Chapter Text
“According to Helsik, Raphael’s teleportation circle has been inexplicably decommissioned. It seems she cannot grant us passage until the master of the House of Hope allows it.”
“Which comes as no surprise to anyone,” Mars sighs, shutting the book in front of him closed and tossing it onto a similarly discarded pile.
Outside the open window above his table, heavy clouds roll in above the tides on the horizon, a prelude to another wicked storm. Distant thunder rumbles as a mortal reminder to find cover before the ever-furious Talos rages war in the playground of the gods.
An overcast sky bleeds across Baldur’s Gate, and has been since they returned from Avernus. Astarion used the endless summer storm as a rare excuse to settle business around the city during daytime—something he takes careful precaution to do whenever bad weather allows. It’s risky; it would only take a small parting of the clouds for the sun to incinerate him, but it is still less risky than only going out at night and outing himself as a bloodthirsty undead, Astarion asserts.
“I can’t tell if she’s denying us because she genuinely can’t open a portal or because she’s protecting whatever devil Mammon tells her to protect. I guess it doesn’t matter either way.” Astarion closes the door behind him and removes his coat. “Did you learn anything?”
While Astarion has been making appearances and checking their options, Mars sifted through the entire collection of tomes in Journey’s End, both downstairs for sale and in Louis’ room, with the help of some harmless lockpicking courtesy of his dexterous vampire friend.
“My acquaintance in Waterdeep suggested books on Elminster’s travels through Avernus, but his writing is both insufferable and deliberately evasive. Nothing that will help us when it comes to Raphael or Mephistopheles.”
Astarion throws the coat over one of the swords hanging on the wall. It wobbles under the weight but eventually steadies. “Don’t tell me you are surprised that one of the most powerful wizards in the history of Faerûn is insufferable.”
“I want solid evidence about literally anything before I dive back into the fiery depths below. Is that so much to ask?”
“Evidently so. We could always visit Rolan again if Elminster’s sagely advice failed you.” Mars gives an audible grunt and Astarion chuckles. “Or the Duke. He could surely proffer some insight about infernal contracts.”
Mars puts his head in his hands and rubs at his temples. “You want to request an audience with Duke Ravengard just to ask about warlock pacts? Are you mad?”
Astarion joins around the other end of the small table in Mars’ room. He moves the stack of tomes from the only auxiliary chair to whatever spare surface he can find, as he’s grown accustomed to doing these last few days while Mars has been deep in the pages. ”With Reginald Vanthampur’s and my authority combined, it wouldn’t be so hard to get.”
“You rich people are just as insufferable as Elminster.”
Pulling the book Mars just closed over him and flipping through the pages mindlessly, Astarion adds, “I have a library at my villa as well, if you’d care to take a look at the collection when the storm lets up. I’m sure I have a few things Louis doesn’t.”
Mars sinks back into his chair and scrubs his eyelids. “I suppose it’s worth a shot.”
Looking up from the book to give Mars a raised eyebrow, Astarion says, “You’ve been at this for two days with barely any rest. You should give your eyes a break before they disintegrate into dust.”
Mars drops his hands to his lap and replies, “Piece of sh*t. Fell right into his trap, just like Lottie said we would.”
“You walked into it willingly. Have you decided what you want to do?”
Mars watches Astarion turn the pages, only half paying attention while his mind wades through the answer. “I don’t know. What choice do I have? If I refuse to help him, Lottie could be stuck in her pact forever.”
“You shouldn’t hold yourself responsible for her actions. She made her choice.”
“Was she supposed to just let her father die? And then someone else, and another and another until Raphael stacked a body count so high that it would force her into servitude? It was an impossible choice for her to make.”
“We all have impossible choices.” Astarion shuts the book and slides it off to the side. “The choice still needs to be made. Like yours, right now.”
“I'm tired of everyone being trapped in impossible choices.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Alright. Let’s say you do what he says. He frees Lottie from her pact and opens your mind to your past. All your memories come back. He gets the information he needs, then hopefully never bothers us again. Where does that leave you?”
Daddy’s waiting for you.
Mars clenches his fists in his lap, well hidden underneath the table. “With memories of my parents, I presume.”
Astarion’s response comes lathed in disappointment, bordering on disgust, “I thought you didn’t care about getting your memories back. Now you’re sounding nostalgic about it. What do you actually want?”
Rolling his shoulders, Mars stands and crosses the room towards his bed, but he loiters next to Astarion. “I don’t know.”
