Chapter Text
The night of the ball, after all guests had either left the palace or had been successfully lured back by him and his siblings, Astarion was only partially confused as to why Cazador had requested his presence in his office merely minutes before.
As he sat in one of the chairs before his master’s desk, waiting for Cazador to join him in the room - to punish, to lecture, to taunt, he was unsure - he thought back to the mistakes he had made earlier in the night: the slip of affection he had shown Elsie when she had smiled at him. The smallest reveal of pride he’d regarded her with when she had not baulked at Cazador in his own home.
Astarion furrowed his brows as he slouched further into the chair, stopping himself from digging his nails into the armrests out of shame, out of anger at himself, out of worry at what was to become of his errors.
He had slipped up before, of course, but this time was different. This time, he had slipped up because of her. And there was very little reason to suspect that Cazador had not noticed.
I told her to stay away, he thought to himself as he narrowed his eyes and dared to look behind him, seeking any sign of his master’s approach. I fucking told her.
As he turned his head to glance behind him, he saw as the brass doorknob began to turn noiselessly. He quickly straightened in the chair as his hands remained on the armrests, tightening against the wood at the groan of the door opening behind him.
The room was silent aside from the approach of Cazador’s footsteps. He walked gracefully, almost strategically as he continued towards where Astarion sat. When he was within Astarion’s sight, Cazador did not move his head to look over at him - rather, he continued looking in front of him as he slinked around the desk. When he at last stood in front of Astarion, only then did he move his eyes to look down upon him.
“You did well tonight, my child,” he said, an artful mix of praise and condescension lacing his voice.
Astarion said nothing as he looked up at Cazador, expressionless and dull as he could manage. He dipped his head in a slight nod. The pair watched each other in silence as Cazador narrowed his eyes and stiffened his posture.
“But not well enough,” he nearly growled, his voice lowering and demeanor darkening.
Cazador’s face and hands tightened in anger, in disappointment. Astarion held his glare as he braced himself.
“I saw the way you sought out that girl. The first one, the one that our dear Petras had brought,” Cazador continued as he raised one of his hands to his chin, leaving it there in an act of feigned pondering.
“So why, Astarion, is she not in my possession tonight?,” he asked as he started towards Astarion, stroking his chin dramatically.
Astarion kept his eyes on his master dutifully, careful not to widen his eyes or shift his expression to give away any fear that threatened to rise to the surface - not unnerved enough to perform boredom or arrogance as he usually would have, but not scared enough to blanch. Not yet.
Cazador stopped when he was directly beside Astarion, sniveling down at him like he was lesser than a bug to be flattened against his shoe.
But Astarion did not look away from him.
“She left,” Astarion said coolly.
“She left?,” Cazador started, cocking his head, “or did she escape?”
“She left,” he doubled down. “On her own volition.”
“Ah,” Cazador said as his expression and stance seemed to relax. “I see.”
Astarion was unable to fight him as Cazador moved quickly to grab him by his collar and slam his body to the ground in one swift motion.
When his hands and knees thudded on the floor, Cazador waited no time before landing a kick to his side, knocking the wind out of Astarion before he had a chance to gather himself. His breaths sputtered as he winced, moving closer to the ground against his will.
“I know what you did, boy,” he snarled as raised a foot and stomped it against one of Astarion’s hands. “I know you spared her.”
“I didn’t-,” he rasped through heaving breaths, “I didn’t-,” he couldn’t complete the sentence before Cazador repeated the motion to his other hand.
“DO NOT LIE TO ME,” Cazador raged at him, moving down to one knee to grab Astarion’s collar once again. Fury danced in his master’s eyes as he spat in his face.
Cazador moved to stand then, crossing the room in a refined manner, all of that reckless anger disappearing in seconds. He began pacing in long, elegant strides beside Astarion, who resided on the floor as he gasped for each breath.
“Stand up, Astarion,” Cazador demanded as he glided towards him, towering over his hunched body and crossing his arms expectantly.
Astarion mustered what strength he could as he shakily moved to his feet. He stood before his master, fighting the urge to double over in pain as he laboredly straightened his position. He looked up at Cazador through pained eyes as his breaths continued to heave out of him.
“Follow me,” Cazador snapped, tone commanding but disinterested.
