Archive of Our Own

Together

1276 DR

Cazador does not dislike the walk from his underground chambers, past the empty cells where Donnela kept the dwarves she had enslaved from Blingdenstone to remodel this place and turn it to her purposes. It is almost calming. Across, left, down, right, left again until he arrives at a door. When he contemplates the creature that now lives beyond the door, calming is required. 

He has brought Vellioth flowers. He does this at the end of every tenday, as if to mark the time. The sussur blooms are vibrant - glowing with power and fully alive. Vellioth does not raise his eyes to Cazador’s at once - he never does, as if it is still his privilege to ignore him. Instead, he touches each iridescent petal, stroking it, drinking in its texture and scent - candy-sweet. 

“Home,” he says, and then he laughs. 

Vellioth laughs a lot, this is the one thing that has never changed. He sits, pale as dust, on the end of the canopy bed in the centre of the room, long legs drawn up to his chest. His feet are bare, the nails well-manicured under his ruffled linen nightshirt. The scar from his bite prickles under Cazador’s collar. He does not know if Vellioth is aware he brings the blooms to subdue him of the magic that ran ever out of control as he lost his grip on reality, or if he thinks they are a lover’s gift. Cazador decides they can be both, that his former master’s prison can be both beautiful and functional together. 

Eventually, Vellioth graces Cazador with his gaze. His eyes are still red - they were claret-dark even before Donnela turned him, but he has an empty, slightly confused air about him; he is not who he was, though Cazador hopes, sometimes, and other times fears. 

Cazador counts time not just in sussur blooms and tendays, bathings and clean clothes and little comforts, but also in years. It has been nine years and nine months since Vellioth offered him his neck. Of course, he was already insane by then - Cazador was certain that if he had not been, he would have known better. It was only with the stake in his hand and the words on his lips that death had seemed so agonisingly empty and final.

Vellioth is still beautiful and he will be beautiful forever. Cazador moves the chain on the drow’s pale, slender wrist gently aside as he wipes beneath the heavy iron ring. He takes care to brush his long white curls until they shine like a fresh pearl, plucked from its natural environs and laid out, pristine, in the morning sun. When Vellioth lies still, laid out on the pillows, Cazador presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Will you walk in the sun with me today, my sweet, as we once did together?” Vellioth asks dreamily. 

His eyes are closed and he doesn’t open them even as he hears the iron cage door being slammed, the angry, staccato voice of Cazador’s boots on stone. He only laughs and laughs. 

1203 DR

Donnela Szarr was beginning to feel sure she had indulged her nephew far too much. Only in his fourth decade and fresh from Kara-Tur, he spoke little Common and knew nothing of the ways of Baldur’s Gate. Now, she had watched him reject tutor after potential tutor, dismissing each one with an imperious shake of his delicate, dark head and the infuriating repetition of what seemed to be his favourite word in the new language: 

“No.”

Then the tall, pale drow had arrived and Cazador’s carefully bored expression had changed into one of interest. He was young, fifty or sixty perhaps; charming and vivacious. 
Dressed in an eclectic mix of styles from the city and the Underdark, the effect gave him an air of peculiar, fascinating elegance. He had recited smoothly from the works of the famous poets and scribes of the day, and spoke knowledgeably on politics and history. By the time Donnela had watched him clearly allow Cazador to win a lanceboard match and heard him perform several hauntingly beautiful pieces on the lyre he carried with him, she had rung to instruct the servants to prepare the suite of rooms near her nephew’s own. 
Donnela drank deeply of her wine, making note of the need to drink deeply of something more fortifying later on once her nephew was properly occupied with his studies - he would need them, for the future she had planned for him. 

Cazador had been dazzled by Vellioth. Even his name sounded exotic, like a bird with graceful, snow-white plumes or some variety of rare plant, tall and elegant and standing above the mundanity of anything that had gone before in Cazador’s life. 
His spine tingled whenever Vellioth leaned over, graceful fingers correcting his formation of letters on the page, and his stomach turned to liquid when the drow would read him poetry, measuring the weight of every syllable and line, delicate sentiments rendered even more beautiful in the strange, subtle lilt of his voice. 

He began to awaken at night, sweat-drenched and breathless, every nerve in his body alight with an excitement he fought to push aside, but every day those burgundy eyes lingered upon him a little longer, the lessons went on a little later into the night and Aunt Donnela, consumed by her never-ending research, was blissfully unaware. 

Cazador briefly wondered if he ought to tell his aunt to dismiss Vellioth, send him away so he could take all of Cazador’s new and uncomfortable feelings along with him back to Menzoberranzan or wherever he had sprung from, but even as he realised the thought, he knew he could no sooner give him up than he could slice off his own hand - 

Some nights later, when he woke, Cazador saw the lantern lit on Vellioth’s balcony. The drow was stretched out in the chair. He was smoking a hookah, his long legs resting on the edge of the stone balustrade. Cazador watched his silhouette for a moment, then slid into one of the silk robes he had brought with him from Kozakura and his aunt wouldn’t permit him to wear during the day. He left his hair untied, sweeping it artfully in a dark curtain across his shoulders, and took up the book he and Vellioth had been working on that day. 
Vellioth didn’t answer his door immediately. Cazador imagined him reluctantly putting down the hookah and his goblet of wine, and wondering whoever had need of him at such an hour. When he did finally open it, though, he seemed neither surprised nor displeased to see Cazador standing before him. 

“Master Vellioth -” Cazador had begun, with faux timidity, “I find myself still confused on some of the concepts of our lessons today…”

He waited for the drow to dismiss him, to tell him they would discuss it in the morning, but Vellioth, in his grey linen breeches and loose shirt sleeves, said nothing. His eyes moved slowly over Cazador as he stood back from the door and waved a hand for him to enter. Cazador heard him murmur some words at the door behind them which made it glow a faint shade of blue, but he didn’t question it. 

“This is an an unexpected pleasure,” Vellioth gestured to the other chair on the balcony. A bottle of sparkling wine stood half-empty on a small glass-topped table between them. “But have you not seen enough of me for today? You seem eager indeed…for your studies.”

“Of course.” 

In the dim light of the lantern, Cazador could see Vellioth’s now-familiar half-smile. He took the proffered seat, placing the book carefully on the table between them as if it made the situation slightly more acceptable than he knew it would be if Aunt Donnela were to learn of it. 

“What page, exactly, do you find yourself having difficulties with?” Vellioth asked smoothly. He leaned back, putting his feet back onto the stone railing. Cazador couldn’t help but stare at his long legs, and the way his shirt hung open, exposing so much pale, hairless chest. There was a small tattoo there, just visible under the sheer fabric but from the angle, Cazador wasn’t able to see what it was. 

Vellioth, still smiling, noticed and drew his shirt over the small, black mark. 

“Inquisitive,” he said. “Very good.” He lifted his goblet to his lips and drained the contents. He had reached out and refilled the glass halfway before Cazador asked,

“Aren’t you going to offer me one?”

Vellioth grinned.

“That might be terribly improper of me. You are my pupil, and not even a half century old.”

“And you haven’t reached a century yourself, not even close.” 

“Ah, but one grows up quickly, in Menzoberranzan.” Vellioth said. He looked at Cazador and their eyes held for a long moment. Then Vellioth raised a finger in the air, and a second crystal goblet formed by itself, coalescing in the palm of his hand. He placed it carefully on the table and pushed it over to Cazador with the tips of his long fingers like one might move a chess piece - as if daring him to take it. 

Cazador did.

1276 DR

Vellioth is sleeping when Cazador returns. Only he ever comes down here, only he must know Vellioth still lives, in a fashion, at least. Vellioth sleeps a lot, he always noticed that drow sleep more often and more deeply than surface elves. Cazador always considered it a curious thing: Menzoberranzan doesn’t seem like a good place to lower one’s guard. 
Vellioth’s hair is spread out across silk sheets, sapphire blue. Cazador chose these himself - he enjoys the way Vellioth looks when he is subdued and impotent, when the madness is not written all over his face. It is less dangerous for him to look upon Vellioth in this way, for a variety of reasons.  Cazador ensures the chain is snug and the blooms remain fresh. 
Quietly, he tidies the bookcases and the sparkling crystals he bought from a Zhent trader fresh out of the Underdark: sylvan stones, laculite and viridian. He hopes it might jog Vellioth’s memories. Not the bad ones. 
He thinks about telling Vellioth that he has created not one but two of his own spawn now - a white-haired pretty boy who he had stalked for weeks until he managed to engineer an opportunity, and a white-haired pretty girl who used to be a doctor. 
He doesn’t, though. It hasn’t helped. Vellioth would not like to think he had tried to replace him, and the girl can’t cure madness - not this kind of madness, anyway. 

1203 DR

The bedroom wall was rough but Vellioth’s mouth was on his and his head was swimming with want. The stone felt cold at first, under Cazador’s back, but soon seemed to warm with the pounding pulse in his wrists, his skin suffused with heat borne of arousal and alcohol.
Then Vellioth broke the kiss, those claret eyes were inches from Cazador’s own and his lips were wet and flushed and messy - 

“Was this what you wanted, when you came to me?” 

There was a roughness to his voice, an edge of raw hunger that Cazador hadn’t heard before. 

“Yes.” he said, trying to sound bolder than he felt. 

Vellioth laughed softly, not unkind. Then his hand, that slender, graceful musician’s hand, parted the delicate folds of Cazador’s robe. His long fingers closed around Cazador’s aching length, wrapping it with the cool silk and sliding slowly and deliberately back and forth. Cazador groaned, and arched his back, sliding his cock deeper into Vellioth’s hand, dimly aware of the moisture leaking freely from the tip. It stuck to the sheer fabric and made a faint swishing sound as Vellioth began to stroke him faster, stopping to slow down in an expert rhythm, the moment he sensed Cazador was nearing the edge. 

“Lie down with me,” Vellioth whispered. 

-

The robe was a fluid pool of blood red, discarded on the polished floorboards. 

“What shall I do with you, now you’ve come into my lair?” Vellioth murmured, trailing his fingers lazily down Cazador's stomach.

