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At night, alone in his bedroll, Astarion’s mind wanders. Away from himself, his body, his own recursive and increasingly irritating patterns of thought—it wanders and it wanders until it, eventually, ends up back where it started. Astarion on his knees, entertaining someone else.
He has spent two hundred years fantasizing about freedom—ludicrous dreams, where he is fed, where he is warm, where he parts Cazador’s head from his neck with his fangs—the stupidest, most basic, crudest ideas of what he might do if only he had the power to control himself. And now that he has that control, he fantasizes about someone taking it away again.
Specifically, he fantasizes about Wyll.
For some time, now, Astarion has fantasized about Wyll Ravengard putting him in his place. This isn't a problem, until suddenly it is.
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