but he only clenches his fists, his own nails digging into his palms. It's a relief when the minute finally ends, and he tugs Iorveth back by the hand, hesitant to leave him so close to the spawn who were just fondling his veins a moment before.
He stares at their plaintive faces, unmoving.
"We did what you asked," Sebastian says. "Please. You can't leave us here."
Instead of replying, he says, distantly, ] Cazador would have used magic to keep the imprisoned.
[ Iorveth keeps his grip on Astarion's hand, choosing to maintain that point of contact while quashing down on the undercurrent of residual revulsion that makes him want to find the nearest source of clean water and douse his arm in it.
Gods, they can't get out of here soon enough. Leaving Sebastian and the others to beg them to keep their promise, it's Iorveth's turn to tug Astarion towards the other end of the corridor, past more cages and more hazy-eyed victims, and down towards the stairs leading to Cazador's abandoned coffin and what still remains of him, a ruined stain on the elevated platform hovering above a green-black abyss.
Iorveth stops before they can reach the bottom of the stairs, pausing to expel a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He regrets it― the inner sanctum of the basement stinks― but he holds himself together, and loosens his hold on Astarion's hand. ]
This should be the last time you ever step foot in this cursed place, [ he spits. ]
[ The stench had been bad before, but it's worse now, the pungent scent of death forcing its way into his nostrils. He doesn't strictly have to breathe, so Astarion holds his breath, preferring the discomfort of airlessness to the fetid smell of Cazador's rotting corpse. That is, if one can call it a corpse. As he approaches, it looks more a pile of decaying meat. Cazador's burnt skin and smashed-in face is entirely unrecognizable if not for his gaudy clothing, even that spattered with blood that's dried a dark brown.
He remembers very little from the day they came to kill Cazador. His head tilts, surprised at the mess he'd made.
Astarion crouches next to the mangled carcass of what used to be his greatest tormentor. Clutched in his death-stiffened fingers is his staff, twisting metal with deep red gemstones, a winged beast carved atop it. ]
We'd all scatter when we heard the rap of this staff in the halls.
[ And now it's his for the taking. He opens Cazador's fingers one-by-one with sickening cracks, lifting the staff in his hands and feeling the weight of it. Strange. This staff had been one of the things Astarion hated most, a symbol of Cazador's power. Here, though, in the green-blue light of the crypt, it looks only like an expensive accessory.
He stands, staff in hand. Magic has never been his strong suit, but the staff should be able to undo whatever spell Cazador cast to keep his spawn imprisoned. That is, if he wants it to. ]
[ Iorveth'd hardly noticed the staff when Cazador'd been holding it in his non-life. It'd seemed like a logical extension of someone so grotesque, and it looks particularly tasteless in Astarion's hands now. The thought of Astarion channeling anything that his tormentor used to use against him is vaguely abhorrent, but it's what needs to be done.
To the question, he answers: ] No. [ Flatly, truthfully. He doesn't trust easily; it would be a lie to say that he has any faith in the spawn. ] But I trust your decision. One can hope that the spawn don't choose to waste their hard-earned freedom as monsters.
[ A low sigh, and Iorveth rakes his hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eye. The air feels like cobwebs; he feels a compulsion to swat it from his face every so often. ]
Your siblings can guide them. Through the sewers, perhaps into the Underdark.
[ Casual wood elf disdain for drow, don't even worry about it. ]
[ Astarion quirks a brow. His skeptical expression says that's new. Iorveth has spent every moment since they met calling him foolish and reckless. Unfortunately, Astarion can't refute those allegations. To be trusted now, when the consequences could be so large...
It's nice, but it's also terrifying. How many decisions has he really made for himself? His whole life has been based on instinct and doing as he's told. Can he truly be certain that this isn't a horrible, awful idea? ]
Gods, I really must have charmed you.
[ A dry laugh, under his breath. No, he can't be certain that this won't spell trouble. Once he releases these hungry creatures from their cages, it'll be up to them what they choose to do with their newfound freedom, and that's frightening. He supposes, in a way, that it's somewhat inspiring, too.
He extends a hand, reaching for Iorveth's. Primarily for comfort, like a child reaching out to someone bigger and stronger, but also because he wants Iorveth within arm's reach when those vampires get out — just in case. ]
Well, with you at my side, I suppose there's nothing I can't do. [ Another laugh, this one brighter— ] Except look frumpy. That just isn't in the cards for me.
[ Reached for, Iorveth obliges by knitting his fingers with Astarion's, drawing a step closer without stepping into the radius of Cazador's ruined corpse. (Even completely dead, Cazador manages to put a damper on things. Figures.) ]
Don't speak too soon. I could find a way.
[ Slap a bandana on Astarion, give him ill-fitting clothes to wear in various shades of beige. Unspeakable torture－ Iorveth is a criminal. A brief distraction from the very pressing issue of releasing hungry vampires into the wild; Iorveth allows a sliver of a smile to linger on his scarred lips, tired and exasperated but impossibly fond.