“You invited me in. You didn’t have to.” Cazador said, not quite managing to suppress a low gasp and a shudder of pleasure. Vellioth considered him carefully, propped up on one elbow. The tips of his long curls brushed along Cazador’s shoulder. 

“You're trembling, Cazador," 

Cazador hesitated. 

“I'm just a little cold - ” 

Vellioth grinned.

“That’s the second lie you’ve told me tonight.” 

-

Vellioth was even more beautiful when he was naked but he kissed Cazador more slowly, his pale hair turned to spun gold in the light from the lone candelabra by the bed. The aloe oil eased the way, and Cazador had practised enough with his own fingers, but it didn’t stop him from writhing, begging and gasping into their fervent kisses as Vellioth, clearly not inexperienced, braced above him and spread Cazador's legs further apart with a demanding push of his knee. 
Cazador did not object as Vellioth pinned his wrists to the bed first by his greater strength, then by his magic, and as they began to move together and the lines blurred impossibly between pain and white hot, euphoric bliss, shame - his old demon, melted away as if it had never existed at all.

The holding spell faded as the first sparks of impending climax lapped with fiery, insistent tongues at the base of Cazador’s spine. Wrapping his arms around Vellioth’s waist, he pulled him in deeper, harder. His body urged him on, wanting more, and Vellioth gave it to him, panting harder as he drew close. Before long, he was murmuring rapidly into Cazador’s neck, something sharp and urgent-sounding in the Drow language that Cazador could not understand but he could guess as to its meaning. 
He felt the rush simultaneously within his body and without, warm, wet and fluid - blood-heat. The scream met the sigh in his throat: they extinguished each other and all that came out was a plea and a keening, shuddering gasp -

1276 DR

Cazador often reads while Vellioth sleeps and frequently when he is awake. He likes to think Vellioth might at least be a little proud of him: he has, after all, been a model student, at least most of the time. He reads to Vellioth in the Common language, in Elvish which he knows and Kozakuran which he doesn’t. Sometimes, on special anniversaries, such as the time they first made love or the time Vellioth allowed him down from the artistic arrangement of sharpened pikes he had specially hung in the hallway (so pretty!) Cazador reads to him from some of the gentler Drow poetry books, his tongue halting and twisting around the harsh, unfamiliar sounds. Vellioth laughs at them all, laughs until he cries. 

Sometimes Cazador feels like crying too, but he never does, not any more. He holds it inside himself as he returns to his chambers - counting steps under his breath: right, left, up, right, across, like a chant, like a talisman. 

1203 DR

Donnela Szarr summoned Vellioth whenever she remembered. In the library, stacked high with books, papers and maps, her glance drifted constantly to the pile of drawings and plans on her desk as Vellioth talked about Cazador’s progress. How he would benefit from regular visits into the city, so that he could learn more about its history and political structure. Donnela nodded, and waved him away. He wondered idly if she had drow ancestry - in the gloom created by the tall mahogany shelves and heavy drapes, her eyes looked even redder than his. 

-

Bloomridge Park was full of fallen leaves and the scent of spices. At the gates, small stands had sprung up, with glowing braziers and the scent of sugar-glazed apples and roasted chestnuts. They walk side by side, wearing heavy cloaks. Cazador is tall but Vellioth is taller, though only by a little. 
They buy hot chocolate in paper cups and huddle on a stone bench, high enough up to watch the world go by but secluded enough to share smiles and kisses, candy-sweet.
They hold hands under their wool cloaks and make plans that they will not always be here - Donnela keeps a tight watch on the Counting House key but they could run away together. Vellioth could play the lyre and the flute and the harpsichord and Cazador could call down lightning and make plants wither or bloom. They watch happy families play in the park, families with children. Cazador squeezes Vellioth’s hand. Vellioth squeezes back, and they hope. 

1276 DR

The chain on his wrist does not interrupt Vellioth when he plays the lyre, not now he is used to it. Cazador brings it to him, and listens to every note. This is not a hardship, because Vellioth’s madness somehow never affected his music: the lyre still sang under his touch, the voice he could coax from it remained ethereal, delicate and lovely, more so, even, down here - such wonderful acoustics! Even after Donnela took his hands, they grew back, Vellioth told Cazador, giggling uncontrollably, and they were just like new. 
Cazador thinks it almost a pity there is nobody to hear it but him, but he knows it is the way it must be now. He also knows he must hear it every time, ever watchful, lest Vellioth try again to decapitate himself with the sharp metal strings. 

It is difficult not to blame himself, particularly when he knows he is to blame. Cazador wonders what might have happened, where they might be today, if he had been more careful, paid more attention when it had mattered, when they were mere mortals who ought to have been more wary of the sand falling through the hourglass. He has had many years to ruminate on what he could have done, though, when he was only in his fourth decade, and he did not know what his Aunt Donnela was, or what other education, the kind Vellioth was never supposed to teach him, she had in mind. Giddy with love and lust, in the all the verdant newness of this awakening, the two of them were careless: hopelessly attracted to each other, and eager for thrills. 

1203 DR

The first time, it was in the gardens. The koi swam in the pool, drawing their endless, looping figure-eights, around and around, over and over. 
The late spring afternoon was unseasonably warm and the air smelled of cherry blossom and hyacinth. Cazador put his head in Vellioth’s lap as they curled up together under the secluded canopy of the arbour. 

Vellioth’s elegant hand lazily caressed the dark curtain of Cazador’s hair. He did not stop Cazador when warm, unpractised fingers found their way to the laces of Vellioth’s breeches and he did not stop him when his warm, unpractised mouth began sucking enthusiastically on Vellioth’s already-hard cock. 
Cazador had always avidly learned his lessons and this new set of skills were no exception. He learned what pleased Vellioth, how he loved to see Cazador on his knees or being taken hard, cheeks flushed, panting as he was bent over the desk of the schoolroom Donnela had designated for them. 
They shared the large sunken bathtub in Cazador’s rooms, washed each others hair and after generous amounts of wet kisses and fondling, Vellioth let Cazador come down his throat, knowing from the way he shuddered and moaned how much he enjoyed the three slippery fingers Vellioth had worked inside of him. 
After that, Cazador sat astride Vellioth, riding him with wet locks slapping at his back as he moved and the water sloshed carelessly over the edges ruining the richly carpeted floor. Cazador did not care. 
They fucked each other up against the ballroom door when all the servants had retired for the night; in an attic they discovered full of strange old family relics. Nights were spent tangled in the sheets until they fell into trance, wrapped in each others arms. 

-

Donnela’s appearances at meals were infrequent and she never ate with them, seemingly content to sip at a single, jealously-guarded glass of wine. Vellioth was permitted at the Szarr family table, sitting next to Cazador and opposite Donnela’s anxious-looking butler and blank-faced ladies maids.  
On one particular morning, Cazador, feeling bolder than usual, was stroking Vellioth’s thigh under the table. Vellioth shifted a little closer and continued his conversation with Donnela, which was something about long-lasting glamours and other forms of rare Bardic magic. 

“I hope you and my nephew are having a pleasant time together. It seems there is a great deal more you can teach him.” Donnela said. She rose briskly, taking her glass with her. “Get back to learning, now. I need to work.”

“Do not worry about me, Aunt Donnela,” Cazador said, his hand still under the table. “Vellioth is a very good teacher. Everything is fine with us.”

Vellioth pulled Cazador into a side corridor as soon as they were alone.

“You are insatiable,” he hissed. His teeth grazed Cazador´s pale neck. “I want you here and now.”

The door at the end of the passage led into a large bedroom decorated in the Szarr house colours of red and black. The windows were entirely covered with thick, heavy drapes. The dressing table held some pieces of Donnela’s vast jewellery collection, ready to be cleaned and put away. 

Vellioth looked around, then kissed Cazador hard. “Your aunt’s bedroom will be perfect for this.”

Cazador’s naked back hit the smooth, crimson counterpane. Vellioth pinned him, ravaging his neck and chest with kisses, divesting him of his fussy, polished shoes and well-pressed breeches. The white silken stockings he left on, pulling Cazador’s legs up with one hand and unlacing his own breeches with the other -

For a moment, Cazador felt an odd, sharp stab of terrible foreboding, like they ought to stop, only he couldn’t. Too late, he heard the door slam back hard against the wall, and Donnela’s voice issuing a sharp, clipped command at the same time Vellioth froze on top of him. 
Reflexively, Cazador flung his arm out towards his aunt. A bolt of blue lightning descended from nowhere. It missed her by a fraction, but broke her hold on Vellioth, who countered quickly with his own spell. But Donnela was old, and powerful, and the spell glanced off her as she conjured a glowing golden shield. 
“Put your clothes on, boy,” Donnela spat, a look of pure fury making her normally sharp features look especially cruel. She rounded on Vellioth, pointing one sharp-taloned finger. 

“How dare you. How dare you touch my nephew, disgusting piece of Menzoberranzan filth.”
Cazador watched. Vellioth looked at her. His expression was insolent as he straightened his clothing but he said nothing, and kept his casting hand half-raised. Cazador saw the other hand reach briefly to touch where he knew the tattoo lay, just under Vellioth’s shirt. 
“You will go to your rooms immediately and await me there.” Donnela told Cazador.
Cazador shook his head, because suddenly he knew exactly what he was going to do. Vellioth would be sent away, of that he was certain, but he, Cazador, would go with him and Aunt Donnela could do nothing to prevent it. 

Why had he never seen how easy it would be before? Their new life would begin this very day. They would be free -

1276 DR

Cazador allows himself a wry smile at the idiocy of his youth. He knows better now, sometimes people have escaped this palace but nobody ever gets out alive, himself included. Donnela had allowed him freedom, or just disinterest, but it had made him complacent - the notion that an elven sorcerer only forty summers old could take on Donnela Szarr without considerable planning and a blessing from whatever gods might deign to intervene, was preposterous. 
Vellioth finishes playing. He sets the lyre aside. His eyes are glassy - he tires so easily these days. Cazador watches him in his small routines: he touches the crystals, one by one, strokes the petals of the sussur blooms. When he reaches out to stroke Cazador’s cheek, his fingers smell of them, candy-sweet. 
Cazador keeps his distance, often. The chain is long; he wants Vellioth to know he is not cruel, that he will be different to the others and that he will remember who he was. The sussur works both ways, as well - it is a kind of trust, almost: Cazador is not immune to its properties, either, but they still have teeth and claws. 
This time he leans into the touch, though, and to his relief, Vellioth does not try to bite or tear or rend flesh from bone. 