Like a hammer slamming down on an anvil, Astarion continues without breaking eye contact, “And what happens to this person you reveal to him, whose identity has been kept safely concealed all this time?”
“We don’t know who they are or what he wants with them.”
“And you’re fine with selling them out to a devil?”
Mars turns away, finally sits down on the bed, and closes his eyes in defeat. “I don’t know.”
Astarion stands to join him but instead of sitting, he rests his hands on his hips and taps his foot against Mars’ ankle. “I’m not trying to be a voice of reason here, but this whole exchange seems meaningless.”
“What about saving Lottie is meaningless to you?” Mars already knows this is not about her before he even says it.
“Lottie and Louis can handle whatever Raphael does to them. She would kill you if she found out you made the choice because you think that it’s the right thing to do instead of doing what you want, on your own behalf.”
Mars blinks. “You think she would?”
Astarion sighs. “A feral cat could tell you she would. Are you sure she’s your best friend?”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
Mars feels a finger under his chin, lifting his head. He opens his eyes to see Astarion standing above him, studying his face intently with gleaming red eyes and a displeased furrow to his brow.
“You don't need to carry on with this misbegotten notion that you have to sacrifice yourself to make up for your past. You’re not some epic fantasy hero on a salted march to redemption, are you? Those stories always have sad endings.”
If he suspends what he perceives as his duties for a moment, sheds this shell of humanity he often touts to direct his decisions, then perhaps he could answer Astarion’s question genuinely. Maybe he could absolve himself of his misplaced responsibility to Lottie, or of his appreciation to Louis for taking him in as some stranger from Waterdeep. If he breaks the chains of his relationships, truly free from any ramifications, and considers Raphael’s offer, what would he uncover in the quietest gaols of his soul? Indeed, what is it that he really wants?
The memory of his mother—or what Raphael claimed to be his mother—floods back, along with the chill he felt digging at his spine when she looked down at him. If it is a painful prick and a warm hug with just that single memory, just that single glance, how will he feel when everything returns?
Mars wraps his hand around Astarion’s wrist and holds it tightly as it rests under his chin. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Tapping his ankle again, Astarion huffs, “Raphael may have given you time, but I doubt it’s limitless. Watch yourself. If you wait too long, he will make a decision for you.”
There’s only one thing Mars is sure he wants at this moment in time, and it’s standing right in front of him. He tightens his grip and breathes, the tips of his nails pinching skin.
The sunset of a smile passes Astarion's lips in between his straight-faced glances. “Regardless of what you choose, Lottie will try to kill Raphael herself as soon as she gets the chance. I’d recognize the bloodlust I saw in her eyes anywhere.”
Karlach’s infernal puzzle box is what houses the contract between her and Zariel. Someone enchanted it for her and allowed teleportation to the surface from time to time, circumventing the rules of her contract.
Raphael fancies himself a demagogue, but as long as he resides in Avernus, he is still bound by Zariel’s laws. If what Karlach said is true, then he should have a puzzle box for Lottie. After all, what is a warlock pact but another type of contract? Maybe there’s a way to bend the rules for her, too. Give her an opening to do what she wants with it. With him. Maybe it doesn't seem so impossible.
“That won’t stop her from trying,” Mars mumbles.
“And now is the perfect opportunity while she has free lodging next door,” Astarion adds, dropping his hand from Mars’ chin and breaking the grip around his wrist. “You should make a decision soon.”
Everything circles back and Mars feels like he’s knee-deep in quicksand. Does he really want his memories back in the first place, with all the pain and suffering he can only fathom? Should he let Lottie do what she wants with Raphael, damned the consequences? What’s the upper limit of being stubborn before it becomes unreasonable?
One of his loose kukri knives slips into his hand from where he left it on the bed as he fumbles anxiously through the sheets.
Karlach was so certain that devils can be tricked. She did it herself, and showing up in Baldur’s Gate every once in a while to dine with Dammon is proof. But not a single account of a successful backstab to a devil of Raphael’s caliber has been documented in any of the books inside Journey’s End.
Flip.
Mars has no reason to believe she was lying to him, and writing down accounts like hers would certainly be a risk, so he understands why any texts on the subject would be hard to find. But zero? Not a single one, in all of Louis’ repertoire?
Flip.
Going to Astarion’s library may be his final and only stop, just short of meeting with Duke Ravengard or following Karlach back into Hell.