Again, he's proud of Astarion, for whatever that's worth. For better or for worse, he's decided. Iorveth grips Astarion's hand a little tighter, and nods. ]
If I die down here, [ he hums, ] at least I'll be dying in good company.
[ That smile, slight though it may be, is everything. Affection blooms in his chest, the intensity of it more terrifying than the prospect of rabid spawn. ]
Hells, [ Astarion breathes out, shaking his head. ] It should be a crime how you make me adore you.
[ He politely doesn't make any innuendo about the sort of punishment he'd have sentenced Iorveth to as a magistrate. He's too endeared, too charmed, too genuinely besotted to make a joke out of it. He does adore Iorveth, which is a strange realization. Two hundred years of trying to keep his distance, and it's some forest-dwelling freedom fighter who's enthralled him.
Staff in one hand and Iorveth's palm in the other, he leads them back toward the spawn in their cages. Some of them look to be despairing, certain he's left them for dead. Others are simply too tired to care anymore. He should probably make an announcement, perhaps even a speech of some sort, to mark this moment. ]
Well, [ he says, ] here goes nothing.
[ He raps the staff against the ground the way he's seen Cazador do hundreds, thousands of times. It erupts in warm arcane light, glowing so brightly that it hurts to look at it. He closes his eyes, and when he can finally open them again, the ornate iron doors begin to slide open, creaking loudly like they haven't moved in ages.
For a moment, the spawn stare. After so many years, they must wonder if it's a trick. Then, slowly, laboriously, they begin to filter out. ]
[ This isn't the first time Iorveth has agonized over how much he likes being around Astarion, but this is when it well and truly hits him that this is a matter of him being in love (the dreaded L-word): he won't say it, wary of spooking Astarion with too many things to digest at once, but he keeps the impossible weight of his feeling in his chest and confines it to the hard pound of his heart against his ribs. His pulse must feel like hammers where their palms meet.
The spawn are freed. There's no mad rush to murder Astarion, no crazed attempt to tear Iorveth to pieces. Either the lot of them are too exhausted to make the attempt, or they just want to make sure that their emancipation is real, not a cruel rugpull that they have to outrun.
In the distance, Iorveth can hear Petras ushering the first of the escapees towards the elevator-dais, helped by his sisters; maybe all this time, Petras was just waiting to be the big brother for once.
A breath in, a breath out, and Iorveth swivels on his heels to pull Astarion into an embrace. Gaudy staff and all. ]
[ His free hand hangs awkwardly at his side for a moment, his body still unused to being held in any sort of pleasurable way. He has to remind himself that a hug involves two people, but once he does, it's easy to follow his instinct to slide a hand up Iorveth's back and splay his fingers out between his shouldeblades. In Iorveth's grip, he melts, practically purring with happiness. Astarion enjoys shallow praise, but there's something about real praise delivered in Iorveth's voice that's so much better.
Astarion doesn't want to pull away, but he knows that he has to. A vampire lord's crypt that served as a prison for thousands is no place to cuddle. He lingers as long as he can without it seeming strange before he pulls back, smiling faintly. It isn't that he feels optimistic about what he's just done, exactly, but there's something reassuring in Iorveth's presence that makes him feel like everything will be all right. ]
Only because I had you beside me.
[ He wouldn't have had the guts to do it himself. Hells, if not for Iorveth, perhaps all of these spawn would already be dead, their souls consumed for him to ascend. When Iorveth is around, Astarion wants to be the sort of person Iorveth thinks he is.
Cazador's staff twinkles slightly in the weak light. Astarion glances down at it, then tosses it, clattering, to the ground. ]
When this is all over, we should make Gale incinerate this place with a fireball.
A sound idea. It'll be satisfying to watch this place burn to ash.
[ Iorveth kicks the fallen staff into the nearest (now-empty) prison room, content to imagine it crumbling and falling into the abyss alongside the rest of this miserable manse. The last vestiges of Cazador's despicable legacy, lost forever to time immemorial.
It's not a neat bow on top of a nicely-wrapped package. Or, well. It doesn't feel that way to Iorveth, a bystander, so Iorveth assumes that it must not feel that way to Astarion in the slightest. What they've done here was important, but whether it was good or even correct, he has no clue; the world, as always, will be senseless, and one day they might find themselves fighting off familiar-looking faces in the dark.
That's for their future selves to worry about, though. For now, Iorveth is happy with "because I had you beside me," and with the knowledge that Astarion really did do well, that he made a choice, and that it was the harder one to make.