“Will you walk in the sun with me today, my sweet?” Vellioth asks him, his eyes full of mad laughter, and briefly, Cazador wonders what would happen if one day he just said yes. 

1203 DR

Cazador stood in the sun’s dying rays on the balcony of Vellioth’s rooms, only they were no longer his rooms because all his things were gone, his plain dark tutor’s clothes, the books, the flute and his precious lyre. Even the bed had been stripped of its linens, the bare, sad mattress a blank reminder of his loss. 
Cazador was not sure what he hoped to find by coming in here. A note, perhaps, some kind of final goodbye or an explanation, but there was nothing.
When Donnela had finally come to his rooms, she had told him Vellioth had been paid well and had decided to return to Menzoberranzan. She put her arms around him, and spoke to him as she had when his parents died. It was all over now, she told him, and there was no use thinking about it. She understood completely that Vellioth had enchanted him with his dark drow magic and she ought to have been more wary of the under elves and their perversions. 

“He didn’t enchant me.” Cazador said. “We love each other.”

He had wanted to declare it out loud, thinking it might make him feel braver, like every story and poem he had read on the subject. Instead, it just made him feel stupid and vulnerable under Donnela’s wicked gaze. 

“No, you do not,” she said, firmly. 

“I'm going to leave here and follow him to Menzoberranzan.” 

Donnela laughed loudly and cruelly. 

“Such a soft-hearted little idiot,” she mocked. “Did he tell you nothing of how they treat males, there? What they would have him do, before he came here?”

Cazador shook his head. 
“He told you nothing about the mark he bore? I feel sure you must have seen it, from your little display today. Pretty boys like him are passed around in the pleasure houses like cheap wine, Cazador. Although I am sure the Drow would find you a most exotic plaything too, especially as you seem so fond of them -”  

Donnela stood, impatient and sneering now. “Acquaint yourself with the truth, Cazador. You were not special to him. I was even generous, offered him the opportunity to bid you a last goodbye, but he was only interested in the gold and he left without a word more. That is the way of the Drow and you would do well to remember it. For now, you will stay here, in this room. Until you learn your purpose.”

“My purpose?” 

“You are my heir. I will select an wife, an elven wife, for you when you are sufficiently mature to forget this foolish obsession. You will father children to continue our Szarr legacy. That is your purpose, nephew, and I will not allow you to disrupt it.”

“I don’t want - ” Cazador began, but Donnela glared at him in anger. 

“What you want is not important. And if you cannot control yourself, then I will have to assist you.”

Donella left the room. Cazador heard her murmur a spell. The door glowed a decisive red and nothing Cazador tried could remove the enchantment. 

1276 DR

Out of the dark and the echoey quiet of the Tourmaline Depths, in the palace proper, Cazador hears another laugh. Astarion and Dalyria get on well together and there are only a few years between them - it was, after all, important to consider the spacing of the family.
The boy looks like Vellioth, and sometimes he sounds like he used to, too, but there are surprisingly few other similarities. Cazador knows he will need to teach him, shape Astarion into something that might make what Cazador knows he will eventually have to do a little easier to bear. He made Astarion dig himself out of his own grave - the boy, a high elf like himself, did not appreciate such an indignity but like all good parents, Cazador wanted to give his children the things he had never had - in order to build character and strength. 
He pauses in the doorway - Astarion is holding an embroidery hoop, and carefully stitching a design in gold thread. Dalyria is reading aloud from the back pages of the Baldur’s Mouth - Dear Auntie Ethel: Your Problems Solved! Cazador is a strict father but he allows the children a little pocket money, so they can send a servant out to Sorcerous Sundries or Pennygood’s Drapery for any small trinket, paper or book they might want - they are privileged, after all. He can provide well, for his growing family. 

Dalyria smiles at him. Astarion is a little more hesitant, but he is younger and newer and will come around. 

1204 DR

The only thing that kept the pain in Cazador’s chest from consuming him was absorbing himself  in his studies. It took Donnela seven months to believe he had forgotten about Vellioth, and to allow him out of his rooms unsupervised by even more of the blank-faced guards she had acquired. By this time, Cazador had long since learned how to disarm her enchantments on the door, but he saw no benefit in Aunt Donnela being any the wiser. Entirely focussed on his magic, he found it came more and more easily to him; the arcane power he had been born with could be shaped and bent to his will, refined and improved upon, and in the silence and loneliness of heartbreak, he did. 
Soon, he knew, Donnela would no longer control him. He would overthrow her, perhaps let her stay in her rooms with the door locked, just as she had done to him. He would be powerful enough that he would travel to Menzoberranzan without fear. He would find Vellioth -
“My pale-haired love,” he wrote in his journal, another attempt at a poem which he never seemed to be able to finish. 

The snow fell steadily on Bloomridge Park. The servant Donnela had made him go out with was an easy target for his Command spell, and was probably still standing there, by the newspaper sellers and the third-rate magicians doing parlour tricks for coppers in the square by the Lower City wall. 
Cazador still bought hot chocolate, and warmed his hands on the flimsy cup. Families built snow-wizards and snow-owl bears; a small, white-haired elven child held his parents’ hands as he wobbled on skates across the frozen lake. 
Cazador did not stay long. The stone bench was cold and the snowflakes swirled around his face, catching in his hair where they glistened briefly, before melting away like little dying stars. 

-

Now, when Donnela sipped her wine at the table, Cazador smiled thinly and agreed with everything she said. He feigned interest in the balls and gatherings his Aunt began to hold in the grand palace ballroom, and in dancing with the endless procession of daughters presented to him - high elves, all of them: Donnela would never pollute the Szarr bloodlines with anything less. 
There were other gatherings, too, to which he was not invited. These always began at nightfall; the noise only stopping at daybreak. Cazador, assuming they would be more of his aunt talking endlessly of her plans to extend the palace to various tedious patriars, was glad to be relieved of his duties, but one night, he awoke to the faint sound of a lyre, playing such a familiar song that at first he thought he was dreaming. 
It would not have been the first time, after all, but when he rose, quiet on the cold floor, soft-footed in only his nightclothes, he saw the familiar faint red glow around his door - once again, Donnela had locked him in. 
 
Carefully, painstakingly, he disarmed the lock and crept downstairs to discover that the sound of the lyre was not a dream - it was real and coming from behind the closed ballroom doors. Four servants stood guard in the entryway. Cazador kept back to the shadows to avoid being seen.
He kept listening. The lyre stopped, and was replaced by the sound of the harpsichord, and then the flute. After that, there were other sounds - loud laughter, interspersed with pained cries and muffled screams. 

He waited until daybreak to leave his room again. Donnela, he was sure, would not appear again until the evening. Cazador found her private office hidden behind an illusory wall in one corner of the ballroom. The desk was much neater than the library. It held only one book, which seemed to be a journal, hide-bound in scarlet with a single gold fastening made to look like a clawed, pointed finger. 
Cazador reached out, into the Weave, but sensed no threads of enchantment that might summon his aunt. He slid the clasp open, and then there were pages upon pages, filled with Donnela’s spiky handwriting:

Kythorn, 1203

Cazador moons over the drow and refuses to eat. If only he knew that in a few short years, mortal food will never again be a concern for him. For the drow, it is already his fate. 
I had to restrain Cazador, confine him. He left me no choice: he believed my account that Vellioth had returned to Menzoberranzan, but then spoke of such rash idiocies as going after him. 
He would, of course, be consumed alive before he was even within sight of the Drow city: he has his mother’s intelligence and her talent for sorcery but also her feeble-minded character. Even so, it was I who named him to honour our great legacy, and I cannot afford to lose him, particularly when even if he did reach Menzoberranzan, it would all have been for nothing: Vellioth had his uses as a teacher but now he is back in the dark where he belongs, though not amongst his fellow under elves. His new home is the Tourmaline Depths under this very palace, as my obedient spawn and slave. 

Uktar, 1203

I was correct in my assessment. Cazador has quite forgotten the drow creature. I ought not to have indulged his whim in the first place but I was a fool, then, and thought he would be better disposed to learning and to me if I allowed him to select his own tutor. It seems clear enough now that he was thinking, as most young males inevitably do, with parts of his body that have very little to do with sense or reason. 
Nevertheless, he now devotes himself to learning history, politics and the writings of the ancient scholars of Toril. He may make a true Szarr yet, but I have decided, after much research on the topic, not to perform the Turning ceremony until he has reached his half-century, and has provided one heir, preferably two - our kind so often being targeted by lesser beings and the wretched Gur. 
I have in mind a discreet young woman who I believe will be an excellent source of such heirs, but if she is not, I need not keep her. Of course, Cazador knows nothing of this as yet, he has acted rashly before. He will know, when the time is right, and by then, in any event, it will be too late to oppose me. 

Alturiak, 1204

The boy drow Vellioth played again at my little party, and now I need not even part with a single gold piece: the price of putting his hands upon my nephew will be high - payment enough for all his days, and there will be many more years of suffering to come. I intend to enjoy each one of them.
The company was favourably impressed with him, so much so that afterwards there was quite the queue to use the boy as he was raised to be used - he was no noble, but it cannot be denied he is a beauty, it is how he turned Cazador’s head, after all. 
Of course our guests of honour from Menzoberranzan, Matron Elvanice and her eldest daughters, were first in line to pay ´tribute´, and the look of fear in his eyes when they brandished their snake-headed whips, taking turns to lash him until his flesh was raw and his hair was white no longer, was a sight that invigorated me so much that I soon needed refreshment. The young kitchen maid was useful in her work, of course, but also expendable, like the others. 

