Chapter Text
Asmodea regarded the toddler with caution, the way one might an unpredictable wild animal that wandered, by chance, into a human dwelling, and began creating a chaotic disturbance with its mere presence - the feeling was akin to walking into a kitchen to find a raccoon on the counter.
After some screaming (done by the child), a wooden prop dagger was surrendered to it. The toddler alternated using it as a rattle and a chew toy. Were kids this young supposed to have teeth..? Asmodea wasn’t sure. Then again, she wasn’t great at determining children’s ages. It was somewhere past the ‘potato’ stage, but hadn’t yet reached the ‘persistent yet incoherent chattering’ phase of its development.
Something new must have caught the little girl’s interest, as she dropped the fake knife and began crawling up the sitting room’s wall.
When did they begin doing that? Perhaps at around a year of age..?
Her father, Ivar, had clearly witnessed the stunt before and was unfazed by it.
Astarion, on the other hand, was very much fazed, and regarded the girl with apprehension.
“I can’t sense her,” he remarked, furrowing his brows. “My eyes tell me she’s there, but everything else is telling me my eyes are lying... It’s unnatural!”
“You’re one to speak,” Ivar chuckled at Astarion’s words. “But yes… You get used to it.”
“In all honesty, I’d rather not,” grumbled Astarion.
Ivar had been one of the very last victims delivered to Cazador. Not one of Astarion’s catches - he had actually been mugged, stabbed and left to die in the streets of the city, only to be hauled back to the mansion by Dalyria. For ‘healing’, she told him. A mere few days later, he found himself a free vampire. His wife accepted the unwitting detour as a reasonable explanation for his returning home late. She even joined him in his exodus to the Underdark with the other spawn.
Being among the minority of the spawn that still had full control of their wits on regaining their freedom, and indeed one of those who had tried to help shepherd the more crazed spawn, Ivar quickly secured a spot at the top of the hierarchy in Leon’s coven. He had met with Astarion before leaving, and stayed in sporadic correspondence with him.
To see him hastily fleeing north like some kind of refugee was a surprise. ‘Everything’s going to sh*t in the Underdark’ was his brief explanation.
Six covens had formed, each run by one of Cazador’s immediate spawn. ‘The Seven’, they were called, albeit Astarion, the seventh, had so far refused to take part. A Council was established, formally, but it did little but serve as a means for the ‘Seven’ to spy on and attempt to manipulate one another.
As for the common, lesser spawn…
Between attacks by the druergar, drow, illithids (as well as anyone else who did not fancy having vampires for neighbours), the food shortages, and the infighting between and within the covens themselves, the Underdark had turned out to be a ruthless dog eat dog world, not the sunless sanctuary they had first envisioned.
Thousands of the lesser spawn had died, Ivar confirmed. Most had already gone incurably mad from the years of starvation and isolation by the time they were freed, and were culled immediately.
The rest were constantly at each other’s throats in a struggle for resources.
Leon’s coven, said Ivar, had tried to establish trade relations with druergar, kept herds of deep rothe for blood supply, and otherwise made attempts to obtain blood without resorting to outright murder. Unfortunately their efforts were largely in vain, as some of the other covens had opted to simply keeping slaves to be used as blood bags. At the end of the day, as far as any mortal denizens of the Underdark were concerned, a vampire was simply a vampire, and no questions were asked about their allegiance or philosophy on blood procurement. Weapons came out on sight of any vampire, most of the time.
Ivar said that more and more vampires had begun fleeing the Underdark, slipping back into onto the surface. Soon they would flood the cities. Baldur’s Gate was the closest port city to the main Underdark vampire settlements, and it was likely that most would end up in the city, at least to pass through, like him. His own plan was to board a ship to Neverwinter with his daughter, and then head further north from there. Someplace with long nights, far from Baldur’s Gate and his wretched extended undead ‘family’.
“And the girl’s mother..?” asked Astarion.
“Ingrid died in childbirth,” answered Ivar. Astarion and Asmodea murmured words of condolences. “Accidents are prone to happen, you know,” he continued, giving Asmodea a look that made her shift uncomfortably. “Especially with one who gorges on this much blood. Look at all this!” he turned to Astarion, pointing at the tankard of heated boar blood he had been provided. “A luxury! And to you it’s nothing!”