He marinates on that with a mirrored half-smile, which fades as one particular spawn breaks from the throng to approach them. Sebastian, the one that remembered Astarion from however-many-decades ago; Iorveth takes a step forward to place himself between the incoming third party and Astarion once recognition sets in, hackles visibly raised. ]
No closer, [ is a clear warning, Iorveth's single eye narrowed like a speartip. Sebastian only shakes his head, and murmurs hoarsely: "I just want one last word with him, nothing more." ]
[ Sebastian's approach instantly sours his mood. He has every reason to be furious with Astarion, but that doesn't mean Astarion wants to hear about it. He had comforted himself with the knowledge that all of his victims were undesirable drunks, but not all of them were. Sebastian had a whole life ahead of him, and Astarion took that all away.
One last word sounds awfully ominous, but Astarion steps forward alongside Iorveth, arms crossed defensively. ]
As long as you don't fondle my companion again.
[ Like a starving man with a piece of meat. Astarion scowls at the memory. He can hardly blame him after all the starvation he's been through—worse, even, than anything Astarion endured—but he finds himself bristling regardless. ]
If you're here to blame me for your misfortune— well.
[ Sebastian may be regarding him with the casually dehumanizing intensity of a starving man looking at a deer he can hunt, but Iorveth, in turn, is fixing Sebastian with the sort of needlepoint aggression that a wolf would level at an intruder that's tread too far into its territory. Posture leaned forward, hand ready to reach for a weapon.
(Incidentally, it's the same needlepoint aggression he'd leveled at Astarion in their early days of traveling together. Growth.)
If Sebastian registers Iorveth's hostility, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he replies to Astarion's statement with a rather blasé "you are to blame for everything that I've lost", as if it doesn't even warrant repeating anymore. Tired, but still furious. He adds a "you destroyed me," for good measure.
But that doesn't seem to be his one last word; he seems to grapple with what he wants to say for a few beats, alternating between baring his teeth and frowning, until he manages, slowly: "I need to know. You... you freed yourself first, before any of us. Was it worth it? Is it worth it?" ]
[ I didn't free myself, he almost says. The mind flayers did. But what he's done is enough reason for the spawn to despise him without knowing he harbors an illithid parasite in his head, so he carefully avoids mentioning it. ]
What, life?
[ A question for a philosopher, surely, not Astarion. The least he owes Sebastian is an answer, though, so he thinks for a moment. Is freedom worth it? It's more frightening than he imagined it would be when he'd fantasized about some regal warrior storming the palace and taking him away. At least in his slavery, he'd known not to get his hopes up; he'd suffered, but he'd expected it. The freedom to care also means he can get hurt in ways he'd never been hurt as Cazador's plaything.
But he also has the freedom to drink when he wants, to rest when he wants, to wear what he wants. He has the freedom to say 'no' to things, and the freedom to say 'yes' to them. He has the freedom to make his own decisions, terrifying and exhilarating as that is. Bad as his decisions may be, they're his. ]
Yes, I think it was.
[ There's never been one second he'd wished that the mind flayers had chosen someone else. There'll never be a second that he regrets bashing Cazador's face into a red, bloody mess. ]
Anything is better than this. [ He gestures to the crypt. Even his own torture was preferable. Freedom, however intimidating, can only be a step up. ] See for yourself. Make your own decisions. And do try not to fall for any more handsome strangers.
[ Sebastian mulls that thought over. If he's anything like Astarion, the idea of being able to think for himself is strange. Perhaps the idea of being able to think at all is inconceivable; his starved brain must feel like mush.
"I think I'll start with finding a boar," he says, finally. ]
[ Iorveth's aggression wanes. How funny― he's almost grateful that the haggard spawn asked what he did, not because he particularly cares about Sebastian's closure (the meanest elf in the world is still selective about his empathy), but because his heart swells at "yes, I think it was". He's still mulling over those five words when Sebastian mentions his first meal being a boar, and Iorveth―
―well, he has to laugh. Brief but loud, a full-bodied sound that echoes around him for a lingering moment. Once he's done, he shakes his head, smile still tugging at his lips. ]
Yes, that should do nicely. [ Full circle, he thinks. Obviously, it wasn't funny for Astarion back then, when he had to resort to finding a boar to desanguinate, and it isn't funny for Sebastian now, who's staring at Iorveth with obvious affront in his tired-red eyes, but. Well.
Maybe Sebastian will find his own ragtag group of people to travel with him, mid boar-hunting. Life is absurd like that. Another soft chuckle, and Iorveth gestures with one hand, almost as if to wave Sebastian away. ]
You've said your part. Now go find your freedom.
[ Sebastian (who definitely thinks Iorveth is a bit of an asshole now) spares one last look at Astarion before melting back into the crowd, slightly more straight-backed than the rest of them. Purpose tends to do that to someone. Still, Iorveth doesn't care about him even a little compared to how much he cares for Astarion in this moment; he takes a few steps away from Astarion for a better vantage point, looking Astarion up and down with barely-concealed admiration. Like he wants to commit this precise moment to memory, alongside "yes, I think it was". ]
[ Astarion watches Sebastian go, his own apprehension fading as he disappears into the throng of newly freed spawn. They're all weary, some of them looking disbelieving, as if the possibility of freedom after so long could only be a cruel trick. Astarion had wondered the same at first, too. Maybe, he'd thought, Cazador had released his hold on him only to make Astarion prove that he was loyal without being enthralled. He'd considered running back to Baldur's Gate with his tail between his legs and begging for forgiveness. There's no doubt in his mind that at least some of them have that same fear.