1276 DR

Cazador walks alone through the emptying streets - it both clears his head and more often than not, provides a quiet opportunistic meal. It is night, now, as it always is for him. The snow still swirls in Bloomridge, all these years later. The hot chocolate vendors have packed up and gone home. The children are not there. 
The taverns spill light, and some Upper City residents recognise him, nodding with respect: 
“Lord Szarr, a pleasure to see you,” they slur, and walk on, as fast as their swaying steps will carry them. He unnerves them, he knows this, and he prefers it this way. 
Cazador walks on, too, past the Singing Lute where he and Vellioth would eat while they could both still taste it, hands clasped under the table, watching the sun as it made its nightly dip down into the Chionthar and turned everything it touched to gold.

He will need to return before long. Vellioth will be hungry, and so will the children. Dalyria is well-behaved, for the most part. Astarion remains troublesome, but he will learn. After all, Cazador remembers what it was like to have high spirits once.

It pleases him to see the two of them, even though Astarion still fails to greet him properly, as a good son ought. Instead, he turns his pale face away from Cazador’s dry  kiss, flinching a little, the fangs ‘Father’ has bestowed upon him glinting in the candelabra’s red and orange light. 
Cazador leaves them, for tonight - they will be company for each other until the time is right to add to the family once more. Soon, he thinks. 
The Crimson Palace - the Szarr Palace again now, he supposes, is vast: Astarion and Dalyria chose their own well-appointed bedrooms, of course, but there is still so much emptiness he needs to fill. 

1204 DR

Cazador found the stone dais, fingers numb and heart pounding with the weight of his discovery, written in his aunt’s own hand. The ancient elevator blew up a damp gust of air as it slid down into the chilly earth. Somewhere, Cazador could hear running water, echoing in the vast blackness that stretched out before him. Somewhere down here, he knew, Vellioth was. Vellioth, who had been charming and vivacious, turned by Donnela Szarr into a cursed creature of the night. 
Again, Cazador reached out through the Weave with a sorcerer’s acuity. There was a magical presence here, he could tell, but it was not Donnela’s doing, it was not her magic. This was older - ancient, even - something that had existed before he lived and would remain after he had gone. A divine presence, possibly, but maybe not a loving or benevolent one. It felt as if whatever it was that lingered here came from the very earth itself. 

Cazador could see the blue-green tinge running through the dark stone and might have been able to appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty of the place, had he not felt sick to the stomach with fear. His boots echoed, loud on the methodically carved-out caverns of rock, too loud, and for want of other options, he took them off and crept along, keeping close to the wall of smooth, cold rock. 

The first opening he came to looked out over a sheer drop, an underground waterfall roaring across a black, yawning chasm. There was a pile of rubble and a narrow passage opposite him. Further on, he could hear low voices talking in what seemed to be a large, open prison cell and he pressed further back into the pools of shadow, his stockinged feet making sticky ‘ptthwt, pthhwt’ sounds against the damp stone. 

There were dwarves in the cell - at least fourteen or fifteen of them. Cazador could see them, ragged and dirty, pressing themselves against the bars like animals. They moaned their hunger out into the musty air, some cried and scratched at the rock that they knew would never yield under the mere scratching of their fingernails, but still they did so until their hands were slick with their own blood. As Cazador watched, horrified, the other dwarves descended on the despairing one, smelling the blood and fighting one another in to be the first to suck and bite at their comrade’s wounds.  

So it was true, then. His aunt had turned the dwarves to use them for labour in her efforts to excavate what she had referred to in her diary as ‘The Tourmaline Depths’.
Where, then, was Vellioth? Donnela had clearly found a far nastier kind of labour for him. Cazador crept back to the other walkway, but couldn’t help glancing towards the sheer drop into the chasm, just a few feet from where he stood, a sharp taloned-hand scraping the insides of his chest. 
He breathed, fists clenched, and continued along until the small walkway opened out into a high cavern. There was nobody in the room, only some old, broken furniture, a pile of small crates and boxes, and, pushed right up against the furthest wall, one much larger crate, almost as tall as Cazador himself and the span of his arms. 

The crate had dark metal studs along the top and bottom, but at the front of it was a small square door set into the wood, with one barred slit in its centre. A noise was coming from the crate, a short tune, hummed over and over again. 

Cazador did not know how he managed to cover the distance between the door and the source of the sound with his heart suddenly in his mouth. There was movement, then, in the dark. A pale-haired wraith-creature grasped the bars of the crate with trembling hands. Its face was dirty and bruised, its eyes pools of bright, luminescent red. 

“Vellioth,” he whispered, all the pain of the lonely, aching months spilling out into his voice. “Vellioth, my love, my love.”

“My Cazador,” Vellioth said, his voice cracked, dry as sand. His dirty fingers pushed out through the bars, and Cazador, reaching, touched them with his own, entwining them as far as the cruel bars would allow, the sob in his throat coming up and out. 

“Don’t cry, my sweet,” Vellioth said, caressing his fingertips. “I knew.. I knew you would come for me.” 

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. We have found each other again.”

“But I am a fool. I didn’t know what she was. What she was capable of. What she planned for me, for both of us.”

“You know now,” Vellioth said, then suddenly sharp, red eyes scanning Cazador’s features in the gloom: “No, no, she hasn’t touched you, not yet. Thank the Gods. How did you find out?”

Cazador looked carefully around, then conjured a small ball of flame. Vellioth shrank back from it at first, turning his face away from the light, but never letting go of Cazador’s fingers. 

“I found her office, her journals. She recorded everything. It led me here.”

Vellioth’s head dropped, his once-perfect hair dirty and tangled. 

“Everything, indeed?” he muttered, bitterly, and then Cazador realised what he meant. “However can you look upon me now?”

Cazador pressed his lips to Vellioth’s hand, tasted dirt and iron. “I will look upon you as long as the Gods will allow me.” he whispered fervently. “Vellioth, I need to open this door. I must free you.”

“No - Cazador.” His voice was suddenly urgent. “Interfere with the lock and it summons the Mistre- your aunt.”

He unwound their fingers, gentle now, stroking Cazador’s with his own in the little space they had. “Just stay here awhile. You hold onto me and I’ll do the same for you.”  Vellioth blinked uncomfortably in the light again. Cazador felt a tear drip down his chin and onto the floor. 

“But how will we - how am I going to…”

“Patience, Cazador. We are together now, once more.” 

“I will make her sorry for what she has done.” Cazador said, and meant it. "We will have our revenge."

1276 DR

Vellioth complains about the animal blood. He looks hungrily at Cazador’s neck, despite knowing there is little sustenance there for him now. 

“Give me something real, Cazador.” 

He stands in front of Cazador’s chair, rattling his chain like a ghost with his pale cloud of hair and his pale clothes. He inserts one, sharp-taloned finger under Cazador’s collar, and without warning, tears it away suddenly like it was made of sugar paper. 

“There it is,” he breathes, satisfied. He draws a nail across the puncture mark and presses the point into its centre. Cazador stays still, only moving to grasp Vellioth’s wrist. 

“Don’t -” he says, watchful now. Vellioth screams with laughter, so sudden Cazador almost allows himself to visibly startle, which he knows by now would make Vellioth laugh even harder. 

“Why, my sweet?” Vellioth bares his fangs and opens his mouth, leaning forward very slowly as if to bite down on Cazador’s cheek. 

“You know that won’t work any more.” Cazador says softly. Vellioth shakes his hair out and makes an exaggerated pout. 

“Oh, but you let me before. Though I daresay you’d taste nothing like you did when you were a pretty, virgin boy, mewling underneath me, so deliciously sweet. I have a taste for it now, you see - a connoisseur, of sorts. Bringing me pig shit just won’t compare.”

“You know why.”

“So cruel. So very wicked.” Vellioth giggles and flings himself face down onto the bed, the chain making a faint clacking noise as he rolls over onto his back, arms out and staring at the ceiling. 

“Mmm,” he says languorous now, “I want to eat something hot and wet and screaming.” 

His loose shirt falls open and Cazador has a clear view of his pale, naked chest. He allows himself to look at Vellioth, who is eyeing him, sly and seductive from the bed, but looking is all Cazador will allow, no matter how much his cock aches and twitches and reminds him that Vellioth feels so incredibly good under his hands and his tongue and anywhere else he could think of - because Vellioth is also utterly deranged which is the reason why he plays these games with Cazador in the first place. It is one of the ways he can still torment him, because either way, Cazador will perpetually lose.

1204 DR

“I don’t want to leave you,” Cazador leans his head against the slot in Vellioth’s hideous wooden prison and Vellioth rubs his fingers awkwardly through Cazador’s hair. Cazador’s legs are tingling and almost numb from crouching on the cold floor. He isn’t sure how long he has been down here and most of it they haven’t even talked, just held on to each other for as long as they could. 

“She will come soon,” Vellioth said, flatly. 

“I’ll return tomorrow,” Cazador said. Vellioth’s fingers tightened on his, and Cazador saw him smile but it was faint and sad, a shadow of his old self.

“You know things can’t be as they were.” he said.

“We are going to free you, I promise. I will not fail.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Vellioth said. “You know what I am now, what she made me. I can’t walk with you in the sun any longer. Food turns to ash, and the hunger - I am so hungry. All the time.”

“You are still you, though. Aren’t you?”

Cazador saw a glimmer of hope in Vellioth’s eyes for the first time. 

“You would still want me?” he said, “Like this, you could still desire me? A monster?”

“I have desired you since the day we met, and always will. And you are no monster, my Vellioth.”

The silence stretched between them. 

“Does she…do you…I mean…does she give you blood?” Cazador asked eventually. Vellioth looked starved. His cheeks were dark hollows and his collarbone jutted sharply under his ragged shirt. 

“Rarely. She wants us weak. So we can be controlled more easily.” He meant the dwarves, Cazador knew - they had their own magic. “And then it’s a dead rat or a cockroach,” He laughed softly. “You don’t get a lot of blood out of a cockroach. Or a rat, come to think on it.”

“What about me?” Cazador said, suddenly.

Vellioth looked up, uncomprehending.

“You?”

“Can you drink my blood?” 

“I - well, yes. She doesn’t forbid anything explicitly because we can’t escape. Even at the parties -” He cut himself off short, and looked away again, before carrying on with some effort, “Even at the parties, she is always watching. Always.”

