Chapter Text
The kennels were cold and filthy, the floors covered in blood that had gotten sticky over the course of the day, clinging to Astarion’s trousers unpleasantly.
He didn’t know how long it had been exactly since the skin had been stripped from his back, arms and calves, but the state of the blood drying gave him some idea.
It had been a day, give or take.
He wondered if, come nightfall, Cazador would come for him and keep peeling back his skin, or rather dig deeper into muscle, fat and bone. Maybe he’d release him, but Astarion didn’t expect him to, not quite yet.
The rattle of brittle bone shook him from his uneasy, tenuous trance.
„Squirm! Im not rocking you to sleep, stupid dog!“ Godey twisted the knife he had embedded in Astarion’s ankle, jerking him awake. „I want you to feel all of this.“
Right. Godey had stayed to torment him when Cazador had grown tired of his screams.
The sadistic skeleton had broken both of his wrists with vicious joy, then moved on to his fingers. And then his feet. Astarion must have passed out at that point.
As the blade cruelly twisted against his joint, Astarion gave an involuntary full-body twitch which made the pain from his wounds flare up.
He screamed weakly, his strength having long gone.
„That’s right, wake up.“ Godey slapped him in the face. „And sing for me.“ With a snap of his wrist, he dislocated Astarion‘s foot and drove the knife into the ensuing gap.
Astarion cried out, his voice breaking into a sob. He tried crawling away, but his hands were chained above his head as he hung from the ceiling, barely low enough to kneel. But he was kneeling no more, instead dangling from the chain like a marionette, head lolling.
„Ah, there you are.“ Godey giggled. „Master will arrive soon. Maybe, maybe he’ll take your eyes. Ha! Wouldn’t that be marvelous? But we have some time yet. Where should I prod next?“ The knife was removed from his ruined ankle and pushed into his crotch without breaking the skin. For now.
„Oh, I know, Godey will take your fangs next, yes, yes, yes!“ He dropped the knife and went for the pliers, clicking them excitedly.
Astarion could barely raise his head to watch in terrified anticipation.
He hated this almost as much as getting his fingernails pulled. It hurt more in the moment, but was more bearable in the long run.
Until the teeth started growing back and aching. There was also the hunger that came with not being able to bite, but he got so little to eat anyway that this wouldn’t be an issue.
Astarion gasped as Godey‘s boney fingers dug into his cheeks and his head was lifted.
„Open up now!“, Godey sang cheerfully, then squeezed Astarion‘s jaws apart.
Astarion knew what came next, and frantically tried thinking about anything else. Anything. Aurelia used to read to him sometimes, long ago, when it had been just the two of them. A few years back, hadn’t he met someone who had been kind to him? A stranger he had met in the park, when he had been on his way home. If sunrise hadn’t come… maybe they could have spoken a bit more.
The pliers were jammed into his mouth, painfully knocking against the teeth, before twisting and opening around his fang. Godey was about to start with the left one this time. There was something new.
Godey chuckled as he began to pull, then he jerked back Astarion‘s head and ripped the fang out.
Astarion’s thoughts came crashing to a halt as the tender memory faded in the inferno of agony.
Blood gushed from the wound, filling Astarion’s mouth and choking out his scream.
Astarion’s vision went black for a few moments. When he came to, he saw his skeleton tormentor examining the fang with gleeful curiosity. Next, a dull throb replaced the initial sharp pain.
„The whole nerve came out“, Godey marvelled. „And the venom gland. Maybe you won’t be spitting so much after I’m done with you!“
Somehow, this reignited some spark of pride within Astarion, and he spat the blood that was still accumulating in Godey‘s face.
The skeleton made a noise of disgust and struck him in the face with the pliers tightly in his fist.
The punch cracked Astarion‘s jaw and knocked another tooth clean out.
Astarion sagged, choking on the blood. He was surprised he still had enough in him to spill. While he was still gasping for air, reeling from the shock of the pain, Godey seized him by the hair and forced him to look up.
„That’s 10 more lashes for your insolence“, he growled. „But first, let’s get that second fang. Hold still now.“
Astarion didn’t have a choice, nor the strength to fight as Godey pulled the second fang without ceremony.
The skeleton cackled as it examined the large, sharp tooth, then nudged Astarion in the face. „Stay awake, now. This is far from over, wretch.“
When Astarion’s head lolled, blood and sticky saliva dripping from his ruined mouth, Godey hit him with the pliers again, ripping another wound into his scalp, just above the ear.