He turns his attention back to Iorveth, then, who's stepped back and is looking at him with the sort of fondness he'd have said hurts his stomach less than a tenday ago. He doesn't feel at danger of getting hives anymore. Still, he scolds, ] Stop that.
[ The chastisement is entirely affectionate, though, and he reaches out to tug Iorveth back in. ]
When you look at me like that, it makes me want to do things that a horrendous dungeon is not the backdrop for.
[ Besides, Iorveth really shouldn't be looking too much at him. This lighting is no doubt unflattering. ]
[ The green-blue lighting isn't doing anyone any favors, but it hardly matters: right now, in the aftermath of a decision that could still be cataclysmic for certain ecosystems along the Sword Coast, Astarion is the most beautiful thing Iorveth has seen in ages. Not just in appearance, but in the shape of his anxiously-blooming soul.
Iorveth would embrace him again, if he felt he could get away with it. Not here, though― Astarion is right about the backdrop being all wrong. It'll take a while yet before all the spawn can be corralled out of their ancient prisons, and Petras and the others will likely have their work cut out for them for the next...
...well, however long. They won't be bored, at least. ]
We should leave, then. [ The crowd's movement has halted for a moment, presumably as one of Astarion's siblings go to fetch the remaining brothers and sisters for backup. Iorveth flicks his gaze over towards the direction of where the elevator would be behind the throng of emaciated spawn, and marvels, again, at how many there are. ] ...While we can. I don't plan on spending the night here.
[ Next to Cazador's corpse? No thank you. He takes Astarion's hand and steps forward, fully intending to push himself through the crowd. As if he's not a piece of steakmeat that might get mauled the moment someone decides that they're too hungry to resist. ]
[ Astarion yanks him back, away from the spawn. He might have just set them loose upon Baldur's Gate, but that doesn't mean he trusts them with Iorveth. After all, he knows firsthand just how enticing that neck is. ]
Get in the middle of that crowd, and you might be the next corpse we find here.
[ They could resist for a minute, with bars between them and Iorveth. There's no telling what they might do now that they're free, and Astarion doesn't want to find out. Let them all go hunt boars together.
Astarion places a hand on Iorveth's shoulder and murmurs, ] Invisibilis.
[ Iorveth's body slowly fades from view, starting from his shoulder and crawling to his torso, his limbs, and finally his head, the last thing to go his gifted eyepatch and tousled hair. Astarion steps back, withdrawing his hand. ]
[ Oh, that's convenient. Iorveth feels himself suffuse with magic, the feel of it almost like dipping into cool water; he shivers for a second, acclimating to being invisible, before beginning the rather arduous task of winding through the crowd, taking care not to step on too many feet or accidentally nick himself against something sharp. Occasionally, he looks over his shoulder to make sure that Astarion isn't far behind him, and course corrects with a whisper or a nudge.
It's an ordeal. By the time he reaches Aurelia, who's assuring the first line of escapees that they will get out, they just need to wait for more help to arrive, he doesn't feel so bad about hijacking the elevator so that he and Astarion can finally leave the cluster of bodies behind and return to the surface. Dalyria squeaks in surprise when Iorveth, still invisible, activates the dais, and jumps back as the platform starts to rumble and move. ]
We'll leave the rest to you, [ Iorveth calls out, and tugs Astarion up onto the lift before it can take off without him. ] Maethe taerde.
[ "Good luck", in his native language. The rumbling of the elevator obscures the others' response, but Iorveth isn't listening for it; what will be will be. Maybe they can follow up later, after they remove the tadpole from their heads. ]
[ His poor siblings, stuck with the responsibility of herding seven thousand cats out of this place. Astarion feels no sympathy for them at all. Better them stuck with the grunt work than him! As Iorveth activates the elevator, his form fades back into view. Despite everything, the corner of Astarion's mouth twists up into a little smile. ]
We might have just doomed Baldur's Gate to a bloody death at the hands of a cabal of vampires, you know.
[ Somehow, he can't bring himself to sound too worried. With Iorveth safe and steadily getting farther away from the spawn, it's difficult to find reasons to be upset. What's done is done, and if his newfound siblings decide to rampage across the city, they'll deal with that problem when it comes.
Admittedly, he does really hope it doesn't come.
The dais comes to a heavy stop in the hall to Cazador's private study, and Astarion gives Iorveth's arm an insistent tug. ]
Let's go. I don't want to spend another moment in this coffin.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Astarion turns his head to look at him. He looks tired, the years of confinement and starvation etched into his face. He's dirty, grime-caked, although Astarion remembers him looking clean and bright-eyed across the tavern. His expression is somewhere between sad, angry, and exhausted as he slumps against the bars, watching. ]
Maybe.