The kukri slips out from his grip just as easily as it slips into Astarion’s. The blade dances in the air as he watches Astarion handle it with more grace than he ever could, tossing it up and between hands as if it were a child’s toy. It takes everything inside Mars not to wrestle the thing away from him so that he has an excuse to pull him closer.
“Does doing this help you think?” Astarion asks quietly. “You play with these quite often. And rather carelessly.”
A ghost of a nod and then a question comes from Mars, “If you could forget all the wrong you’ve done, would you? Would you abandon everything you were, all the anguish you’ve caused, for some peace of mind?”
“If you’re looking for advice, I’m not going to give you any. This is your choice,” Astarion responds coldly, tossing the kukri back to Mars with thoughtless expertise.
“I’m not looking for advice. I’m genuinely asking you.”
Sitting back down at the table, Astarion answers, “There’s no point in thinking about it. Such a thing isn’t possible for me.”
“You don’t think so? Even through a deal with a devil?”
Astarion raises an accusatory eyebrow at Mars. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m asking: would you do it?”
The vampire pokes the window shutters open a little more and allows the dim, ambient sunlight, such as it is on an overcast day, to tint his face in a dull glow. Relishing in it for only a moment, he opens his eyes to stare at something far across the sea, past the churning tides and the bleak horizon. The way his iris catches the refracted light sings to Mars. He really is beautiful.
“Everyone has things that hurt and they are better off forgetting, Mars. I’m no exception. Remembering such things can either guide you towards a path of pain or away from it. Whether I would do it or not matters less than what you do with the information you receive from him.”
Flipping the kukri again, Mars ferments in his thoughts. He doesn’t know what to do. He never entertained the thought of having his memories returned because he never knew it was possible for him either. Is he really so weak as to crumble at the suggestion of his mother? Does wanting to remember who his parents are make him weak in the first place?
Unfortunately, Louis’ moral compass is what he needs to guide him right now. But the only thing in front of him is Astarion. Beautiful, morally ambiguous Astarion.
Mars finally stands up. “Maybe I’m a glutton for pain.”
“You mean a masoch*st? Most definitely,” Astarion smiles at him. “Apparently I am too if I keep cutting myself open for you.”
Mars startles. The curve of this particular smile looks just like the portrait in his study, where he stood in the garden under sunlight. He can practically smell the roses just by being near him.
The kukri’s flipping blade lands awkwardly in his hand and slices his skin. The sting hits his brain and he drops it in surprise with a quick “ah…” as he watches a stripe of red crawl down his palm.
“That’s dangerous, Mars.”
Even though he’s sitting, Astarion’s shadow appears stretched and fitful against the stone with eager anticipation. If it weren’t for the open window and ambient light, he would have recreated the black of midnight within these walls. His hungry eyes pierce through it all. The likeness to his portrait still sits in the back of Mars’ mind. Maybe moreso now that it’s been inverted. He doesn’t need a book or manual to understand the timbre of greed in his voice.
“Well,” Mars looks between the vampire and the drops of blood falling onto the sheets, “there’s no sense in wasting it.” He stands, walks over to the table, and holds his injured hand out in front of Astarion. A drop slides down and dangles at the edge of his finger. Astarion looks up as if verifying that he has permission and Mars responds, “It’s been a while since you ate, right? You must be hungry.”
Astarion’s delight is all too apparent. “Your neck spills faster than your hand, but I’ll accept what I am offered.”
Taking Mars’ hand into one of his own, Astarion brings his mouth to the cut and slides a wet tongue across his skin in a way that sends a shiver through Mars. He uses his tongue to dig into the cut, abusing the injury and forcing more blood to drool out. It feels good and sacred. And it hurts.
Mars shudders. “You can take my neck, if you’d like.”
Looking up at Mars from under his pale eyelashes, a creeping smile comes like the dawn. His mouth is too busy for a timely remark and Mars is left to simply watch in a sucking silence, vision blurring.
A crawling tingle bursts inside Mars' body, like his muscles are woven with sweet molasses and champagne. The skin and the tongue and the bubbling heat of breath against his hand, the reverse of how desperately Mars clung to Astarion at his villa, when Astarion pricked his thumb and allowed Mars to partake of his essence. All of it roils inside him and sets his nerves on fire.The face Astarion makes when he eats is hard to put into words. There’s attentiveness, satisfaction, desperation, desire, and some other indecipherable thing buried in the way his eyes squint and his lip curls up. Whether or not this is the same expression Mars made when tasting his blood is something he’ll never know. But if it was close, well…
Mars turns his head away, cheeks flushing, and Astarion finally breaks to laugh.
