Blood & Wine - A Spawn Astarion Fan Fiction

Astarion

I take in the temple room; the smell of blood is so thick in the air that it almost makes me want to choke. The bodies of werewolves, still shifted, lay battered and torn in contrast to the ornate marble floors. I pass a brilliant ball of light that feels as warm as the sun and watch as it winks out, a spark of magic shimmering in its place.

Cazador is still alive. I am free of the rite's magical tether, but I feel the weight in my chest. The sight of my brothers and sisters under the same magic and watching them being slowly drained makes my stomach twist. I am disgusted by them, not because of how they treated me, but because I can still see myself in them.

Everything feels like an echo; the further away from the sound, the softer it becomes. His bonds are still there, simmering, and the familiar feeling of terror and wishing to obey remains like an instinct. To run back to him, my tail between my legs so I might keep from being punished. So I might never find myself locked away in a coffin again. The silence is deafening, broken by every footfall as I walk towards the dais.

The closer I get to him, the more I feel I might never leave; there has to be some finality in this. I reach for the lid of the stone coffin, bracing my legs and pushing as hard as I can until the lid shifts and crashes to the marble floor. The sound is almost sweet.

I look down at Cazador's seemingly slumbering form, deep in a meditative state with the staff still clutched tightly between his hands. The magic still glows, a slow heartbeat. It feels strange to see him this way, the surface of his face and hands cracking and ashen, deep grey lines separating the regenerating flesh.

"We finish this now." I grit out.

Reaching my hand down, I grab him by his heavy-cloth tunic, dragging him from the coffin. His eyes snap open, focusing on me; they appraise me almost blindly, their usual brown coated with a cloudy quality. He struggles to gain his footing, leaning heavily on the staff as I hold him like a scared animal by the scruff of its neck.

"Unhand me, you pathetic little worm." Cazador says, his hand gripping the staff.

I feel a faint pull of his bond, barely enough to cause any pain. The energy of the rites still hangs in the air, but it's clear he is weakened by injury and the stress of channeling the magic.

My hand moves to my dagger, and I catch a glimpse of something remaining in the coffin; the metal hilt of the silver-wrapped stake half rests hidden under the soft bedding. I grab it, a smile creeping across my lips as I lead him towards the center of the star. With a growl, I throw him to the floor, the metal design of the stake's hilt biting into my flesh as I grip it like a lifeline.

Cazador falls to his hands and knees, the staff catching on the gold inlay of the marble and wrenching from his grasp, settling a couple feet away. He reaches his hands forward, feeling for the staff.

I take a few steps forward, placing my boot on the wood and sliding it away.

"Do you really feel you're in the position to be giving me orders?" I ask; the thrill of seeing him near sightless and searching for me is intoxicating.

I look down at the stake, my eyes raking over the gnarled wood wound with a razor sharp silver accents.

"All I need to do is bury this glorious weapon in your heart, and the rites are broken. I will be free of you once and for all." I mutter to myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Gale walk closer, then Karlach approaches, holding Nymeria tight to her side as she limps forward. My jaw flexes at the smell of her blood.

"Or," I mutter, looking over to Nymeria.

She gives me the same bewildered look she turned on me in the cellar, this time her lovely midnight blue armor torn and bloodied.