[ Or perhaps he hates Astarion so much that he'd tear through Iorveth's flesh just to punish him. It's what Astarion would have done in his place. He would have done anything to get revenge, cut off his own nose to spite his face.
Not literally, of course. If there's anything he wouldn't do, it's tarnish his own beauty.
He approaches the spawn again, arms crossed, keeping a healthy distance from the bars. They won't want to take a bite out of him, but he wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to see him dead. ]
Let's play a game. All you have to do is keep your teeth to yourself.
[ "...I don't understand," Sebastian says. "Did you bring us food?" ]
Mm. In a manner of speaking, but you're on a diet.
no subject
If we're to set you all free, we'll need at least some measure of confidence that we're not dooming half the Sword Coast to death by vampires.
[ The Woodland Fox may be a monster in the North, but it's not like he enjoys wide-scale genocide. Flexing his hand, fingers opening and closing into a loose fist, he approaches the bars of the cage and gestures with his uncovered arm to emphasize his point. ]
I'll give you my arm. [ Iorveth watches Sebastian's eyes widen, two hungry pinprick red lights sharpening with hunger. ] If you can prevent yourself and others from tearing into it for a minute, we'll see what we can do for you all.
[ Sebastian, swallowing visibly, murmurs: "I... Gods, I can try. Anything to get out of here." The others around him seem less convinced, their fanged teeth glittering in the dim, but Iorveth glances towards Astarion for any sign of a go-ahead. At the end of the day, this is about Astarion, and what he wants. ]
no subject
Keep in mind that if any of you harm my companion, I'll make sure it's the last meal you ever have.
[ Some of the spawn glance at each other, nervous. Perhaps they don't believe that they can achieve such a monumental task as resisting the siren call of blood. Others simply look defeated, as if even death would be preferable to another moment here. They're probably right. It would be a mercy to put them out of their misery.
Even so, he can't help the twisting feeling in his chest. At one point, it would have been a mercy to put him out of his misery, too.
He looks at Iorveth for a long moment, hesitant. Every cell in his body screams out not to let him do something so stupid and careless, the image of Iorveth bleeding out from the wrist flashing in front of his eyes. He steels himself, pushing his shoulders back, holding his head up high. ]
Go on.
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It's not that Iorveth wants to cause Astarion grief. This is, in fact, the one thing he finds particularly problematic about how much he likes Astarion: that he'll find himself averse to doing something that Astarion would find particularly upsetting, perhaps to the detriment of what needs to be done.
Something to think about later. For now, it's a quick and careful nudge of forehead to forehead before he situates himself directly in front of the starving spawn. He snakes his arm through the thin bars of the cage, and watches as Sebastian's entire body spasms forward for a fraction of a second, lured by what Iorveth assumes is the scent of warm blood, of something living that he could sink his teeth into if he wanted.
"I'm so hungry," he whispers, and Iorveth feels the slide of cold fingers play over his wrist. Goosebumps crawl onto his skin, almost close to revulsion－ almost shocking, how different it feels from the welcome feeling of Astarion's hands on him.
Sebastian presses his thumb against the thin skin of Iorveth's inner wrist, untrimmed nails threatening to break the surface; the other spawn close in, inching closer, eyes like knives. ]
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If Sebastian draws blood now, he's certain every single spawn will lunge at Iorveth and tear him apart. Impulsively, Astarion bangs a fist against the bars, rattling the spawns' cage to startle them. It hurts, though, and he clutches at his knuckles while sucking in a hiss of air. ]
Keep your hands to yourselves, too.
[ Sebastian's grip slackens, but several other spawn seem entirely unfazed by Astarion's warning, eyes still locked onto the veins of Iorveth's wrist. They must be the ones who've been here the longest. The earliest victims. Astarion grinds his teeth, lip curling. ]
And at least try not to look so damned hungry.
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He's relieved when Sebastian's fingers peel away, but they're replaced by ones that trace the soft dip of his forearm where it bends into the joint; the new set of fingers belong to a haggard-looking tiefling who keeps edging closer, his mouth half-open. Sebastian turns to him and whispers "stop it" through clenched teeth, trying to push the intruder away with his shoulder.
"We need to get out," he reminds the other spawn, who doesn't reply with anything intelligible. Just a garbled half-grunt that makes Iorveth wrinkle his nose.
The minute ticks down, second by second. The moans behind Sebastian get louder as the time passes: someone asks for just a mouthful, another asks for a finger. Iorveth is glad to be able to tug his arm back out of the cage once the minute passes, and instinctively touches his hand to Astarion's to remind himself of the existence of a more welcome feeling. ]
ーThere. In one piece.
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He stares at their plaintive faces, unmoving.
