Work Text:
Louder.
He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.
He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.
That voice in his head, incontestable.
So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -
A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.
“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan.
Please, he thinks, let that be enough.
He knows it is anything but.
He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.
He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves.
Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears.
And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed.
Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you.
Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive.
Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet.
The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead -
Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave.
His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace.
No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.
His body. Not his anymore.
Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.
Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.
All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.
There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.
The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.
Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.
“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.”
Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?
“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.
Fuck.
Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”
Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up.
Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -
“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh.
He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.
His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -
The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.
“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.
Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”
I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.
Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway.
“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies.
Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.
Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.
The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.
He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.
A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.
If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now.