“Was Ingrid human?” Astarion ignored Ivar’s outburst.
“Aye,” answered Ivar. “Most dhampirs’ mothers are.”
“There are others?” Astarion asked, surprised.
“Some, and I know a few women were heavy with child when I left.”
“Well…” said Astarion, somewhat taken aback. “Perhaps in another twenty years a generation of dhampir will solve the vampire overpopulation issue,” he offered. “I don’t know who will take care of the dhampir problem. Perhaps gur vampires?” His attempt at a joke fell on deaf ears.
“How do the vampires feel about them?” asked Asmodea.
“The dhampir tots are protected, at least in Leon’s coven,” said Ivar. “I reckon we’re all still amazed any of us can create new life… But their staying in the settlement is discouraged. I only waited until little Helmi was old enough to travel. The Underdark is no place for a child...”
A silence hung in the air briefly.
“But speaking of Leon…” Ivar said, suddenly remembering something. “Before I forget, I’ve a letter from him for you.”
He got up and left the room, leaving his hosts with his daughter.
They silently beheld the dhampir toddler on the ceiling for some moments, before meeting each other’s eyes.
“Do not tell me you want one,” Astarion pointed a cautionary finger at Asmodea.
“No thanks,” she curled her lip, before looking up at the child again. “But can you go get that thing off the ceiling? Or shall I go fetch a broom?”
“Why bother?” said Astarion, stretching his legs. “It seems perfectly happy up there.”
“What if it falls and cracks its head open?” Asmodea said with a frown, crossing her arms. “Your associate wouldn’t be very impressed if his daughter died the moment she was in our care.”
They both gasped in unison and made for the centre of the room - Astarion via the ceiling - as the little girl suddenly got on her feet and wobbled, upside down, towards the chandelier. Astarion got to her before she could damage herself or the candlewheel.
“I still can’t sense her,” he muttered, having come down onto the floor. “It’s uncanny… And gods, is this how cold I feel too?!” He regarded the toddler thoughtfully.
“Aww, she likes you,” Asmodea cooed, tilting her head, as the little girl tried to reach up to grab a handful of Astarion’s hair. He bared his fangs and hissed at her, only to have her chortle and hiss back at him, baring her own little fangs.
“Right, your father’s a vampire, why did I think that would work on you...” Astarion murmured, setting the toddler down.
Asmodea excused herself and returned to the theatre shortly after Ivar returned with Leon’s letter, leaving Astarion alone with Ivar and Helmi.
“So you were truly unable to enter on your own?” Astarion asked. “Interesting. It is a public space.”
“Let me guess,” said Ivar. “Living quarters stretching all across the top floor?”
“And most of the basem*nt,” Astarion nodded, with a hint of a smile.
“Clever,” admitted Ivar. “Will spare you any surprises from the others. But they will show up in Baldur’s Gate sooner or later.”
Astarion only waved his hand dismissively.
“You could take your place on the Council anytime, you know,” Ivar continued. “You killed Cazador. They will always hold a seat for you.”
“Not interested,” murmured Astarion. “And for hells’ sake, why do you even care?! You’re headed north yourself.”
“From what I know, you’re not a bad man, Astarion,” said Ivar. “And that’s more than I can say for many of the others. ‘Not bad’ is far and few. Leon is not a bad man either, and he thinks you can be reasoned with. Think of all you could do for your lesser brothers and sisters.”
“Please…” scoffed Astarion. “Even if I cared about that. I am doing more for vampires here than I ever could beneath the ground. Why, ask anyone who’s attended the theatre. They’ll say: ‘Sure, I’ve met a vampire - a dashing gent dressed in feathers and lace, he had me pissing myself laughing at his salacious jokes - I love vampires!’.” He smirked. “I’m a curiosity, not a threat. And I would very much like to keep it that way.”
“You’re an aberration,” Ivar said, darkly. “Not even hiding you’re a vampire. All the blood you want delivered to your door. They will come, and they will be envious and spiteful. This can’t last forever.”
Astarion did not say anything to that, and taking his silence to be encouragement, Ivan continued.
“The Council will ensure protection is extended to any mortal concubine you wish to keep - take the woman with you. All the better if you have your own blood source.”
Astarion wrinkled his nose in distaste at the implication.
