Chapter Text
Gale's sixty-first birthday was possibly the last day Jamie expected the devil to come back.
It didn't feel like the kind of day where shit goes wrong. No sensation of the veil thinning, no chaos or casualties. There was a quiet celebration in the tower with Gale's fellow faculty, then an evening picnic at Morena's and Tara's graves. The only drama was that letter from Wyll, who apparently so regretted he couldn't make it, the way he does every time he gets one of Gale's invitations. Jamie stopped trying a decade ago. Turns out Grand Dukes don't have friends.
Aging professors of magic don't seem to have many, either. And if Jamie's being honest, neither do sometimes-adventurers who've spent the last twenty years getting real fucking familiar with Waterdhavian liquor.
Jamie leaned against the armchair Gale reads in every night, bundled in his purple blanket that unravels a little more each day. They gave him a kiss on the cheek and a playful "see ya in the morning, old man." He'd swatted them with a blanket corner but smiled, and it struck Jamie that his grin hadn't changed a bit since he'd entered their life. They said as much, and Gale chuckled.
"You're kind to say so, my love," he said, taking Jamie's hand in his, "and I won't argue that my aging has thus far been graceful, but I can no longer pretend to recognize the man in the mirror as readily as I once did."
"C'mon, silly wizard," Jamie said. They brought his hand up to their lips and kissed it the way they knew he liked. "A couple grey hairs don't make you a different person."
"Perhaps not, but what of wrinkles on one's hands? Joints that creak? Or most alarming of all, a mind that nearly could not supply me with the location of my best quill just this morning?"
Jamie angled themself to sit on the arm of the chair. "You forgot where you left it for maybe a minute. It happens. That big beautiful brain of yours isn't going anywhere."
They even tapped the top of his head for emphasis, but Gale didn't seem to notice, too focused on running his fingers over Jamie's knuckles and peering at them with scholarly attention.
"Another version of me would have coveted your blood," he said in a faraway voice. "Elven. Imbued with power. Made to outlive me by a century or more. Ha, you're the one who's 'not changed a bit' since you pulled me from that rock those years ago."
Jamie shifted their weight against the truth of it.
"What about this version of you? Does he covet it?"
For a moment, Gale said nothing. Just kept feeling Jamie's hands, their soft skin and the heat of the blood beneath. Then he glanced up with those warm brown eyes, more tired than they used to be but sparkling with magic as they always had. So kind. So adoring. Jamie's chest ached.
"He does," Gale said at last, "but more than that, he is grateful for the time he's had. The years I've lived! The knowledge I've gained. The love I've experienced," he added pointedly.
Jamie grinned. "You're talking like you're on your deathbed already. Gale Dekarios isn't going to kick it at sixty-one, okay? Not even close. You've got lots more love and plenty more books before you go. Now finish your chapter and swear you'll come get some sleep, 'kay?"
Gale had promised, and Jamie had kissed him again, and they'd taken the stairs two at a time just so he would mock-complain about something something structural integrity.
They found themself smiling when they crossed through the bedroom into the bathroom. They found themself glancing at their bottle of Fireswill on the vanity and wondering if tonight they might do without a nightcap.
Then they found themself bleeding from their eyes.
And they remembered real quick what it feels like when Mephistopheles makes an entrance.
The headache is a spear through the temples. Their mouth tastes like metal. Every drop of blood that oozes out carries the scent of the Hells, and it's not warm like it should be but cold as Cania.
Their brain stem feels coated in ice. They can't stop the shivers running down their spine or the dread pooling in their stomach. The only thought that hasn't been tinged red is that they're glad Gale's still downstairs. That's a gods-given gift.
"Happy birthday, magic man, you don't gotta see me bleed," they mumble, blinking rapidly to try and find a washcloth.
At this point, Jamie's been bleeding slow thick rivulets for several minutes and Mephistopheles hasn't shown up. A bastard and a late one, too. That tracks.
Jamie grits their teeth as a small clot squirms and squelches itself from behind their eye. They barely catch it in the washcloth.
