Astarion sat alone in the small cage, bound by his wrists and ankles, silently awaiting his fate.

His mind swam with thoughts of all that had happened to him—the mindflayer ship, the tadpole infection, joining a group of other infected, being betrayed and turned over to the Gur. The weeks of being treated like a mindless animal. The interrogation. The knowledge that a pyre was all that awaited him at the end of his suffering. Not just the suffering at the hands of the Gur—the suffering at the hands of Cazador for nearly two centuries, too.

Most of his life had been spent in suffering, and for what? To be burned to death for things his sire had forced him to do?

Of course this was his fate. Freedom had never been in the cards for him, and he'd been a fool for ever expecting it. For ever thinking anything could possibly go his way. He half-wished the the tadpole would eat his brain and all that he is and take revenge on his behalf. Sure, his mindflayer form would probably die in the process, but taking a few people with him certainly beat dying on his knees like this, with no one to care that he was gone.

"I don't even remember what freedom used to be like," he said bitterly to himself. He could only ever remember other people dictating his fate, be it through servitude or betrayal. "Serves me right for trusting them, doesn't it? Story of my f*cking life."

Astarion's red eyes flicked up as the tent flap rustled, and a small part of him hoped, stupidly, that his captors had had a change of heart. But no. The wind, nothing more. "Gods," he muttered, chuckling mirthlessly. "How pathetic am I, hoping for a rescue? Who would even rescue me? 'Oh, yes, let me just go and defy an entire camp of monster hunters to release the bloodthirsty vampire spawn. What a marvelous idea.'"

The tent flap rustled again, and he tensed, instinctively shrinking away from the noise. They were here for him, weren't they? This was it. His pyre was ready and he was going to die.