“The answer is still no,” he scowled. “And she’s no concubine.” He took a sip of his wine, before adding with a touch of self-satisfaction: “Oddie and I are married.”
Sometime in the past five years
To say the wedding was rushed would have been a massive understatement.
Asmodea’s dress consisted of a show corset, hastily sewn together with a mass of organza, tulle and scraps of silk, all dyed a deep blood red. The skirt was an enormous, puffy thing that bounced and swayed with every step. It was farcical, ostentatious, garish and undeniably Asmodea. The seamstress, who had been cajoled into abandoning all other requests until this project was complete, could not have been prouder of her work, once she was finally convinced that this was indeed what her client wanted.
Astarion was the one to wear white, opting for a tasteful suit with silver embroidery.
The venue was an inn that was still partially under reconstruction, which hadn’t otherwise been open to the public yet.
The entertainment was provided by their friends and regular acts that appeared at their tavern. They took turns between performing and carousing with the rest of the guests.
The catering, thank the gods, was taken over and arranged by Wyll’s people.
The day began with a rush of people and last minute deliveries and arrangements. Asmodea was trying to direct it all before allowing herself to be whisked away to the wedding venue, where she would finish her preparations.
“This was left outside,” someone handed her a hamper filled with what appeared to be an assortment of edible treats, teas, little packages and a few jars and bottles. “Must be a gift for you, don’t know why they didn’t deliver it properly.”
Asmodea frowned at the hamper. What she first took to be woven willow strands appeared to actually be interwoven roots, and the basket itself seemed to be a peculiarly shaped plant, with leaves sprouting at the top. She wondered if it could be planted or placed into water.
Her eyes grew wider and wider as she regarded the contents of the plant basket.
“What is it, my love?” Astarion approached her.
Asmodea silently handed him a piece of paperbark engraved with sylvan words of felicitations, as she picked up a bottle and swirled it to observe the contents. The liquid inside appeared thicker than regular wine. And did it shimmer..?
Astarion’s own eyebrows had already shot up at the sight of the contents of the basket, by the time she handed him the bottle.
“My espruar is shoddy… Pray tell, what does this label say?”
“‘For the vampling’,” Astarion translated. “Can it… can it do that?! Slip between our plane and the feywild..?”
“I guess so,” Asmodea said with disbelief. She reached for one of the jars and opened it, only to gasp and close it back up. She let out a giggle and handed it to Astarion. “Tell me that is what I think it is.”
Astarion opened the jar and observed the contents.
“That, my dear, is indeed enough feydust to obliterate the mind of a dragon.” He looked at the other items in the basket. “That appears to be halfling weed - nothing special, but can’t go wrong with it either. That,” he continued, peeking into another jar, “is definitely dream flake. Not something I would risk, given my nightmares.”
Asmodea barely suppressed her incredulous laughter as he went on.
“That’s patch.” Astarion met her inquisitive look - clearly that was not something she was familiar with. “It will have you communicating with plants, not that they have anything interesting to say.” He continued to dig through the basket. “Sharpsugar?! That’s even more expensive than the feydust. And that's…” Astarion suddenly broke off into elaborate elven cursing, dropping the item he had picked up back into the basket. Asmodea picked up the satchel that had upset him so much, and guffawed.
“Aww, they even packed your favourite!” she called out after him, as he retreated back upstairs, indignant. “Catnip!”
Jaheira, stately in an emerald green gown, sipped tea, watching one of Asmodea’s friends - Sarana, an improbable githyanki raised by halflings - fuss over her hair and makeup, applying finishing touches to the bride’s appearance.
“Will anyone be walking you down the aisle?” asked Jaheira.
“I will be walking myself, thank you very much,” Asmodea answered, reaching up to adjust her hair. Sarana silently smacked her hands away from her locs, which had been arranged into a complex crown, and continued adding some delicate touchups to her cheekbones with a brush.
“I was thinking of having Wyll do it, for the sheer grandiosity of it, but he can’t do that and conduct the ceremony.”
“Has Halsin offered?” asked Jaheira.
“Halsin?!” Asmodea laughed. “Having an ex-lover hand me over to my husband-to-be, who is incidentally also his ex-lover. I can’t even tell what all that symbolism would imply, but I think I’ll avoid it, even if he does volunteer.”