Trembling inside, Cazador drew back the sleeve of his shirt. He held up his wrist, not failing to notice how Vellioth’s eyes glowed red at the sight of the veins just beneath his pale skin. He gathered his courage. 

“Do it.” he said. 

“I shouldn’t - Cazador - I -”  Vellioth was protesting but even in the low light of the enchanted flame, Cazador could see his mouth twitching and drooling as if of its own volition, and when he opened his mouth, Cazador saw them for the first time, fangs, fully extended: Vellioth looked ravenous.

“Do it,” he repeated. 

“Just a little, then -” Vellioth said, licking his lips and leaning forward. 

“Do it.” 

“Just until I’m stronger -” 

“Now!”

Vellioth pounced so quickly Cazador was barely aware of it until his fangs slid into place, and he drank deeply. Cazador tried to keep his breath steady - he knew he couldn’t be turned by Vellioth as he was, but the act was strangely intimate; Vellioth’s noises - faint moans and groans of pleasure - reminded him of the times they had made love. The bite itself was surprisingly painless, just cold, and as Vellioth continued to drink, Cazador began to feel slightly dizzy. He petted a long lock of Vellioth’s hair that had fallen through the slot in the door. Vellioth heaved in a long breath, as if drawing on great self-control, and retracted his fangs. 

“Thank you…” he panted, and then, “Are you all right, my love?” 

Cazador nodded. He had potions of restoration in his rooms upstairs. He would bring one down with him tomorrow, For now, he would have to just try and return to his rooms, undetected, to rest. 

“Does it feel better?” he asked tentatively.

Vellioth smiled. He did look better already. Brighter. Certainly stronger. 

“So much better,” he breathed, “And you…oh gods you are delicious.” 

The potion made Cazador feel less dizzy, but he tranced longer and more deeply than he ever had before as his body fought to replace what he’d given Vellioth. Yet all the while his mind turned fitfully over and over. He would go back to Vellioth the next night, and the next one, and the next, and all the time he was meticulously plotting how Lady Donnella Szarr would meet the bitterest punishment he could give her. 

1276 DR

In his chambers, Cazador can hear the banging and crashing as Vellioth destroys the room. It is true that he has been distracted - on one of his nocturnal walks, he had come across another pretty, fair-haired elf, crumpled and bleeding out in an alleyway in Heapside Strand. She could not remember her name after she awoke, so he had named her Violet, to remind him of springtime. 
Astarion had been jealous, of course, speaking rudely and slamming his bedroom door, and some mild discipline had been required to correct his spoilt behaviour - but it had been pleasant to sire a new daughter, all the same. 

From his chamber, down in the fathomless dark, Cazador lies on his back and listens. He has not dared to visit Vellioth for many days now, not since the last time. He knows he must practice this kind of restraint, lest he relent: if he lets Vellioth see that his soft, trembling underbelly is still there, hidden under all the layers of clothing and the  decades he lived unprotected from the whims of Vellioth’s slowly shattering mind, then he knows all will be lost.
Vellioth screeches and hisses, the chains on his wrist making loud metallic cracks as he dashes them against the stone, and Cazador is glad he vigilantly removes the pretty Underdark crystals and all other sharp objects from the room every time he leaves. Once he was not so wise, and Vellioth had torn out his own fangs, screaming with macabre laughter as he threw them, clattering like a pair of grisly jewels, through the barred cell door.
They grew back, of course - and for a while after that Vellioth seemed to calm for a time, but as Cazador knew from experience, long and bitter, it never lasted long. 
Eventually, the screaming and thrashing stops, and all Cazador can hear is a soft, maniacal giggling, interspersed with mumbled words in the drowic language and something that sounds halfway between laughter and sobbing - Cazador can’t tell which it is. 
He pictures Vellioth, crumpled on the floor in diaphanous white, and wishes he could go to him, fall on his knees and press Vellioth to his soundless chest. It would not bring Vellioth comfort, though, he knows that. The only thing that will, Vellioth’s last request, is the one thing he cannot bear to do. 

1204 DR

Cazador had never been to Stormshore Tabernacle before. He had feigned illness that morning, convinced that Donnela would see the hatred in his face, and he was feeling far from any holy thoughts when he finally stood beneath the giant stone effigies that loomed from every side of the building. He did not pray to any of the gods on offer. 

A red-haired halfling peered nervously from between the bookcases at the back of the room. He stepped out after a long moment’s hesitation, but Cazador could still see the man’s fingers worrying uneasily at the belt of his plain grey robe.

“A blessèd morning to you, saer,” the halfling said. He tilted his head further and further backwards as Cazador approached, trying to maintain polite eye contact. The bizarre effect would have made Cazador laugh if he had not been preoccupied with thoughts of Vellioth, trapped and alone in Donnela's vile underground gaol. 

"I hear you have some unusual stock to trade," Cazador said, shortly. 
 
The halfling hesitated.

"I have a small collection," he said, eventually. "But we are talking about very rare items, saer, I would need to ask for a substantial...ah...donation in exchange..."

"I have gold. Just show me what you have." 

"Right, yes. Discretion assured and...ah...requested, you understand, though, saer?"

"Yes."

"This way, then,"

Cazador followed the halfling to one of the tall bookcases. He waved his hand and a button revealed itself, which when pressed, made the bookcase slide away to reveal a small alcove filled with an assortment of peculiar looking items. There were amulets, a glowing dagger, long, viciously sharp-looking shards of crystal and silver, and a variety of small glass bottles filled with different coloured liquids. 

"Do you have anything that might offer resistance to sunlight?" Cazador asked.

The halfling reached for a bright pink flask, and held it up. The contents were thick, like honey, and shimmered like mother-of-pearl. 

"Not sunlight specifically," he said, "There is such a potion, longer-lasting than this one and more economical, but my supply won't be brewed for another two tendays."

"I can't wait that long." 

"This, then. It gives complete resistance, but be warned - it lasts for only one toll of the bell. Take it when you must, and not a moment before."

"I will. How much?"

"I'm afraid I have to charge rather highly...due to the methods and ingredients...." 

"How much?" Cazador said, impatiently. 

"Four hundred gold." the halfling said, almost apologetically, but his anxious expression brightened considerably when Cazador produced a pouch, heavily topped up with gold he'd found hidden in Donnela's private office, and counted out the money. 

-

The shorter span of the potion's effects changed Cazador's original plan only slightly. He descended to the depths of the palace as the sun climbed highest in the sky, knowing now that Donnela was not working in the library, as he had always believed, but would be cloistered in her rooms, her undead body undergoing its process of vampiric regeneration. 
Over the previous few days, Vellioth, sustained by Cazador's blood, had been looking progressively stronger. Down in the dark, they rested their cheeks on opposite sides of the wooden crate, fingers entwined through the bars. In the light of Cazador's conjured flame, he could see that Vellioth's face had a long gash across it which was trying to knit itself back together, and the tip of one of his ears was missing. 

"She is having another private party in half a tenday," he said, bitterly.

"No, she won't." Cazador said, gripping Vellioth's fingers tightly.
 
Vellioth turned his head, red eyes meeting Cazador's dark ones as he peered through the gloom. 

"What -?" 

Cazador took out the bottle and held it up for Vellioth to see. 

"I…have a plan," he said, his heart beginning to speed up as he imagined it unfolding. "This will keep you safe for the time I need, and, if I am right in my theories, drinking my blood will help you to resist her compulsion - not perfectly, but it might be enough."

"I do feel stronger," Vellioth said. "My magic is almost restored - it was so weak before. But I can't help you if I'm shut in here, and the very moment you unlock the door, she will come."

"That's exactly what we want." Cazador said grimly. "Tonight, I will rest and so must you. Tomorrow, I will come to you when the sun is highest, but by nightfall, you will be free."

"Is it really possible?" Vellioth sounded more fearful than doubtful. "She is powerful, Cazador, and dangerous."

"But not unstoppable," Cazador whispered, trying to sound encouraging. "One more night, my love, that's all. One more night and we'll be in each other's arms again, forever."

Vellioth smiled wistfully. 

"Forever. It sounds like heaven."

-

The morning dawned unseasonably warm and bright, and Cazador would have been tempted to think the gods themselves had blessed his endeavour if he had ever believed in such things. He made his last preparations in the ballroom and Donnela's office hall, where the tall stained glass windows would instantly flood the room with searing bright light the moment the drapes were removed. 
Somehow, it seemed difficult to swallow, and even more difficult to gather courage like a cloak of protection around him, and ignore the sweat tricking between the shoulder blades of his fragile mortal body. The cool gust of air on the ancient elevator was a welcome relief from the hot blood that roared in his ears, but it also meant that the moment his strength and strategy would be tested drew ever closer at hand. 

Vellioth crouched in his prison cell. In his hand, he had conjured a luminous, flowerlike ball of magical violet light - drow magic, Cazador knew. 

"Is it time?" he asked Cazador. Cazador nodded and eased the small glass potion bottle through the gap in the bars. The syrupy liquid shone gently in Vellioth’s conjured faerie fire. He drank it carefully, not wasting a single drop. As Cazador watched, he could see a delicious shudder pass through Vellioth’s body from the short shake of his hair to the curling of his toes. 

“I am ready,” Vellioth said. “What must we do, once she comes?” 

“We reach the elevator,” Cazador said, “She will pursue us - but once we have her above ground and in her office hall - let us just say - I have everything prepared for her.”

“She might be able to make me attack you,” Vellioth said flatly.

“We cannot avoid that.” Cazador said.

Vellioth nodded silently. 

"One kiss before we go," he said softly, and closed his eyes as they both drew close to the tiny gap in the bars. The unspoken part, which they both knew, is that if they failed, it might be their last. 

Then Cazador pulled away, and with a  whispered prayer to any god who might want to listen, cast the spell and the door swung open. 

For a moment, nothing happened. Vellioth crawled carefully through the tiny doorway, and stood hesitantly in the stone passageway, waiting for the moment Donnela would appear. They took a few steps out into the main corridor, and had almost begun to hope, when a cloud of red mist appeared before them, its edges swirling and pulsing as if in fury. As they watched, the mist coalesced before them from the ground up, like liquid fire being poured into a glass. Then, for the first time, Cazador saw Donnela Szarr’s true face, fangs bared, red eyes blazing, her face contorted into a sneer.