"We did what you asked," Sebastian says. "Please. You can't leave us here."
Instead of replying, he says, distantly, ] Cazador would have used magic to keep the imprisoned.
[ Another glance Iorveth's way. ]
His staff will still be— with him.
[ With the bloody wreckage of his body. ]
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Gods, they can't get out of here soon enough. Leaving Sebastian and the others to beg them to keep their promise, it's Iorveth's turn to tug Astarion towards the other end of the corridor, past more cages and more hazy-eyed victims, and down towards the stairs leading to Cazador's abandoned coffin and what still remains of him, a ruined stain on the elevated platform hovering above a green-black abyss.
Iorveth stops before they can reach the bottom of the stairs, pausing to expel a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He regrets it― the inner sanctum of the basement stinks― but he holds himself together, and loosens his hold on Astarion's hand. ]
This should be the last time you ever step foot in this cursed place, [ he spits. ]
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He remembers very little from the day they came to kill Cazador. His head tilts, surprised at the mess he'd made.
Astarion crouches next to the mangled carcass of what used to be his greatest tormentor. Clutched in his death-stiffened fingers is his staff, twisting metal with deep red gemstones, a winged beast carved atop it. ]
We'd all scatter when we heard the rap of this staff in the halls.
[ And now it's his for the taking. He opens Cazador's fingers one-by-one with sickening cracks, lifting the staff in his hands and feeling the weight of it. Strange. This staff had been one of the things Astarion hated most, a symbol of Cazador's power. Here, though, in the green-blue light of the crypt, it looks only like an expensive accessory.
He stands, staff in hand. Magic has never been his strong suit, but the staff should be able to undo whatever spell Cazador cast to keep his spawn imprisoned. That is, if he wants it to. ]
Do you trust them?
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To the question, he answers: ] No. [ Flatly, truthfully. He doesn't trust easily; it would be a lie to say that he has any faith in the spawn. ] But I trust your decision. One can hope that the spawn don't choose to waste their hard-earned freedom as monsters.
[ A low sigh, and Iorveth rakes his hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eye. The air feels like cobwebs; he feels a compulsion to swat it from his face every so often. ]
Your siblings can guide them. Through the sewers, perhaps into the Underdark.
[ Casual wood elf disdain for drow, don't even worry about it. ]
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[ Astarion quirks a brow. His skeptical expression says that's new. Iorveth has spent every moment since they met calling him foolish and reckless. Unfortunately, Astarion can't refute those allegations. To be trusted now, when the consequences could be so large...
It's nice, but it's also terrifying. How many decisions has he really made for himself? His whole life has been based on instinct and doing as he's told. Can he truly be certain that this isn't a horrible, awful idea? ]
Gods, I really must have charmed you.
[ A dry laugh, under his breath. No, he can't be certain that this won't spell trouble. Once he releases these hungry creatures from their cages, it'll be up to them what they choose to do with their newfound freedom, and that's frightening. He supposes, in a way, that it's somewhat inspiring, too.
He extends a hand, reaching for Iorveth's. Primarily for comfort, like a child reaching out to someone bigger and stronger, but also because he wants Iorveth within arm's reach when those vampires get out — just in case. ]
Well, with you at my side, I suppose there's nothing I can't do. [ Another laugh, this one brighter— ] Except look frumpy. That just isn't in the cards for me.
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Don't speak too soon. I could find a way.
[ Slap a bandana on Astarion, give him ill-fitting clothes to wear in various shades of beige. Unspeakable torture－ Iorveth is a criminal. A brief distraction from the very pressing issue of releasing hungry vampires into the wild; Iorveth allows a sliver of a smile to linger on his scarred lips, tired and exasperated but impossibly fond.
Again, he's proud of Astarion, for whatever that's worth. For better or for worse, he's decided. Iorveth grips Astarion's hand a little tighter, and nods. ]
If I die down here, [ he hums, ] at least I'll be dying in good company.
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Hells, [ Astarion breathes out, shaking his head. ] It should be a crime how you make me adore you.
[ He politely doesn't make any innuendo about the sort of punishment he'd have sentenced Iorveth to as a magistrate. He's too endeared, too charmed, too genuinely besotted to make a joke out of it. He does adore Iorveth, which is a strange realization. Two hundred years of trying to keep his distance, and it's some forest-dwelling freedom fighter who's enthralled him.
Staff in one hand and Iorveth's palm in the other, he leads them back toward the spawn in their cages. Some of them look to be despairing, certain he's left them for dead. Others are simply too tired to care anymore. He should probably make an announcement, perhaps even a speech of some sort, to mark this moment. ]
Well, [ he says, ] here goes nothing.
[ He raps the staff against the ground the way he's seen Cazador do hundreds, thousands of times. It erupts in warm arcane light, glowing so brightly that it hurts to look at it. He closes his eyes, and when he can finally open them again, the ornate iron doors begin to slide open, creaking loudly like they haven't moved in ages.