“Astarion, are you decent?” he heard Shadowheart’s voice from behind the door.
“What kind of a trick question is that?!” he scoffed, as the door opened to admit the cleric. She looked stunning in a flowing dusky lavender dress.
She took one look at him before recoiling in mock horror.
“Oh! Oh no… No, this won’t do at all.”
“What are you talking about?” Astarion asked, annoyed. “I don’t need a mirror to know I’m immaculate.”
“Exactly,” Shadowheart agreed. “You’re so perfect - it’s painful to look at. She will absolutely hate it. Here, allow me…”
She reached up to loosen his collar and unbutton the top button of his shirt, and did something with his hair, moving some strands around.
“There,” she said, withdrawing to look at her handiwork. “Much better. Not even you are allowed to outshine the bride, you know.” She smiled and stepped back towards him, to draw him into a hug, landing a kiss on his cheek. “Congratulations!”
And with that, she withdrew from the room, leaving Astarion blinking in surprise at the over-familiarity. Had she already gotten into the wine..? No matter. He returned to his preparations, which consisted of pacing around and trying to convince himself he had absolutely no reason to panic. He did not re-button his shirt.
The ceremony took place after sunset.
Their vows were heartfelt but brief. They both dreaded having to make an overt display of sentimentality publicly.
They both only laughed in relief when Minsc briefly stole everyone’s attention by releasing a loud sob when Astarion called Asmodea his sunlight in his speech.
The band was playing some cacophonous waltz, which seemed to be getting progressively faster as time went on, and Astarion was stuck swirling in a ludicrous dance that mostly consisted of spinning at breakneck speed around the dance floor with a partner. Between the ridiculous dance pas and the feywine he had been consuming throughout the evening, even his vampire head was swimming. He’d somehow lost sight of Oddie, as though it should even have been possible to lose sight of a boisterous little red cloud. And, absurdly, he found it simply impossible to leave. Apparently everyone needed to tick “dance with a vampire on their wedding day” off their bucket lists - new partners simply kept appearing in his arms after each turn around the hall.
He found himself leading Katrina, Gale’s date - apparently someone from the college he was teaching in - in yet another sequence. Surprisingly spry in her movements, she did not miss a step as she masterfully diverted an exchange of polite niceties into an interrogation on the topic of the intricacies of vampire digestion. Astarion could not boast the same about his footwork, as he nearly crashed them into another couple, caught off guard by the subject matter of her questions. Luckily they were nearing an end of a round.
“I… I don’t know, I suppose it’s all simply absorbed into the tissue..? Magically? I’m sure that’s a topic you know more about than I do. …I better return you to Gale, I’m sure he’s distraught without your lovely company.”
As they reached Gale, the wizard extended his hand, which Astarion presumed was for Katrina. As he released her, however the hand somehow ended up in Astarion’s, with another around his shoulder, and they were off, as though carried off by sheer momentum.
“Good gods, Gale, not you too!” Astarion groaned. “Alright, fine!”
Between the music, the flickering magelights and the voices all around him, the night starting to seem like a delirious dream he couldn’t wake up from. And where was Oddie..?
As they spun off, Gale whispered conspiratorially to Astarion.
“I have been tasked with delivering an important message.”
“Well?” Astarion sighed. “Out with it!”
“Your blushing bride awaits you. Through the kitchen, and up the service stairs.” Gale chuckled at Astarion’s immediate look of relief and gratitude. “Now go, go!”
He released his hands, leaving the inertia to carry Astarion staggering towards the exit leading into the kitchen, where he swiftly disappeared before anyone could note his absence.
He caught a glimpse of her skirt disappearing around a corner as he reached the top of the stairs. A hand beckoned him coquettishly before disappearing around another, and then there she was, grinning at him from the doorway of one of the inn’s suites. He tried to reach for and embrace her, but she only laughed and dodged him, retreating into the room and keeping a table between them.
“You left me stranded, all alone with those lunatics” Astarion admonished her, walking around the table as she mirrored his steps.
“You were having fun!” she protested
“I detested every second.”
“I saw you laughing so hard you choked,” she teased.
“Minsc insisted I dance with him and his hamster, it was awful,” he said darkly.
“Yes, Boo looked adorable sitting in your hair,” she laughed.