The gash hurt like hells, but Astarion was barely awake. The pain was numbed, although he could still feel the damage that had been done to him. He could feel it like he was an observer taking stock of these various injuries, and all he concluded was that this was very bad.
Astarion barely remembered what he was being punished for. Not that it mattered. It never changed anything if he thought he deserved it.
Last time, he had been flayed for bringing back someone too petite, a young woman. Apparently Cazador hadn’t been satisfied with the amount of blood he could suck from her body. This time… Astarion thought he remembered leaving a smudge somewhere. He must habe gotten too defensive or snappy about it.
Oh well, it didn’t matter now. All that was left for him was to endure.
At some point, Godey took his face into a boney hand, squishing his cheeks, hissing and snarling at him, but Astarion didn’t understand the words. He wished he’d pass out.
Suddenly there was a scuffle.
Godey released Astarion and screamed something, then he stumbled into Astarion, colliding with him roughly, before falling to the grimy floor, and scattering into loose bones.
Astarion blinked, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
There were hands on him, soft and bare. Hard and ironclad. They patted his face, examined his wounds, and finally freed his wrists and laid him to the floor.
Someone supported his head and forced him to down a healing potion.
Astarion groaned when some of his broken bones set themselves straight. His hearing cleared, and with a sudden rush he was plunged into a storm of voices yelling orders, cooing and shushing him, cursing… Astarion gasped as he was lifted by two men, and placed on a stretcher.
„You’re gonna be alright. Just stay with me.“ It was a young man, handsome and dark skinned with a dazzling smile. „We‘ll get you out of here.“
Astarion‘s stomach lurched as the stretcher was lifted.
What was happening? Who where they, and where were they taking him?
His broken fingers helplessly grasped around the edges of the stretcher, but he couldn’t sit up, let alone fight his way off and back to his master where he was supposed to go in case of an attack, which this undoubtedly was.
„I have to…“ His voice was barely audible, and with his canines and a few molars missing, it was hard to even form words.
„You have to rest and heal“, the man beside him said, patting his arm. „Don’t worry, we’ll find the vampire and put an end to him.“
Astarion began to squirm, trying to gather enough strength to climb off the stretcher and return to his master. Cazador would be furious to see him stolen straight out of the kennels before his punishment was done.
„Wyll, he’s… fuck, help me hold him!“, one of the men carrying the stretcher cursed.
The young dark skinned one, Wyll, apparently, firmly grasped Astarion’s wrists. „We’re trying to help, please stop.“
In his condition, Astarion was no match for Wyll, who gently wrestled him down so his wrists and ankles could be bound to the stretcher.
Astarion sobbed, still unable to grasp what was even happening to him. He did understand that struggling wouldn’t help him now, and so he let his body go still, eyes closed.
Before he knew it, his mind slipped into gentle darkness.
He wasn’t allowed this peace for long.
A sudden weight crashed down on the center of his chest, once, twice, and again.
Astarion‘s eyes flew open as he sputtered awake, trying to defend himself. His hands and feet were still tied, so he could only swat at Wyll, who was bent over him, trying to… revive him.
Gods below, Astarion must have stopped breathing in his trance. How unfortunate for him that his practiced camouflage didn’t extend to his automatic reflexes as he slept.
Wyll stopped crushing Astarion’s chest and bent an ear over his face, checking his breathing. As if Astarion’s glower wasn’t enough to determine that he very much wasn’t dead.
„Thank the gods, I thought we lost you there.“ Again, Wyll patted his cheek, and Astarion wanted to bite his hand, sick of being touched. „Stay with me, alright? Deep breaths. There is a healer, but you’ll have to stay awake until we get there, yes?“
Astarion nodded numbly.
Squeezing his hand, Wyll smiled reassuringly at him, then told the carriers to pick the stretcher back up and keep moving.
Astarion might have felt something but dread, maybe even warmth, if he hadn’t known it was only a matter of time before they uncovered his nature.
At least it hadn’t happened the moment they had taken him outside, because night had thankfully fallen already. So Astarion didn’t immediately burn to his final death. That was something at least.
Astarion didn’t know where they took him.
Familiar streets and house fronts passed by in a hazy blur, until he heard doors slam shut, and the stretcher was lowered.
Astarion blinked, trying to escape the dizziness.
„He needs healing, quickly.“ Wyll hurried a strange man over. A cleric. Wonderful.
Astarion groaned, still barely able to move, even if he wasn’t tied down.