He turned on his heel and Astarion knew he had no choice but to follow closely behind him, staggering through each step as they moved down the main hallway, down the stairs, and towards the kennels in almost complete silence; the only sound being their footsteps, echoing through the dim chamber as they approached the cells.
This time, Godey was nowhere to be seen.
Once they reached one of the more remote cells, straying further and further from any form of light, Cazador walked through the entry gate and waited as Astarion continued to follow him unsteadily.
Once Astarion had staggered his way to stand before Cazador, Cazador again crossed his arms with a calculated air of expectation. As Astarion noticed this, no matter the subtlety of his master’s gestures, he obediently moved to the side of the room with two rusted chains dangling against the stone wall. He looked up at Cazador as he awaited his next command.
“Turn around,” Cazador said, and Astarion did - hands beginning to tremble as he moved to have his back toward his master.
“On your knees, boy,” Cazador said as he leered at him from a few feet away.
Astarion grimaced as he fell to his knees before Cazador, desperately trying to ignore the pain as his knees violently hit the ground. He looked at the chains that were now eye level to him.
“Good,” Cazador droned. Astarion heard him moving closer to where he kneeled, then watched as he leaned down to shackle each of his hands to the wall.
Cazador did not say another word as he walked to the wall opposing him, heading towards another rack housing various weapons commonly used to torture Astarion and his siblings. Astarion could not help himself from straining against the shackles as he anticipated the pain to come.
Once Cazador had chosen his weapon of choice, assumedly a whip or switch from the way Cazador swung it through the open air in preparation for his punishment. Within seconds, he was upon him.
Cazador quickly began beating into his back, strike after strike after strike. Astarion did not yelp, did not fight back as he was whipped for what seemed like hours.
Hours, and hours, and hours.
Occasionally, Cazador would ask a question. “Who is she to you? How do you know her? Is she worth all of this?,” he would ask intermittently, but Astarion would not utter a sound. He could take this. He always could have.
He felt as his shirt began to shred and tatter, strips of cloth falling off of him as the hits continued. He felt the warm stream of blood flowing from the deep wounds forming at his master’s hand - as he relentlessly continued to crack the weapon against him, again and again and again. Eventually his shirt had fallen from him entirely.
He could tell the moment that Cazador became infuriated at his lack of breaking - it was the same moment that he stopped hitting him, the same moment that Cazador backed away from him and started to laugh maniacally.
“So she’s that special to you, my boy? She’s that important, hm?,” he said through what Astarion assumed was a wicked smile.
“Very well, then,” he continued. “I still have a remaining trick up my sleeve,” he said with a formed resolve.
Astarion listened intently, breathing hard and fast as Cazador moved back to the weapon rack, as he grabbed what sounded to be some kind of blade and strode over to where Astarion knelt, broken and bleeding. Tears swelled his eyes as he silently began to pray to the gods, any god that would listen - Please let this torture end.
But the gods remained silent as Cazador raised the small blade in his hands and began to carve directly into Astarion’s skin - the pain was incomparable to the whipping before.
He finally screamed.
He screamed as that dagger dug into his back, he screamed for what seemed to be another few hours. It had to be well into the following day now.
Cazador did not speak as he sliced through Astarion’s flesh, concentrating as if marking it ritualistically. Astarion’s screams eventually shifted to sobs, his voice raw and lost to the pain that bombarded him.
It did not stop. It did not stop.
And when it did, when Cazador at last seemed satisfied with his work, he backed away to observe what he had done.
“Hmm,” Astarion heard from behind him as Cazador continued to sweep his gaze over his back, at the markings left there, at the blood steadily spurting from the wounds he had caused. He felt the warm wetness of it trickling down from those wounds, dripping down to his stomach. Astarion could do nothing but heave out each breath, rasping and moaning in pain, rattling against his chains as he shook and sobbed.
“I had no choice, you see,” Cazador said from behind him with a silent shrug. “You left me no choice.”
Astarion said nothing as he knelt there in a puddle of his own blood.
”And now you are bound to me for eternity. A means to an end,” Cazador said in a satisfied tone.
I thought I already was, he quipped from the back of his mind. But he could say nothing as he was - absolutely battered. Absolutely broken.
“And one more thing, my precious Astarion,” Cazador said as he moved closer to Astarion and joined him in a knelt position from behind. He grabbed the back of Astarion’s head and yanked it toward him, forcing Astarion to look up at him. Astarion’s eyes were wet with tears, his breaths heaving out of him in desperate wheezes.