“Feeling shy again?”
“You’re teasing me,” Mars scolds him with a voice like he is disciplining an unruly child.
“You offered first. Is that my problem?”
“It’s making me greedy.”
“You are already greedy. You just don’t know how to act on it.”
“It’s not as if I need to act on it.”
Astarion takes to Mars’ hand once again. The cut clotted far too quickly for his approbation, so he stretches the skin apart with his fingers and struggles to draw more blood out without making new holes. “How will anyone know what you want if you don’t?”
“Can’t I just say it?”
Astarion laughs again, but this time flavored with a distinct mockery. “That’s comedic coming from the guy who…” he starts to say, then stops and clears his throat.
A breeze flows in from the window, followed by a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. Electricity in the air tickles the back of Mars’ neck and the damp scent of rainwater wafts into the room. He breathes and runs his free hand through his hair, only to find that it’s been singed down to stubble.
“Don’t worry,” Astarion mutters, “I think it looks good.”
The flat sound of rain starts to trickle against concrete. Shouts from merchants fill the streets as they rush to pack up their stalls and save their products from being drenched in the sudden downpour.
“What did you see in that fire?” Mars asks.
Astarion licks at what’s left in his hand like a bloodhound catching a scent. “What fire?”
“During the plane shift to Avernus. The one we were both caught in.”
A tail of crimson falls from the corner of Astarion’s lips, but he’s quick to scoop it up with his finger. “Fire... Is that what happened to you? Louis threw you into a fire?”
“Why are you saying it like that? You didn’t see it?”
Satisfied, Astarion leans back in his chair, though he still holds onto Mars’ hand.
“I saw a room,” he starts, distantly staring at the cut. “A temple, I think. But not to Bhaal. There were banners hanging from the ceiling and from pillars with the sun on them. And the floor was drenched with bodies in all kinds of unsavory and mangled positions. Everything was cold. I think I saw snow falling outside a window. Then I saw you in the middle of it all. It was you, without a doubt, but it also wasn't. You were kneeling on the floor in front of a lecturn, wading in a pool of blood that filled the entire room. Your hands were deep inside the chest cavity of a corpse. You were holding a heart. But then you were bleeding, too. Everywhere, like the pool of blood was rushing out from a bottomless fountain inside of you and seeping from every inch of your skin.
“I walked up to touch your shoulder. It was small, and it was then that I realized you were a child. You turned to look at me and I felt this immediate searing pain in my torso, like my ribs were cracking open and my intestines were being pulled out with metal hooks. And then my skin started to burn like I was standing in the sun, so my instincts took over and I changed into a bat to flee. My vision went white after that. And the next thing I remember is being bathed by you in Raphael’s chambers.”
“It was Lathander,” Mars whispers.
Astarion looks up but does not interrupt.
“That temple is where I received my hunter’s blessing when I became old enough to take up arms. The heart… the corpse was my friend. I… I killed him there, like that.”
Astarion tilts his head. “But you saw fire instead.”
“I did. I felt it. I know I did; the blisters and my hair are proof. But what you described is a recurring nightmare I have. How did you manage to…?”
The question is left unfinished, and is ultimately rhetorical. What he really wants to know is: what did the plane shift do to them? Who intervened, and with what power to make them experience the shift so differently? And why did they return from Avernus in perfectly fine condition and without interference?
Astarion asks, “It’s more than a nightmare, isn't it?”
Mars is silent for he fears admitting the truth. But Astarion tugs at his hand and gives an encouraging hum to continue.
“It’s one of my earliest memories. I was just a boy when it happened, and I don’t recall if it was in a temple. But it did happen. I…” Mars swallows, “I don’t remember the act itself, but the aftermath... It was the first time I felt…”
“Happy?” Astarion finishes, almost too quickly.
Mars shuts his eyes tight as his brain oscillates against the forefront of his skull. “Yes.”
Laying his other palm flat against the backside of Mars’ trembling hand, Astarion strokes his calloused fingers. “You call it a nightmare, and I am no expert on sleep, but it’s my understanding that nightmares don’t make people happy.”
“I shouldn’t be,” Mars answers with a pointed disdain that he can’t reject what Astarion is insinuating. “I shouldn’t be happy.”
“Changing what you call it doesn’t change what it is.”
“It also doesn’t change the fact that I arrived in Avernus covered in blisters and you arrived covered in soot.”
“And blood.”
