"...I was stolen from him. Snatched away and dropped hundred of miles from my city. When I finally returned home, to kill him, he took one look at me and told me to stop slouching. He had no power over me, and all the same I could feel myself straighten my back."
She is insistent. She doesn't know if he can accept it or not, but she knows exactly what she's saying, she believes in it.
"I know I'm just some... stupid, young human. But I know what it takes to go against someone who gets under your skin that way. It's not exactly the same, no, but - it's not so different, either."
He gives her a wary look. He doesn't understand her perspective; maybe he can't. Maybe he can't credit himself with any strength of character beyond the sheer force of his hatred for his creator. Maybe so much of his judgement and loathing is so stubbornly inward-facing that he's got no space for anything else.
"...I've known some very stupid elves," he says quietly. "And some reasonably bright humans. No need to talk yourself down, darling."
She looks up from looking at her hands, from considering how fishbelly pale they are, how very much like a corpse. She already knew this. It's still unsettling to see it on herself.
"Would he have wanted you to? To have friends, to speak to them, to spend time with them?"
Ha. He didn't even like his spawn being cordial to each other - that's
why he encouraged infighting with favouritism and petty privileges. And all
along, the constant drumbeat of worthless, foolish, ungrateful,
disobedient-
"Would he have punished you, if he knew you were?"
She's watching him; she doesn't need any vampiric senses to read people well all on her own. They only help, or they would if she had long enough to learn to use them.
Astarion stares into middle distance for several moments.
Cazador, he thinks, would reject this reasoning. He'd say that his choice to do things his master would hate only proves that he's still dictating his behaviour.
And what does he think?
He doesn't know.
"...He would have to be a much cleverer man to make me obey him for any reason other than fear or force."
"I admit I don't know how elves work, if it's the same as humans - but for us, it's not that simple. It'd be great if it were, but it's not."
It's occurred to her that Astarion is using her for some distant rebellious act; she wouldn't care if he were, because at least she understands that.
"Did you straighten up because he actually compelled you to do so? Or because it was a reflex to try to avoid punishment for something stupid and small and petty?"
"He couldn't compel me to do anything, in that moment. But I was just...so used to hearing that fucking voice and knowing that if I didn't do what it said, it would hurt. He'd trained me like a dog."
A quiet, bitter laugh.
"But some dogs just...do whatever they please, when they can't hear their master's orders."
And this is what Astarion is choosing to do, not something more cruel yet, not taking out his frustrations and his pain on others just because he can, not isolating himself entirely to avoid punishment.
This.
"You're not a dog, Astarion." She says it calmly but firmly, well aware now that he can't hear it, or rather can't believe it or anything nice about himself. She hums softly instead.
"I'm sorry I couldn't have done more while he was here. Normally, I would."
"You've nothing to apologise for, darling," he says, and then seems to consciously emerge from whatever doldrum he's in, his posture straightening. "There's one person I expected to do anything, and he...essentially, didn't. So here we are."
"At first? Very much what happened to you. Cazador encountered Arthur, interrogated him, then turned him when his answers were unsatisfactory. The difference is that Arthur was able to summon his other half and have him show up in grand dramatic fashion, taking on the face of Cazador's sire and doing everything short of killing him."
"I'm not even convinced he was here, in any...real sense," Astarion says. "But no. Anything that doesn't kill a vampire will heal without trace, in time. And killing him was the least that idiot could have done."
"So none of it would have meant anything to Cazador - only to you."
She wasn't there. She's not inclined to give Arthur the benefit of any doubt, except that she doesn't like to make assumptions overall. Maybe it's possible and maybe it's not.
"No. It doesn't. And because Arthur is incapable of hearing criticism of his beloved monster, he claims John held off out of 'respect' for me," Astarion says briskly. Yes, he is approaching full-on bitch venting mode. "Clearly that 'respect' was more important than everyone else Cazador hurt or killed. Really, even if I thought just a little more poorly of him, I'd suggest his nigh-total inaction was his cowardly aversion to the slightest risk of being demoted for killing something even resembling an inmate."
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"...I was stolen from him. Snatched away and dropped hundred of miles from my city. When I finally returned home, to kill him, he took one look at me and told me to stop slouching. He had no power over me, and all the same I could feel myself straighten my back."
He shakes his head.
"How I treat you has nothing to do with him."
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She is insistent. She doesn't know if he can accept it or not, but she knows exactly what she's saying, she believes in it.
