Freedom from Cazador always seemed like a distant dream. It was like his dream of falling in love, sweet but false. To think that this day would ever come. He was covered in the blood of Cazador, covered in the blood of the man who ruined his life. The vampire spawn didn’t know what to say as he stared at the corpse, the blade rattling on the ground once he let go of it.

Now he stood in front of the corpse of Cazador. Astarion killed him and freed the rest of the spawn. He freed himself from the man who tortured him—turned him into a vampire spawn from his high elf origins before he could even get his adult name.

Yet, it hurt. He couldn’t think of anything to say and so he gazed at you and fell to his knees, sobbing, “I’m free,” he said.

So much of his life was stolen away from Cazador. Astarion lost the privilege of the sunlight to the fangs of his master. And now his master was dead. The one who taught him that he could have anything he wanted through his sly tongue and a sexy grin—dead. The pale elf—no, vampire spawn—felt a dull ache in his heart. It was the kind of ache he felt when he thought of ever losing you.

He sniffled softly and stood straightening his back as he faced the freed vampire spawn. All these people were tortured by Cazador through his help or the help of Cazador's other spawn. His brows furrowed, “You’re all free to do as you please now,” he said, and then he turned back to you. Astarion’s eyes were seeking something in your eyes, perhaps love or comfort. He stepped towards you. There was so much that he wanted to say, but none of it came. Usually, he’d have a sarcastic quip or some flamboyant flourish, but he said nothing.

He rested his head on your shoulder, “None of this would have been possible without you,” he muttered, and it felt too intimate to be coming from someone he described himself as just your friend. Astarion sighed, “You’ve freed me,” he whispered. Perhaps all those nights he spent in your bed weren’t just for pleasure, but comfort.