For a moment, the spawn stare. After so many years, they must wonder if it's a trick. Then, slowly, laboriously, they begin to filter out. ]
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The spawn are freed. There's no mad rush to murder Astarion, no crazed attempt to tear Iorveth to pieces. Either the lot of them are too exhausted to make the attempt, or they just want to make sure that their emancipation is real, not a cruel rugpull that they have to outrun.
In the distance, Iorveth can hear Petras ushering the first of the escapees towards the elevator-dais, helped by his sisters; maybe all this time, Petras was just waiting to be the big brother for once.
A breath in, a breath out, and Iorveth swivels on his heels to pull Astarion into an embrace. Gaudy staff and all. ]
You did well, [ he murmurs, and means it. ]
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Astarion doesn't want to pull away, but he knows that he has to. A vampire lord's crypt that served as a prison for thousands is no place to cuddle. He lingers as long as he can without it seeming strange before he pulls back, smiling faintly. It isn't that he feels optimistic about what he's just done, exactly, but there's something reassuring in Iorveth's presence that makes him feel like everything will be all right. ]
Only because I had you beside me.
[ He wouldn't have had the guts to do it himself. Hells, if not for Iorveth, perhaps all of these spawn would already be dead, their souls consumed for him to ascend. When Iorveth is around, Astarion wants to be the sort of person Iorveth thinks he is.
Cazador's staff twinkles slightly in the weak light. Astarion glances down at it, then tosses it, clattering, to the ground. ]
When this is all over, we should make Gale incinerate this place with a fireball.
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[ Iorveth kicks the fallen staff into the nearest (now-empty) prison room, content to imagine it crumbling and falling into the abyss alongside the rest of this miserable manse. The last vestiges of Cazador's despicable legacy, lost forever to time immemorial.
It's not a neat bow on top of a nicely-wrapped package. Or, well. It doesn't feel that way to Iorveth, a bystander, so Iorveth assumes that it must not feel that way to Astarion in the slightest. What they've done here was important, but whether it was good or even correct, he has no clue; the world, as always, will be senseless, and one day they might find themselves fighting off familiar-looking faces in the dark.
That's for their future selves to worry about, though. For now, Iorveth is happy with "because I had you beside me," and with the knowledge that Astarion really did do well, that he made a choice, and that it was the harder one to make.
He marinates on that with a mirrored half-smile, which fades as one particular spawn breaks from the throng to approach them. Sebastian, the one that remembered Astarion from however-many-decades ago; Iorveth takes a step forward to place himself between the incoming third party and Astarion once recognition sets in, hackles visibly raised. ]
No closer, [ is a clear warning, Iorveth's single eye narrowed like a speartip. Sebastian only shakes his head, and murmurs hoarsely: "I just want one last word with him, nothing more." ]
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One last word sounds awfully ominous, but Astarion steps forward alongside Iorveth, arms crossed defensively. ]
As long as you don't fondle my companion again.
[ Like a starving man with a piece of meat. Astarion scowls at the memory. He can hardly blame him after all the starvation he's been through—worse, even, than anything Astarion endured—but he finds himself bristling regardless. ]
If you're here to blame me for your misfortune— well.
[ Astarion trails off. He'd be justified. ]
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(Incidentally, it's the same needlepoint aggression he'd leveled at Astarion in their early days of traveling together. Growth.)
If Sebastian registers Iorveth's hostility, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he replies to Astarion's statement with a rather blasé "you are to blame for everything that I've lost", as if it doesn't even warrant repeating anymore. Tired, but still furious. He adds a "you destroyed me," for good measure.
But that doesn't seem to be his one last word; he seems to grapple with what he wants to say for a few beats, alternating between baring his teeth and frowning, until he manages, slowly: "I need to know. You... you freed yourself first, before any of us. Was it worth it? Is it worth it?" ]
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What, life?
[ A question for a philosopher, surely, not Astarion. The least he owes Sebastian is an answer, though, so he thinks for a moment. Is freedom worth it? It's more frightening than he imagined it would be when he'd fantasized about some regal warrior storming the palace and taking him away. At least in his slavery, he'd known not to get his hopes up; he'd suffered, but he'd expected it. The freedom to care also means he can get hurt in ways he'd never been hurt as Cazador's plaything.
But he also has the freedom to drink when he wants, to rest when he wants, to wear what he wants. He has the freedom to say 'no' to things, and the freedom to say 'yes' to them. He has the freedom to make his own decisions, terrifying and exhilarating as that is. Bad as his decisions may be, they're his. ]
Yes, I think it was.
[ There's never been one second he'd wished that the mind flayers had chosen someone else. There'll never be a second that he regrets bashing Cazador's face into a red, bloody mess. ]
Anything is better than this. [ He gestures to the crypt. Even his own torture was preferable. Freedom, however intimidating, can only be a step up. ] See for yourself. Make your own decisions. And do try not to fall for any more handsome strangers.