"I know I'm just some... stupid, young human. But I know what it takes to go against someone who gets under your skin that way. It's not exactly the same, no, but - it's not so different, either."
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He gives her a wary look. He doesn't understand her perspective; maybe he can't. Maybe he can't credit himself with any strength of character beyond the sheer force of his hatred for his creator. Maybe so much of his judgement and loathing is so stubbornly inward-facing that he's got no space for anything else.
"...I've known some very stupid elves," he says quietly. "And some reasonably bright humans. No need to talk yourself down, darling."
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It's just that, "Guess that's the way I remember not to slouch."
Cazador is only unique in that he has a means to lord real power over the people he abuses; everything else about him is gallingly ordinary.
"Will you talk to me about what you're thinking?"
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"I'm trying not to," he drawls, but it's filler, just noise, while he actually does think.
"...I don't think I see how my willingness to spend time with a friend is something miraculous."
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"Would he have wanted you to? To have friends, to speak to them, to spend time with them?"
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Ha. He didn't even like his spawn being cordial to each other - that's why he encouraged infighting with favouritism and petty privileges. And all along, the constant drumbeat of worthless, foolish, ungrateful, disobedient-
"...No. Nothing of the sort."
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She's watching him; she doesn't need any vampiric senses to read people well all on her own. They only help, or they would if she had long enough to learn to use them.
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Astarion offers a quick, joyless smile.
"Early on, he sealed me into a stone tomb for a year, because I merely liked one man too much to bring home for him to kill."
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"And yet, here we sit."
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Astarion stares into middle distance for several moments.
Cazador, he thinks, would reject this reasoning. He'd say that his choice to do things his master would hate only proves that he's still dictating his behaviour.
And what does he think?
He doesn't know.
"...He would have to be a much cleverer man to make me obey him for any reason other than fear or force."
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It's occurred to her that Astarion is using her for some distant rebellious act; she wouldn't care if he were, because at least she understands that.
"Did you straighten up because he actually compelled you to do so? Or because it was a reflex to try to avoid punishment for something stupid and small and petty?"
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"He couldn't compel me to do anything, in that moment. But I was just...so used to hearing that fucking voice and knowing that if I didn't do what it said, it would hurt. He'd trained me like a dog."
A quiet, bitter laugh.
"But some dogs just...do whatever they please, when they can't hear their master's orders."
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And this is what Astarion is choosing to do, not something more cruel yet, not taking out his frustrations and his pain on others just because he can, not isolating himself entirely to avoid punishment.
This.
"You're not a dog, Astarion." She says it calmly but firmly, well aware now that he can't hear it, or rather can't believe it or anything nice about himself. She hums softly instead.
"I'm sorry I couldn't have done more while he was here. Normally, I would."
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Astarion shakes his head.
"You've nothing to apologise for, darling," he says, and then seems to consciously emerge from whatever doldrum he's in, his posture straightening. "There's one person I expected to do anything, and he...essentially, didn't. So here we are."
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"Who was that?"
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"My illustrious warden. Who obviously only even bothered to check on what I'd become, because his precious Arthur was in danger."
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"What happened?"
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"At first? Very much what happened to you. Cazador encountered Arthur, interrogated him, then turned him when his answers were unsatisfactory. The difference is that Arthur was able to summon his other half and have him show up in grand dramatic fashion, taking on the face of Cazador's sire and doing everything short of killing him."
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"Would it have stuck?" she wonders.
"For Cazador back home, and on you when you swapped back?"
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"I'm not even convinced he was here, in any...real sense," Astarion says. "But no. Anything that doesn't kill a vampire will heal without trace, in time. And killing him was the least that idiot could have done."
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She wasn't there. She's not inclined to give Arthur the benefit of any doubt, except that she doesn't like to make assumptions overall. Maybe it's possible and maybe it's not.
"Doesn't seem... fair."
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"No. It doesn't. And because Arthur is incapable of hearing criticism of his beloved monster, he claims John held off out of 'respect' for me," Astarion says briskly. Yes, he is approaching full-on bitch venting mode. "Clearly that 'respect' was more important than everyone else Cazador hurt or killed. Really, even if I thought just a little more poorly of him, I'd suggest his nigh-total inaction was his cowardly aversion to the slightest risk of being demoted for killing something even resembling an inmate."
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Her voice is small, for just a moment. She wants to ask if that was before he attacked her, then, but - she can't ask that, can she?
"How many people...?"
answer sliiightly vague due to ongoing threads
"At least one besides you and Arthur - killed, not turned. He...didn't always stay to watch the final moments."
roger
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