Astarion suddenly changed direction, and so did she, with a titter.
“Are you sure you want to play this game, darling?” he purred. “You know you can’t win it.”
She grinned, but before she could do anything, he simply leapt over the table, catching her in his arms. She gave a gleeful squeal as he spun and lifted her onto the table, wedging his hips between her legs. He planted his arms on the table around her sides, leaning over her.
“Ah-ah!” she warned, as he started to kiss down her neck, grazing it with his fangs. “No fang marks on my neck - we still need to return to the others before the night is over.”
“A vampire biting his bride, what a scandal that would be,” Astarion murmured as he dipped lower, towards her cleavage.
“Definitely not there, either,” she laughed, enjoying his cool breath tickling her skin.
Astarion straightened to simply kiss her, but once again, she held a finger to his lips.
“Sarana insisted on touching up the pastes and powders just earlier, and she will be most displeased if you ruin all her hard work before the night is over. She brought her greatsword to protect her artistry’s honour, you know.”
“And here I thought I wouldn’t need to fear any more githyanki women, with Lae’zel away on the astral plane…” Astarion lamented. “But I’m sure I can find a place no one will see…”
He urged her back until she lay propped up on her elbows, before finding her leg somewhere in the mass of her skirts, and kissing up towards her thigh, starting from her ankle.
“Now why would you wear something so ridiculous and impractical..?” he said between kisses, as he moved further up.
“It’s perfectly practical,” she batted her lashes innocently.
Annoyed with her mass of skirts, he hiked them up, throwing them up over her head. She laughed and tried to get out from under them.
“So it is! You naughty girl…” he purred against her skin, licking and sucking up her thigh. She was wearing nothing underneath the dress.
He sank his fangs into the inside of her thigh, making her gasp. His fingers teased her, sliding between her opening and her cl*t, grazing it but not quite giving her what she wanted, as he drank from her. His mind cleared, somewhat, as her blood hit his tongue, the effects of the feywine from earlier being replaced by a desire overwhelming all his senses.
He didn’t take much blood from her, instead kissing his way further between her legs, his lips and tongue caressing the soft skin just outside her sex, without going in.
“Please…” she moaned breathlessly.
The blasted skirt started falling over Astarion’s head and getting in his way again, and he growled, tearing at it, as he got up.
“Do not rip it,” Asmodea scolded him, still defiant despite her precarious position. “Not yet.”
“Not yet,” he agreed, kissing her - Sarana and her wrath be damned - as he impatiently unlaced his pants.
“But you will need to, later - I was sewn into all this,” she whispered in his ear once they’d broken their lips apart from one another’s, nibbling on his earlobe.
They both breathed a sigh of relief as he entered her, as though finding long needed respite. She wrapped her legs around his hips as they ground into each other, trying to alleviate a desperate need.
“Mine,” he gasped, thrusting into her. “All mine… Only mine,” he kept repeating like a prayer.
“Yours…” she gasped. “Forever…”
“I’ve been yours for a long time, you know, this is only a formality,” she said a while later, trying to make herself look presentable before heading back downstairs.
“Oh I know,” he answered, smirking. “But now I have a receipt that confirms it.”
The word ‘forever’ rang a bittersweet bell in his mind, but he brushed it aside. He refused to think about that tonight.
Getting into the carriage Wyll had arranged to take them home was turning out to be quite the challenge for Asmodea, given the voluminous skirt.
“Oh for the love of,” Astarion said, impatiently, before hoisting her up one-handed, and pulling her in after him. She collapsed on him, laughing, as he fell back onto the seat. Someone shut the door behind them, and they were off. The ridiculous skirt with its now crumpled and creased layers of fabric seemed to fill the entire cabin - it was all Astarion could see beyond Asmodea leaning against his chest, beaming down at him.
He reached up to tuck away a lock of her hair that had gotten loose.
“My love…” he whispered, smiling up at her. “Can you believe any of this..?” She peppered his face with kisses, as he continued, incredulously. “What in the heavens did we just do..? What did we do..?”
Present day
“I don’t understand,” Asmodea said as they lay in bed at dawn. It was just the two of them, the bard had been forgotten, at least for the night. “Why did he decide to come here to begin with? Didn’t he violate some vampire etiquette by showing up unannounced at another vampire’s lair?”