“You will bring me that girl,” Cazador said, his eyes boring into Astarion’s at the command. “You will find her, and you will bring her to me. Immediately.”
Astarion felt the compulsion hit him as soon as the words were out of Cazador’s mouth. It hit him physically, mentally, as though the thought would consume him.
I have to take her. I have to take her. I have to take her, he thought rapidly.
Please don’t make me please don’t make me please don’t make me, he begged someone. Anyone. No one.
I can’t I can’t I can’t, his thoughts continued in a crazed, uncontrollable manner. The urge of the compulsion and his need to protect Elsie fought against each other viciously.
But he had no fucking choice.
His hands continued to rattle against his metal bindings, even more violently now that he had been compelled. His feet moved beneath him in a desperate attempt to get out of the shackles, scrambling to move towards where he knew Elsie was, as he knew exactly where she was. His sobs continued to escape him frantically.
Cazador looked at him, at the pathetic mess he had become at his compulsion. He let out a manic cackle as he turned to leave.
And then Cazador was gone within seconds, disappearing into a cloud of dark mist once he had exited the cell.
Astarion began to claw at his restraints, biting at them, pulling at them, screaming in desperation to remove them.
He had no choice.
But he was hurting. Badly.
As he exerted the last of his strength in trying to free himself, his movements eventually turned weary. He continued to lazily, sluggishly attempt to break through the chains withholding him throughout the next few hours.
He felt as the blood began to dry against skin, as the dripping ceased, as his wounds sealed themselves expeditiously through his vampiric healing. His own ichor was sticky, the disgustingly sweet scent of gore hung in the air around him. Despite his physical healing, however, he was unable to stop sobbing and shuddering out his breaths.
Though, no matter how little energy he had left, he was forced to keep fighting against the chains that held him down. He could do absolutely nothing to stop it - to control it.
At some point during the night, or perhaps the day as Astarion had no point of reference, Astarion heard the skeletal clicks on Godey’s footsteps walking down the cell block, moving directly towards him. He was still moving against his shackles ploddingly, so fucking desperately.
“Master Cazador has sent me here to free you,” Godey said as he continued towards Astarion, his movements causing cracks and pops to sound through the otherwise silent air.
Once he reached Astarion, Astarion watched as his skeletal hands dexterously opened the chains with a small key, allowing Astarion to flex his hands before collapsing onto them, hitting the floor miserably.
Godey said nothing else as he left the room, Astarion’s hands and feet trying hopelessly to move, to leave, to crawl towards where he could find Elsie. But his body was too weak, too hungry, too pained. He could not move. He could not do anything but groan and writhe in place.
He stared at the ground as his vision began to blacken around the edges, and though the physical pull of the compulsion continued its hold on him, coercing him to crawl forward, he could not stop his body from giving out. His vision at last faded completely as his hands and knees fell out from under him, his last memory being the cold, hard floor welcoming him from beneath his weight as he shook and sobbed.
When he woke, Cazador stood before him. He watched as Astarion blinked once, twice to gain his bearings and his body once again twitched, wincing in pain as he did so. His breath hitched at each inhale. Astarion noticed that his body had been cleaned and bandaged in his unconscious state, and he had been dressed in a fresh linen shirt. He moved involuntarily as he rose to his feet, as he limped towards the exit, away from the kennels, up the stairs, down the main hallway, and towards the main door to make his exit.
Every movement was excruciating. Agonizing.
Cazador followed closely behind him the entire way, observing him with a wrathful gaze. As Astarion at last opened the entry door and beheld the evening skyline, his mind still reeling at what he had been compelled to do, his thoughts pleading for anyone and no one to get him out of this, he heard Cazador from behind him.
“Bring her back to me, my boy,” he said, “and you will be forgiven.”
But Astarion did not care about forgiveness - he would take what was done to him in the last two days again and again and again if it meant he could keep Elsie safe.
But it didn’t matter, not as his feet moved from beneath him without his consent, not as he continued limping towards Elsie’s shitty apartment and into the dark night, unable to stop himself.
And though it had only been minutes since he had awoken, he again felt hot tears running down his eyes helplessly. For pain, for the raw scars now decorating his back, for the profound loss of autonomy that he suffered - he could not discern between the feelings.
Please, he begged for the last time to anyone and no one, Don’t make me do this.
And, for the last time - no one answered.