“It seems you are even more unwise than I thought possible, Cazador.” Donnela said, furious. “Just like your fool mother. Isabella always told me to be kinder,”
 
“You lied to me,” Cazador said. “You told me Vellioth had left me. You told me he only cared for gold. But you killed him, and made him into this.”

“I acted for your good, and that of the family.” Donnela snapped. “The Szarrs need heirs. Not boy whores from Menzoberranzan.”

Cazador felt Vellioth flinch beside him, and back away as if expecting a blow. 

“Love notes, diaries,” Donnela continued, glowing eyes full of malicious glee. “Those ridiculous poems you kept copying out into your journal. Do you hear me, under-elf?” She turned to Vellioth and snapped her fingers. “You inspire poetry. Bad poetry.”

“We’re leaving this filthy place,” Cazador said. “I never want to see you again.” 

Donnela crowed with laughter. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, child. He belongs to me,” she said, pointing at Vellioth. “You must realise that, at least. He cannot leave. You truly are deluded, if you think otherwise.”

“He doesn’t belong to you. You took us from each other. You’re a monster.”

“Perhaps you need a little demonstration, then.” Donnela said. “Tell my nephew about the mark you bear on your chest, Vellioth.”

She pointed her clawed finger. Cazador could see Vellioth trying to screw his eyes closed and  push back against Donnela but eventually he looked down at himself and said:

“It’s from Menzoberranzan, Mistress Donnela.” 

“Where in Menzoberranzan is it from?” 

“The Jewel Box, Mistress. A pleasure house.”

“Indeed, Vellioth. And how many did you service at my last private soirée?”

“Fifty-eight, Mistress. Men and women both.” Vellioth said, miserably. 

“You are a filthy, worthless whore, aren’t you, Vellioth? A jaluk ssindossa - Matron Elvanice helped me learn those words, just for you. Isn’t that nice of me?” 

Vellioth said nothing. Cazador could sense his anger, and feel him beginning to tremble slightly. A violet glow began to crackle between his fingers, and before Donnela could react, he raised his hand and shot a wave of thunder in her direction. 
Cazador knew the spell could not hit Donnela directly, but its momentum and the shock that Vellioth could resist was enough to knock her off balance. Cazador saw their chance and grabbed blindly at Vellioth’s hand. Then they ran.

-

The stone dais was within sight. From the furious screech behind them, Cazador knew Donnela had recovered herself and was gaining ground. It would be impossible to defeat her with his own mortal magic, especially down here in the dark, in her element. His only hope was to slow her down until he had her exactly where he needed her. 
“Go!” he cried urgently, pushing Vellioth ahead. His robes whirled as he turned to call down lightning in Donnela’s path with a series of deafening cracks that made the dwarves in the other cell shriek, but Donnela merely laughed, raised her hand, and a great coiled whip of fire cracked across the stone, stopping moments from Cazador’s feet. 

“I will do what it takes to chastise you, nephew,” Donnela screamed.

The answer came in a dazzling ray of sunlight that seared her flesh just as she spun nimbly out if its reach. Cazador scrambled onto the dais, momentarily giddy with the effort of the high-level spell, and wrenched the lever upwards just as he saw Donnela disintegrate into a swarm of bats which flew towards them even as the ancient mechanism made a loud grating noise and the platform began to rise. 

Halfway up to the palace, Donnela rematerialised on the platform in front of them. Her eyes flared red. 

“Throw him back into the Depths,” she told Vellioth. Cazador watched, ready to dart out of the way if she managed to compel Vellioth, but though he winced as if in pain and almost doubled over with the effort, Vellioth did not obey. 

“Do as I command, spawn!” Donnela screamed, but through the rushing of the cold air as the elevator ascended and another bolt of lightning from Cazador, Vellioth shook his dirty, white-blond head and resisted again. Cazador felt suddenly jubilant, as if their plan could actually succeed. He laughed at Donnela’s fury.

“Your command isn’t very commanding now,” he mocked, and threw another bolt of lightning. This time it met its target, and Donnela screamed again, in pain this time. 

“You dare! You dare attack me, Cazador Szarr!” she spat, viciously. “You will watch, as I tear your pathetic under-elf lover limb from limb for this.”

The elevator ground to a halt. Cazador grasped hold of Vellioth, helping him stand, and together they darted to the right, into Donnela’s private office, where the early spring sunlight gleamed around the heavy drapes on the windows. Donnela, in her scarlet mist form, came in close behind them, and Cazador knew that the moment had come. 
He was dimly aware of a human servant or two standing in the ballroom, wondering what the all the commotion was, but he paid them no attention, instead, he gathered himself and raised a wall of solid stone in the office doorway, trapping the three of them inside, just as another burning lash from Donnela tore his cheek open. 
He heard Vellioth cast again, and suddenly Donnela was thrown up against the thick curtains. Cazador seized his chance and lunged at Donnela, pushing her up against the glass. 
“Take your hands off me, idiot child,” Donnela demanded. “You cannot run from me and you cannot defy me.”

Cazador smiled. 

“I don’t intend to run from you, Aunt Donnela.” he said. “Every single one of these windows is trapped. As soon as I say the word, sunlight will stream in, and you will burn for what you did to us.”

Donnela was still. Cazador’s fist bunched in her lace collar, pressing her to the window. She glanced across to Vellioth, as if considering her options, then back to Cazador where her gaze fell upon his other arm, raised and ready to cast, the red, unhealed wounds from feeding Vellioth standing out stark and livid against his pale skin. 
“You were feeding him,” she whispered, “You gave him Szarr blood.”

“I fed him because you starved him,” Cazador spat. “That it helped him resist you was simply convenient.” 

For the first time, Donnela seemed fearful. He voice took on a persuasive, wheedlesome quality.

“Cazador,” she said. “My nephew. I was only thinking of your good, your future…”

“Lies,” Cazador said. “I found a future. You tried to steal it from me.”

“I didn’t understand. I…I am sorry, my dear nephew. Let us be rational, we are family after all. I can free him. You can be together again - I will make no complaint. We…we can find another way to have an heir, an arrangement, perhaps, with an understanding young lady. You can take him as your spouse, if you must…unusual but not unheard of…”

Cazador ignored her ramblings, and focussed on one thing.

“Free him how?” he asked. 

Vellioth stepped from the shadowed corner of the room. 

“She can let me drink from her.” he said. “If she gives me permission. It means I am no longer her spawn.”

“Do it,” Cazador released his grip on Donnela only slightly. She hesitated, fury in her eyes, but made no attempt to escape. She tilted her head to the side, exposing her bare neck. Vellioth paused, then moved closer. 

“Speak the words,” Cazador demanded. “Let him drink.”

Donnela spoke through gritted teeth.

“I grant you permission to drink, Vellioth of Menzoberranzan,” she said. “And in so doing, I release you.” 

No sooner had the words left her lips, Cazador moved aside as Vellioth took over the hold on Donnela’s collar. She let out a small gasp as he latched viciously onto her neck, drinking deeply, crimson fluid dripping down his chin and spattering her white lace collar. Eventually, he pulled away, and Cazador saw a strange glow in his eyes; Vellioth was panting, fangs still fully extended and dripping with Donnela’s blood. He seemed to be shuddering, his face oddly blank yet somehow invigorated.
Donnela wore an expression of disgust as she tried to shift away from Vellioth’s grasp. 

“There, now. Are you satisfied? It doesn’t have to be like this -” she said, but then Vellioth closed his hand upon her throat with a newfound, unearthly strength. He smiled at her, almost pleasantly. Vivacious and charming.

“Yes, it does.” he said, and threw her through the window. 

-

Vellioth backed away from the shattered glass as the potion wore off and the room flooded with brilliant light. The wall of stone Cazador had raised flickered and disappeared as he stopped concentrating and went to look cautiously out of the shattered stained glass. 
Down in the gardens, Donnela Szarr was impaled on the raised sword of a statue of Balduran himself , the stone blade piercing her chest, the remainder of her cursed blood dripping into the fountain below. As Cazador watched, her body began to flake and blanch in the sunlight, and within minutes, it was nothing but soft ash, burned in the sun’s rays and carried away by the wind.

Vellioth, cloaked in shadows, held out his arms to Cazador as he stood bathed in the sun’s radiant light. 

“Come to me, my love.” he said.

1276 DR

It is quiet now, save for the muted sound of the underground waterfall cascading into the chasms below. Cazador rises from his uneasy trance, and buttons his shirt and doublet up to the neck, steeling himself to take the familiar journey down to Vellioth’s room. Across, left, down, right, left again. Before he looks up, Cazador is already feeling in his pocket for the enchanted key when he realises the door is open, creaking slightly back and forth in the cold breezes of the Depths. The bed lies empty, sapphire sheets clawed to ribbons and thrown at the wall. The chain that bound Vellioth’s slim wrist lies shattered on the floor in amongst a pile of dead sussur flowers. 

Cazador hears the voices before he has even reached the ballroom. Astarion’s distinctive laughter, Dalyria’s high, sweet voice that seems to be asking a question. Then the sound of a lyre. Cazador stops in the doorway, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height as he takes in the impossible scene.

Vellioth, dressed in shirt, loose grey breeches and no shoes, is embracing Violet, who is standing statue-still, eyes wide and puzzled as Vellioth strokes her cheek. 

“Who are you?” she asks, weakly. Her eyes travel over Vellioth’s shoulder and come to rest on Cazador as he stands on the threshold.
“Master?” she asks, tentatively.

 “You will address me as Father, as you have been instructed.” Cazador snaps. “Children, to me.” 

Vellioth spins around, white curls groomed and dancing. 

“Cazador!” he cries, gleefully. “You join us at last! Why did you not tell me we have a family?” 

Ignoring Cazador’s incandescent look of rage, he steps delicately across to stroke Astarion’s cheek.