Mars frowns. Astarion wiggles his hand.
“We’re fine now, aren’t we? Though I will rightly decline next time Louis offers to plane shift us to Hell.”
Mars is confident Astarion knows by now that Louis couldn’t have been responsible for what happened to them. So, despite everything, he consigns to Astarion’s attempts to lighten the mood.
“Since you shared a secret with me, I’ll share one of my own.”.
“You don’t need to do that,” says Mars, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You’ll want to hear this one.”
Mars braces himself and Astarion begins.
“Back when I was first turned, I ravaged every corner of this city. I killed and I drank and I killed again, but the hunger never seemed to go away. After months and months of constant consumption and littering the streets with bodies, I flirted too close to being caught and dying for real. So I endeavored to find people willing to feed me instead, but as you may be able to imagine, the eager participant list was microscopic. I fed sparingly for many, many, many years to avoid suspicion.
“The night you found me in the alley, I had been starving for… I don’t recall how long, exactly. I was peckish, unstable, angry. When my hunger became like this, as it sometimes did, I allowed myself to stray. I didn’t know if I could die from starvation and I didn’t want to find out. So this time, I called for night creatures and sent a pack out to find something inconspicuous that I could be nourished on while I protected myself at my villa.
“As it turns out, the pack decided a farm outside of town filled with many docile and vulnerable workers was adequate for my needs. They tried to bring some back to me but they failed, killing one or two people and plenty of livestock in the process. The farm owners retaliated by hiring a monster hunter to rid them of the pack.
“That monster hunter they hired was entirely too good at his job, which put me at my wit’s end, frayed as it was. My muddled judgment and I used the wolf blood on your blades to hunt you that night in their stead. I wanted to consume you entirely.
“Fortunately for you, Alfira found me first. I didn’t touch her for months before that. Can you believe that Alfira apologized to me before I attacked her? And she almost lost her life for it. I don’t really care about where she disappeared to or why she apologized, if I’m being honest, but that was embarrassing for both of us.
“I drained her like the starving creature I was. You discovered us. A stomach full of fresh blood knocked me back to my proper senses and I ran. When I saw you following me, I couldn’t ignore the opportunity to size up the famous monster hunter that lay waste to my entire pack of loyal wolves and the only lycanthrope, loyal or otherwise, for hundreds of miles.
“Your blood—the blood of a hunter abandoned by Lathander and blessed by Bhaal—was like an infectious disease inside me. I felt the heat of it course through my veins, every slow beat of my heart dragging it further and further along in muddy streams under my skin. As a vampire, I understand that my body is a sarcophagus for the deep red parts of people. Yet it never felt like anything other than natural to me, no more or less significant than when you eat bread or drink wine. That remained true until I met you and felt your blood.
“I liked the way you felt, so I started watching you. Every step, every blink, every word uttered in deception and lies. You surprised me by how good you were at tracking me down and showing up to Reginald’s party. That intrigued me enough to approach you. You know how the rest of that went.
“I thought you were crude. Hypocritical. It was fascinating how you wallowed in your own existence as you used the very same aspects of it that you hated to your advantage. But then you begged so sweetly for my help that I allowed myself to indulge in you a little bit, and I suppose I’ve been doing that ever since.
“I often questioned why the famous monster hunter Marsden ever repressed his urges. I still don’t fully understand it, especially now that I know it makes you happy. Happiness is a normal thing for anyone to chase after.”
Astarion traces his thumb along the slit that crosses Mars’ palm. The sting of it is dulled, but there’s a new fire inside Mars that he’s having difficulty putting out.
“Does drinking my blood make you happy, Astarion?” Mars asks.
When Astarion stops looking at the hand to look at his face, Mars sees a knowing smile there—one that appreciates the simplicity of accepting happiness as it is rather than lamenting about what he wishes it would be.
“It does.”
He kisses Mars’ knuckles. A surprise. Cold, small, chaste, but lingering. His chest twists into knots so tight that even the gods would tire to untangle them. His body burns like a raging wildfire, a hundred foot cyclone swallowing a forest of dense, dead thickets in eager mouthfuls. Always wanting more, never having enough to put the flames out.
“You should think about your own happiness, and take what you want to make it real. Nothing good for you will come from being a martyr.”
The outline of Astarion’s kiss is still ice on his hand.
“What if you are what I want?”
Astarion squeezes his hand and yanks his whole body downward until Mars lands obediently on his knees in front of the chair he sits in.
“Then there’s only one thing left for you to do.”