[ Sebastian mulls that thought over. If he's anything like Astarion, the idea of being able to think for himself is strange. Perhaps the idea of being able to think at all is inconceivable; his starved brain must feel like mush.
"I think I'll start with finding a boar," he says, finally. ]
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―well, he has to laugh. Brief but loud, a full-bodied sound that echoes around him for a lingering moment. Once he's done, he shakes his head, smile still tugging at his lips. ]
Yes, that should do nicely. [ Full circle, he thinks. Obviously, it wasn't funny for Astarion back then, when he had to resort to finding a boar to desanguinate, and it isn't funny for Sebastian now, who's staring at Iorveth with obvious affront in his tired-red eyes, but. Well.
Maybe Sebastian will find his own ragtag group of people to travel with him, mid boar-hunting. Life is absurd like that. Another soft chuckle, and Iorveth gestures with one hand, almost as if to wave Sebastian away. ]
You've said your part. Now go find your freedom.
[ Sebastian (who definitely thinks Iorveth is a bit of an asshole now) spares one last look at Astarion before melting back into the crowd, slightly more straight-backed than the rest of them. Purpose tends to do that to someone. Still, Iorveth doesn't care about him even a little compared to how much he cares for Astarion in this moment; he takes a few steps away from Astarion for a better vantage point, looking Astarion up and down with barely-concealed admiration. Like he wants to commit this precise moment to memory, alongside "yes, I think it was". ]
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He turns his attention back to Iorveth, then, who's stepped back and is looking at him with the sort of fondness he'd have said hurts his stomach less than a tenday ago. He doesn't feel at danger of getting hives anymore. Still, he scolds, ] Stop that.
[ The chastisement is entirely affectionate, though, and he reaches out to tug Iorveth back in. ]
When you look at me like that, it makes me want to do things that a horrendous dungeon is not the backdrop for.
[ Besides, Iorveth really shouldn't be looking too much at him. This lighting is no doubt unflattering. ]
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Iorveth would embrace him again, if he felt he could get away with it. Not here, though― Astarion is right about the backdrop being all wrong. It'll take a while yet before all the spawn can be corralled out of their ancient prisons, and Petras and the others will likely have their work cut out for them for the next...
...well, however long. They won't be bored, at least. ]
We should leave, then. [ The crowd's movement has halted for a moment, presumably as one of Astarion's siblings go to fetch the remaining brothers and sisters for backup. Iorveth flicks his gaze over towards the direction of where the elevator would be behind the throng of emaciated spawn, and marvels, again, at how many there are. ] ...While we can. I don't plan on spending the night here.
[ Next to Cazador's corpse? No thank you. He takes Astarion's hand and steps forward, fully intending to push himself through the crowd. As if he's not a piece of steakmeat that might get mauled the moment someone decides that they're too hungry to resist. ]
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[ Astarion yanks him back, away from the spawn. He might have just set them loose upon Baldur's Gate, but that doesn't mean he trusts them with Iorveth. After all, he knows firsthand just how enticing that neck is. ]
Get in the middle of that crowd, and you might be the next corpse we find here.
[ They could resist for a minute, with bars between them and Iorveth. There's no telling what they might do now that they're free, and Astarion doesn't want to find out. Let them all go hunt boars together.
Astarion places a hand on Iorveth's shoulder and murmurs, ] Invisibilis.
[ Iorveth's body slowly fades from view, starting from his shoulder and crawling to his torso, his limbs, and finally his head, the last thing to go his gifted eyepatch and tousled hair. Astarion steps back, withdrawing his hand. ]
There. Now you can go.
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It's an ordeal. By the time he reaches Aurelia, who's assuring the first line of escapees that they will get out, they just need to wait for more help to arrive, he doesn't feel so bad about hijacking the elevator so that he and Astarion can finally leave the cluster of bodies behind and return to the surface. Dalyria squeaks in surprise when Iorveth, still invisible, activates the dais, and jumps back as the platform starts to rumble and move. ]
We'll leave the rest to you, [ Iorveth calls out, and tugs Astarion up onto the lift before it can take off without him. ] Maethe taerde.
[ "Good luck", in his native language. The rumbling of the elevator obscures the others' response, but Iorveth isn't listening for it; what will be will be. Maybe they can follow up later, after they remove the tadpole from their heads. ]
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We might have just doomed Baldur's Gate to a bloody death at the hands of a cabal of vampires, you know.
[ Somehow, he can't bring himself to sound too worried. With Iorveth safe and steadily getting farther away from the spawn, it's difficult to find reasons to be upset. What's done is done, and if his newfound siblings decide to rampage across the city, they'll deal with that problem when it comes.
Admittedly, he does really hope it doesn't come.
The dais comes to a heavy stop in the hall to Cazador's private study, and Astarion gives Iorveth's arm an insistent tug. ]
Let's go. I don't want to spend another moment in this coffin.
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