“Darling, darling boy,” he croons softly as Astarion gapes. “Cazador, how like me our children look! We are blessèd indeed. We must go out immediately, take a walk in the park and the gardens…”

Astarion is the first to react. His grin drips with impatient sarcasm as he gestures theatrically to the sunlight, which was even now creeping around the edges of the Palace’s heavy drapes. 

“Is anybody going to tell him?” he asks the room at large. “And who is this, anyway?” He raises his red eyes to Cazador’s, belligerent now. “You - you keep insisting we are some kind of family,” he says, drawing out the word disdainfully. “So…is this your Master, your husband, your lover, or what? And are you just as unhinged as he seems to be?”

Through his fury, Cazador hears Vellioth cackle. He rounds on Astarion, magic crackling between his fingertips.

“How dare you, boy.” he seethes. “I saved you, brought you here to live as my own son -” 

“I’m not your son, and you’re not my father,” Astarion says loudly, “I mean, look at you. You’re a godsdamned vampire. A monster who drained me, made me dig me way out of the filth of my own grave and now, “ he gestures around at Dalyria and Violet, who are visibly cringing, “You expect us to play house with you? It’s demented. Both of you are demented. You aren’t a father to me, they aren’t my sisters. They’re just victims, dead and dying, that you dragged back here to live in the dark.” 

“Get out,” Cazador hisses at him. “Get out of my sight. And do not think for one moment that there will be no consequences for your ingratitude.”
Astarion doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look afraid either, just glances slowly from Cazador back to Vellioth, whose shoulders are still trembling with laughter. 

“Mad.” he says finally, and walks out, shaking his head. The girls scurry after him. Somewhere, a door slams. 

The disgust in Astarion’s voice reverberates in his Cazador’s mind along with Vellioth’s crazed, overbright “How like me they look!”. He is right, of course, but having Astarion pronounce the truth, throw it publicly into sharp relief, loud and mocking like the magistrate he once was, makes Cazador’s skin crawl with humiliation. Hatred rises in his soul, and through gritted teeth he demands of Vellioth:

“How did you escape?” 

Vellioth grins. He raises a hand: bright light, cobalt and gold, courses between his fingers. No sussur blooms here, and although Cazador knows Vellioth cannot compel him, his magic is no less potent; he can still do serious harm. 

“You didn’t bring me flowers, my sweet,” Vellioth says. “How lonely I was, how sad, when you didn’t visit. It was just like old times, alone in the dark -

Cazador feels sick. He knows exactly what Vellioth is referring to; he always knew which buttons to push.

“Don’t-” he says, quietly. “Go back downstairs. I have no wish to force you.”

Vellioth ignores him. 

“It’s so very dark in here,” he says, airily. “Why did you ruin my décor? The blue was wonderful. I loved the blue…” He waves a hand at the candelabras and they all light up with pale blue flames on his command. 

“Go back downstairs,” Cazador repeats. 

“No, no. I like it up here. I want to be here, with you, my love. All our beautiful memories. Don’t you want it too?” 

Cazador watches. Vellioth’s mock-thoughtful face is all too familiar. “No, I think you have replaced me, Cazador, yes? Where did you find such a pretty elf? You do know, don’t you, that dear Aunt Donnela still wouldn’t approve?” 

“Silence, Vellioth,” Cazador bites out the words, but even as he says them, he regrets it. He knows that Vellioth will only laugh and he is right. 

“Such disrespect, my Cazador,” he says, his voice light and pleasant, as if he were scolding a kitten. Then, in an instant, he draws his hands through the air, and a shape forms from black light. It solidifies in Vellioth’s hands - and it takes almost every ounce of self-control for Cazador to keep from cringing. Vellioth slashes the martinet, that agonising, many-tailed whip that still haunts Cazador’s worst nightmares, through the air sharply, left to right, a flash of enchanted blue light streaking after it like a malevolent comet. 

“You say ‘Vellioth’ to me now,” he snarls. He bares his fangs, his dreamlike demeanour changing in an instant to pure, radiating malice, incongruous with his angelic, almost otherworldly beauty. “You used to call me Master.”

“You were my teacher,” Cazador says, soft and dangerous. “Then my companion and my lover. Then you chose - chose - to become my tormentor.”

“You chose to become what I made you, my sweet.” 

“I trusted you when you said we would be equals.”

Vellioth smiles, fox-faced, and cracks the whip in the air, chuckling in delight as the tails crackle, spitting out blue fire.

“You will never be my equal, Cazador. I survived Menzoberranzan, the backstabbing, the pleasure house, being forced to do things and have things done to me that you can never even imagine. Your own aunt, dragging me down into the dark and turning me into an accursed monster - as if living on the surface as a drow was not suffering hatred enough? Having me perform, do what I love, only to be beaten like a dog for it by crowing patriars pushing their filthy cocks and fingers into my every orifice. And then you betrayed me too, imprisoned me again, that you could rule alone, forsaking me. You have never suffered as I suffered, even through the worst of my corrections, Cazador. You will forever be a terrified boy, desperate to gain Aunt Donnela’s favour.”

“I have never betrayed you,” Cazador says. “I was faithful to you, in all ways. You betrayed me when you turned me, gave me your word that we would rule together when the time was right. But the time was never right, never for you. You compelled me. You punished me, controlled me, left me impaled for eleven years because of your own jealousy and me daring to question the reason why nothing was ever enough for you. It wasn’t even becoming a spawn that destroyed who you used to be, it was the power you took from my aunt that corrupted you.” 

He doesn’t want his voice to shake, can’t allow it to shake, but Vellioth knows, he always, always knows.

“And yet you took the same power from me and presume to think you will be the one who is different? Cazador Szarr, the avid, the blessèd, the chosen one who will break the mould? But here you are, keeping me in spite of everything, in never-ending agony.” 

“I  did not want this.” Cazador says, miserably. “I have never wanted any of this.”

Suddenly, Vellioth raises his hand and the martinet blinks out of existence as quickly as he had summoned it. He draws close to Cazador with an uncanny, almost fluid velocity that Cazador could never quite get used to. He tries to draw back, to put some distance between them, a safe distance. Safer, at least, but Vellioth’s voice is not furious now, it is light and persuasive, and almost, almost like his old self. 

“We can end it all now, Cazador,” he says, silkily. “Come. Take my hand, and when the sun retreats, we will walk together. We will kiss a thousand times beneath the cherry blossoms, make love in the soft caress of the night watched only by the stars, then lie in each others arms until the sunrise sets us free. You need only say yes.”

When he feels the whisper-soft kiss on the tip of his ear, Cazador very nearly does. Then Vellioth’s eyes widen briefly in a silent flash of light, before he collapses, boneless, to the polished floorboards. Bright coils of conjured rope bind his wrists and his ankles, and his long hair falls in a white cascade covering his face as he is borne by Cazador’s enchantments back to his prison in the depths. 

1204 DR

Cazador reflected, later, upon whether he had meant to kill Donnela or simply subdue her, force her to release Vellioth and retreat to her rooms until - he didn’t know what. Now, the servants who had been watching transfixed by the scene as their was Mistress overpowered by her mortal nephew and her spawn slave knelt before Vellioth as he and Cazador finally broke their embrace.

“Lord Vellioth,” they acknowledged as they entered the ballroom, “We recognise you as our new Master. We await your command.”

Vellioth, bruised, beaten and filthy, paused as their words sunk in. Cazador did, too - and all of a sudden, the surreal reality dawned upon him: it was he who had been intended as Donnela’s heir, he who they ought to have been bowing to. Yet now, inadvertently, Vellioth had become not only a true vampire, free of the constraints a spawn faced, but the master of the palace and the reigning Vampire Lord of Baldur’s Gate. 

Cazador wasn’t quite sure what it meant, or how he was supposed to feel about it, but Vellioth stood, absorbing this new realisation. He stared, red eyes glowing, for a long moment. Then, he threw back his head and laughed out loud. 

“Oh, my Cazador,” he said, turning to him in exultant delight. “My love. All of this is ours now. She is no more. Get up, get up at once,” he ordered, waving the servants to their feet. “You will draw us a bath in Master Cazador’s rooms, and prepare my old chambers. Wine, the finest chalices, and silk sheets in pale blue, no - purest white, I think. Fresh clothing, befitting my station. And my possessions,” he said, his voice suddenly darkening. “My lyre, my flute. Find them. Now.” 

“Immediately, Master,” the human servants said, and scattered nervously. 

-

Vellioth lay back in the huge bathtub and Cazador found he couldn’t look away - he was a little thinner than he had been before, but to see Vellioth naked was still breathtaking, his body long and lithe, his beauty unspoiled by the tortures Donnela had inflicted upon him.
His eyes came to rest upon the web tattoo on Vellioth’s chest. Vellioth, following Cazador’s eyeline, looked down at it too. He smiled, and his eyes seemed to glow a brighter red. He drew his hand across the mark, and it disappeared, leaving nothing but pale, unblemished skin in its wake. He did the same to the cruel gash Donnela had inflicted on Cazador’s cheek: tracing it with one gentle finger. 

“You are stronger,” Cazador breathed in wonder. 

“So much stronger,” Vellioth agreed. “I am reborn, my love. And we will enjoy all the powers and pleasures our future holds, together.” 
Cazador laid his head on Vellioth’s chest and the drow ran his long fingers over wet, black locks in a lazy caress.

“I was not sure we would kill her,” Cazador confessed. “She was my family.” 

“She deserved to die,” Vellioth said, “And all her power, everything she took from me and more will be mine. You, too,” he murmured, stroking a thumb over Cazador’s cheek and bringing it down to press upon his bottom lip. “My night-dark raven, my beautiful Szarr. She is nothing - all we need is one another. I see now that it was destined to be so. I will protect you and love you, and you will want for nothing under my rule.”

“Your rule?” Cazador looked up and raised an eyebrow, but Vellioth simply smiled and pushed his head gently back down.

“I am master of the palace, now. Lord Vellioth of Menzoberranzan, Lord Vellioth of Baldur’s Gate, either one sounds delightful. But do not worry, my sweet,” he said, mischievously. “I am certain you will be a most devoted consort.” 