The cleric knelt down next to Astarion and grew pale. „Lethander have mercy… I… Wyll, I have no magic left. Dimon was in such bad shape, and I…“
„Damn it all!“ Wyll cursed. „A potion then. It won’t be enough, but it’ll get you away from death‘s door.“ He grabbed a large round bottle from a shelf.
Astarion wheezed when Wyll propped him up and set the bottle to his lips.
„Sorry“, Wyll said. „Come, drink.“
Knowing the potion would help somewhat, but cause him stomach cramps and nausea, Astarion opened his mouth.
Once they learned he wasn’t just some poor citizen tormented inside a vampire coven, but rather part of said coven… they’d drive a stake through his heart and it would be all over for him.
He needed to play the part of rescued damsel until he was strong enough to slip away.
So he choked down the potion, groaning as it begrudgingly worked to knit his undead flesh back together, stinging like acid in his stomach.
Before he got to feel the relief of his wounds being closed, his body convulsed trying to expel the unwanted liquid. He heaved, gritting his teeth and trying to keep the concoction down.
Wyll was holding him down by the shoulders.
„Slowly, slowly… you’re alright. See? All better.“ He patted Astarion‘s clenched hand. „By the gods we need to warm you up. You’re ice cold!“
Astarion didn’t protest as they hoisted him closer to the fire.
„Let’s bandage those wounds for now. Not bleeding as badly as I thought, huh. Guess the potion did more work than I thought.“ He wrapped a clean cloth around Astarion’s arms where the skin was still missing. „There, that’s better“, Wyll said as he covered him with a blanket. „Will you be okay? There will be healing tomorrow, just gotta make it through the night.“
Astarion struggled to smile at him. „Just… delightful, darling.“
„Just keep breathing for me“, said Wyll with a warm smile. „Ill be back to check on you.“
The cleric was called away to help another injured hunter.
Astarion looked up at Wyll. In another life, he might have fallen for this handsome and kind prince. „Not going anywhere“, Astarion croaked, nausea still making his stomach clench. He forced a smile.
„Good man.“ Wyll got up and left to help the other injured.
Finally left to himself, Astarion sighed and allowed himself to stop breathing. The movement made his broken ribs ache all the worse.
In the quietness of his still body, Astarion took a moment to order his thoughts. It was still night. He could make a run for it and be back in the castle before Cazador ever knew he was gone.
That was if he could walk.
Astarion peeked towards the door. It was opened, but just a crack. He could hear the commotion just outside, dozens of people hurrying about to help the injured. Cazador and the other spawn must have at least left a number on the hunters.
But that many people just outside this room meant Astarion had to use the window. And that would likely take all the strength he had left.
But compulsion demanded he returned to his master as fast as possible.
Astarion bit back a groan as he rolled over unto his belly and dragged his broken legs under him. He shook and trembled, swaying and almost collapsing back down like a house of cards.
But he managed to crawl to the window, pull himself up, and (like a worm) wiggle his way out.
He landed heavily on his side on the cold hard street. It had been raining, so he got his hair and shirt muddy. For one ludicrous second, he thought about how Cazador would be angry with him for getting dirty.
Astarion wheezed a laugh, a sob, a curse, he didn’t know the difference anymore.
He got to his hands and knees and crawled forward.
Eventually he found the strength to rise to his feet, though he was stumbling on unsteady legs, nearly falling.
Despite his blurry vision, Astarion‘s feet found the way back to the palace by instinct.
He staggered up the stairs, barely able to keep upright, and almost collapsed against the door.
Clinging to the door handle, Astarion pushed inside, finally crumbling to his knees as soon as the door fell closed.
The entrance hall was ruined, dead servants scattered everywhere beneath broken furniture.
Astarion looked around and saw the pale corpse of Duffay in a corner, a wooden stake firmly planted in his chest. Funny. He wasn’t even a spawn.
Shuddering, Astarion looked around. Where was everyone else? Where was Cazador?
Astarion knew he’d feel it if his master was dead. Had the vampire lord abandoned his mansion and spawn?
That seemed just like him, but what in the hells was Astarion to do now, hurting and with no place to go? It was only a matter of time until the hunters found out he wasn’t a victim, but their quarry. Going back there wasn’t a option.
And dawn was approaching.
Astarion dared not call out, even if he would have had the strength.
He could hide somewhere. Hope the hunters wouldn’t return and find him, but he knew that was unlikely.
But he didn’t know where else he’d be safe from the sunlight. As much as he hated the palace, it was the only home he knew.
So, Astarion rose to his feet, shuffling towards the main hall, arms wrapped tightly around his upper body, and began his search for his accursed family.