Astarion winced at her choice of words to describe their home, but answered.
“No, that was actually a display of perfect civility and decorum. I would have sensed his presence in the city anyway, and felt compelled to investigate. It saved me going down to the docks myself.”
Asmodea contemplated that, lying on his chest.
“I suppose it was better for the child as well…” she added. “Say, and what was in that letter from Leon, anyway?”
“Oh what’s in any of their letters…” sighed Astarion. “Complaints about the others and vague hints of an alliance should I join them.” He traced circles on Asmodea’s back, staring up at the ceiling. “Ivar was adamant that vampires will start flooding Baldur’s Gate soon, to plague the populace. He said it’s a matter of time before an angry mob arrives to drag me out into the light at daytime.”
They had accounted for such possibilities. The walls of the building contained hidden passages, leading down to the basem*nt, which in turn was connected to the sewers. Astarion could cloak himself in invisibility and flee any time of day or night, if it ever came to that.
“We always knew this was temporary, anyway,” he continued. “The city guard will not touch us as long as Wyll is at the helm, but who knows how long that will be? He could remain Grand Duke for the next 50 years, or he could choke on a piece of steak and die next minute. And who knows who will come after him?”
“I’ve thought of all this, but I… I didn’t think it would start unravelling so soon,” Asmodea whispered.
As the sun set, Astarion headed towards the room they had provided Ivar. There was another matter he didn’t get a chance to ask him about. Although the sun still lingered just above the horizon, he found the room empty - the man was already gone.
Astarion swore and raced downstairs.
He caught him just outside the Siren. It was as though he couldn’t get away fast enough. Ivar gave Astarion a careful, apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No disrespect, I was unsure where you were. Left a ‘thank you’ note in the room, but now I need to get on the ship as soon as possible,” he said.
Astarion only shook his head dismissively.
“Before you do that, I just wanted to ask...” Astarion began, nonchalantly. “Has… any new ‘unlife’ appeared in the Underdark? Beyond Cazador’s original spawn and the 7,000 offerings? Let’s not count the dhampir.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking, Astarion.” Ivar sighed, wearily.
“Oh, but I think you know exactly what I’m asking,” Astarion said, piercing Ivar with his eyes.
“Necromancy is forbidden,” he replied. “The law states that all vile acts of necromancy are to be punished, the offenders chained in silver and given to the sun, their abominable creations destroyed. Every coven enforces this. Does that answer your question?” Ivar said, irritated.
“No, it does not. I will speak as plainly as I can.” Astarion looked down at his nails in apparent boredom. “When your wife lay dying, did you try to turn her?”
Ivar regarded Astarion with a darkening expression.
“Have you lost your mind?” he said. “Spawn cannot create new vampires.”
“There are those who believe that spawn become full vampires once their masters perish,” Astarion countered.
“And there are those who need to be reminded that necromancy is forbidden,” Ivar retorted. “Encouraging necromancy and spreading misinformation about it,” he leaned closer to Astarion, lowering his voice, “is also forbidden.”
“Oh don’t give me that sh*t,” Astarion hissed, dropping any pretence of his nonchalance. “As she lay bleeding, doomed and half dead already, did you try to turn her or not? As a last resort. I know what I would have done. So did you?”
“My wife is dead, Astarion. I buried her,” Ivar said grimly.
“Yes, yes, I heard you and I believe you,” Astarion sighed in exasperation. “So did she claw her way back out of the grave you put her in?”
Before Ivar could answer, his daughter started to cry, and he turned his attention to her, trying to soothe her. He did not turn away and leave, however.
“How old is your little half-elf?” he asked Astarion, finally.
“Around 40.”
“You have plenty of time, then. Find another way. Or better yet, stop playing the fool, bid your farewell, the sooner the better, and then stick to your own kind, in a place where you belong.”
Astarion opened his mouth to speak again, but Ivar cut him off, brusquely, and set out towards the docks.
“Take care, Astarion. You have my gratitude for your hospitality. I wish you well, and I hope we never see one another again.”
Astarion watched, silently, until Ivar disappeared around a corner. The man was gone, but the sense of unease he had brought with him had only grown. Astarion couldn’t shake off the feeling that what he thought had been whole suddenly revealed a multitude of tiny cracks.