The servants had done their work quickly. Vellioth’s rooms looked almost exactly as they once had, with a few notable exceptions: the bed was draped and dressed in fine silks, not the plain rough cottons afforded to a tutor. Blond oak furniture was freshly polished, the subtle scent of jasmine oil and beeswax lingering in the air. The table was laid with crystal goblets, fruit and wine, and the drapes at the balcony doors had been changed from thin calico to heavy, dark blue velvets that blocked out the last rays of the sun as it dipped below the skyline of the sprawling city beyond the palace gates. 

Cazador, in his Kozakuran robes, sat at the foot of the bed and watched Vellioth wander about the room, taking note of everything. Vellioth’s body was healing even more rapidly - his bruises and scratches had gone; his pale hair had been patchy and unkempt where Donnela had torn it out in clumps or burned it in one of her many rages, but now, once again, it fell in a wild cascade down his back. Cazador had no idea where the servants had sourced the perfectly-fitted shirt trimmed with the finest spidersilk lace, nor the other traditional drow garments - wide trousers accented with a thick strip of dark fabric slung from the waist to the knee, the elegant, hooded cloaks hanging in the armoire. Vellioth seemed pleased with what he saw, though, and so was Cazador - Vellioth was his familiar self, yet changed - imbued with a new confidence and authority that made Cazador’s pulse quicken and his breath catch in his throat. 

Vellioth came to a stop at the end of the bed. 

“Stand before me,” he instructed, softly. Cazador rose to his bare feet and Vellioth put a hand gently under Cazador’s chin, raising his head so their eyes were level. His other hand slid down the silk of Cazador’s robe, and came to rest on the knot of the tie belt. 

“Tell me what you see, my Cazador.” he said. 

“You…you seem a little different.” Cazador felt annoyed with himself for the slight tremor that leaked out into his voice, but Vellioth only smiled.

“I am so very different now.” he agreed. “But you shall see, in good time.” 

“The servants were quick to switch their allegiances,” Cazador observed. Vellioth scowled and shook his head dismissively.

“Oh, they won’t be staying with us much longer,” he said, casually. “They’ll be loyal to the bitch, the elg’caress, and I cannot risk that.” He tugged gently and Cazador’s robe fell open. “But tonight is not for such petty concerns. Let me look at you. Let me see what I have hungered for, all these many months while I lived in hell.”

Without dropping his gaze, Cazador shrugged the robe from his shoulders and let it pool noiselessly on the rug. Vellioth stepped back, his eyes wandering slowly across Cazador’s long, lean body. He nodded in satisfaction. 

“Yes. Yes. I thought of you so often. Exquisite as marble, draped in your own dark silk,” He slid a hand under the Cazador’s long, loose hair and raised it up, letting the smooth strands fall back through his fingers. “My hands caressing every plane and curve of your perfect form. Your mouth on mine - ” Cazador was not prepared for the sudden pressure of Vellioth’s hand at his throat, his mouth close to his ear. “Nobody else has touched you, have they?” he asked, fiercely.

Cazador looked up, into those glowing crimson eyes.

“Only you.” he whispered, “It has only ever been you.”

Vellioth’s grip became a caress as he exhaled slowly. 

“No. Good boy,” he murmured, “You know that you are mine. My sweet, innocent virgin, so pure and clean when I took you. Such beautiful sounds, sweeter than any song! Nobody will sully you, ever. Nobody else will ever have you but me. But I will have you often,” he said, dreamily. “However I choose, and whenever. Nobody will part us again, not ever. Neither life nor death can ever deliver one of us from the other.”

Cazador tried to focus on the crackling of the candelabra and the faint scent of spiced red wine. He reached out tentatively. Vellioth’s cheek was cool and smooth.

“My..my love,” he began. “You should rest - you were hurt for so long. Let us trance now, together, safe in each other’s embrace, just as we used to.” 

“I need not rest now, my Cazador.” Vellioth said. “I am rejuvenated, more alive than I ever was before. And you, you came for me,” He drew Cazador close to his chest. 
“You nourished me when I was weak. You saved me. I can save you, now, too, from this fragile mortal flesh.”

“I need no saving. We are together again. My heart is peaceful after these long and terrible months.” Cazador said, but even as the words left him, Vellioth’s eyes flashed, narrowing in anger.

“You wrest me from your aunt’s vile grasp only to abandon me?” he hissed, suddenly furious. 

“I am not abandoning you, my love. I simply need to think. I need some time.”

“Lies,” Vellioth spat. “I ought to have known. You plead for time, but time is all I will ever have now. You want time to think I am no longer enough for you. Time to believe me a monster, to tire of me and this life in the shadows. Time to leave me here to rot in the dark while you fall in love with somebody else.”

Cazador shook his head, but he could feel the sweat beginning to prickle on the back of his neck, his heart beginning to pound.

“I will never have another, Vellioth. Only you.”

“I can hear it,” Vellioth said, grinning. “Your heart flutters like a trapped bird. You are afraid of me now.”

“I am not afraid,” Cazador lied. 

“Then vow it to me. You promised me forever. Keep your promise to me, Cazador, stay with me, love me, lie with me for eternity. We belong together.” 

“I swear it.”

“No. Swear it to me in blood. Join me. Prove to me that you know the truth of forever.”

“What do you mean?”

“You let me drink from you once. Let me drink now, and we will have our beautiful forever.” 

“What are you going to do?” Cazador whispered. 

Vellioth grinned. He pushed Cazador down onto the bed with astonishing ease, and crawled over him, until he was sitting astride Cazador’s hips. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, leaning down until they were chest to naked chest. 

“Oh, my love,” Vellioth murmured in his ear, “This night, we will indulge our every passion together until we can no longer stem the tides of our pleasure. Then, I will take you, the exquisite torment of my undying gift mingling with the waves of your climax. I will drain you dry as your body shudders in the deepest ecstasy it has ever known.”

His fangs grazed Cazador’s throat, and he did shudder, though if it was in pleasure or fear, Cazador could not define. 

“I will spill your blood on these sheets,” Vellioth continued, “Our dark marriage bed. I took you first, here, and I shall be here beside you still, until you rise, reborn, my eternal love - undead and immortal.”

1276 DR

The Perfect Slaughter would be easy - too easy for Cazador to believe that Vellioth hadn’t thought of it, too. Destroy every spawn, save one, then a stake of pure, blessed silver, straight through the heart. The stake is hard and cold in his hand, the sound of his boots clipped and harsh on unforgiving black stone. The cell door opens at his command. Vellioth, bound in magical chains, looks up. 

“Ah, Cazador, my sweet. I wondered when it would happen. 

Cazador takes the stake from his pocket, and aims it where it needs to go. Vellioth only smiles.

“The Rite of Perfect Slaughter,” he says, in that familiar, dreamy tone. “Very good. I have made it easy for you.”

“You have never made anything easy for me.” Cazador says, very low. 

“Such ingratitude,” Vellioth chides, “You were my only spawn. I could have made more. I could have made a city of them…but no…”

“Why didn’t you?” Cazador asks. “Why were there never any others?” 

“You know this, my Cazador.” Vellioth says, “Do you not remember the night I turned you into what you are now?”´

Cazador does remember. Only you - the phrase echoes in his mind.

“We had perfection, Cazador. A marriage writ in blood. Together. It was always just you, only ever you. You in my arms, in my bed, at my feet. Your delicious submission a gift. I broke you, I admit. But I remade you, too. And I loved you.”

“You never loved another? Not even in the Underdark?” Cazador asks, allowing his own curiosity because he would never have another chance, not now. 

“There is very little love down there, my Cazador.” Vellioth said. “Now, before we get this over with - tell me, what would we see this day if we could once again walk in the sun?”

Cazador does not know why he does it, but he does anyway. 

“We would walk through the gardens,” he begins. “Sit awhile in the arbour. The trees -” he pauses. His breath comes with difficulty, but he steels himself. 

“The cherry trees would be heavy with blossom, and there would be just a slight chill in the air. We would watch the koi swimming in the pool. We would walk to the park, but before that, we would go into Pennygood’s and try on clothes Aunt Donnela would never allow us to wear: gaudy hats and bright colours.”

Suddenly, there are tears. Cazador’s hand hesitates and trembles on the stake. Vellioth’s steadies it. 

“Why do you cry, my love?”

“Because I want it back,” 

“You cannot have it.” 

“I know.”

“Let me go,” Vellioth says, and he kisses Cazador on the mouth. 

Cazador is obedient to the last. 

Meditations of a Vampire Lord

1276

I locked the doors. I slaughtered every servant - none must ever know how weak I was, how long it took me to do what I ought to have been strong enough to do long ago. 
And yet I am weak still. I stood over the children. Dalyria wept, Violet trembled and even Astarion’s tongue was still. I had planned to destroy them, start anew, but I could not do it. 
I gathered them into my arms and I took their memories. When they awoke, it was in a sparse dormitory on bare mattresses in the servants quarters. 
They will not think to ask for books or clothes or trinkets any more. I will no longer bring my prey home for our family meals. Detached, it became easy to vent my misery upon them, to slap their faces, first for real transgressions and then simply for reminding me of what I could not have. After a time it became easy to break their legs as well -
Astarion is punished the most often, his laugh sounds too much like hope and why should he have hope when I cannot? 

This house was never a place for a family. Maybe it is cursed. Maybe it’s alive. Perhaps Vellioth was right after all: I am no different, and like him, my madness will swallow me up, eventually, make me a shell of who I used to be. 

In another life, we paid more attention, my Vellioth and I. In another life we made it to Waterdeep or Cormyr, even the meanest cave in the Underdark would have been better than this - living our ordinary mortal lives, made extraordinary by the sparks we wove ourselves and the home we might have built together. 
He is always there, though. He spoke of solitude, but he must know better than anyone that I will never be alone. 
I buried him myself under the waxing moon, by the koi pool and beneath the cherry blossom trees. Still, I heard him. 
I returned, dug him up, cleaved the head from his perfect, perfect shoulders and boiled flesh from bone, but he still speaks to me, even now. 
I cannot rest. I dream of it: pale hair, rivers of blood. The harpsichord in the ballroom plays by itself, the lyre I burned still wakes me. The poems remain incomplete, the walls whisper and Vellioth laughs, oh how he laughs. 

 the end