Gods damn it!
"Language, sugar," comes that voice in their head at last, rumbling low and dripping with syrup.
The blood snaking down Jamie's cheeks slows as Mephistopheles makes it his conduit. His words echo inside them, pierce their attention until he is the only thing there is, maybe the only thing that ever was.
"Damnation is serious business, you know. Now, how are you faring of late, Jamie? Long time no bleed."
"Shit—can you give me a minute, man? I'm dripping all over the fucking place and that's not even funny. At all."
"You don't think so?" Mephistopheles drawls. "Made me laugh, at least. I so love a play on words. But I presume that's not highbrow enough for Jamie Dekarios of Waterdeep."
Jamie doesn't mean to cringe. They shouldn't, really. There are bigger concerns than names and places. For example: Mephistopheles manifesting in their head. See also: Blood gushing from their eye sockets.
"I didn't change my name, and you know it," they say anyway. They meant to sound confident. So why do they sound like one of Gale's students?
They can't see Mephistopheles (thank all the powers in the Realms that he didn't decide to visit in person tonight), but it doesn't matter. They can hear him. Sense him. They can picture him looming impossibly tall and shrouded in shadow. They feel in their own bones the languid way he slouches, feel their own mouth mimic the hungry smile on his cool blue lips. He's put his image directly into their head, pulling the strands of their thoughts so he's there—so he's always been there—so Jamie remembers he could wipe away everything from their head in an instant.
Not that Jamie needs reminding.
"I don't think I do know that, doll," Mephistopheles says. "How would I? The interplanar couriers must have lost my invitation to your little ceremony."
"Don't tell me your feelings are hurt." Jamie's run out of washcloths to press against their eyes and has resorted to using Gale's third-favorite bathrobe. He'll live. Bathrobes numbers one and two are safely on the drying line.
Mephistopheles sighs theatrically, and Jamie feels it like a gust of wind in their skull. Then there's a snap, a crack like their brain splitting in two, and the blood stops as if frozen. Jamie gasps, dry and raw.
"Well?"
"Thanks," they hiss. They know they don't need to speak—Mephistopheles can hear their thoughts when he slips into their head like this—but it's pure habit. They peel the sopping bathrobe from their face and steady themself.
A glance up into the mirror confirms everything they already knew: face drawn, eyes bloodshot, muscles tense, hair stringy with sweat, but no real damage. They dab a corner of the bathrobe into the water dish Gale refilled earlier and try to scour the streaks of blood from their face.
Mephistopheles groans in Jamie's head. The vibration rattles down their spine.
"How precious you've become! I seem to recall a Jamie who was happiest when drenched in blood."
"Yeah, well, apparently people change." Jamie lets the bathrobe fall to the floor. They'll pick it up later, maybe.
Mephistopheles chuckles once, abrasive as a slap against skin. Jamie doesn't know what's funny. They do know that they don't want to ask.
They turn around and push themself up onto the counter with their back to the mirror, letting their legs swing. They do this most days, but normally they sit here while Gale shaves, while they chat about students and spells and Jamie's sometimes-job at the Yawning Portal. Not the newly ascended God of Blood.
"Please just tell me why you're here," Jamie says as evenly as they can.
Jamie's eyes roll against their will as Mephistopheles's exasperation grows.
"You mean to say you have no ideas, no theories, no, hm... educated guesses, as to why your dear old deity might call upon you?" Each word rings through Jamie's body like a twisted heartbeat. "You begin to worry an old man. Come now, you're a warlock and a wizard's wife! Give me your best hypothesis."
With a thought, Mephistopheles squeezes Jamie's hands into fists so hard their nails draw blood from their palms. Jamie doesn't rise to it, doesn't make a peep or say a word. That's how he wins.
"I guess you're here to trip," they spit. "To tell me again that you think you're a god."
A mistake.
Well, no. It was intentional. Jamie knows what they did. It was just stupid.
Mephistopheles growls, and the temperature plummets so low it stings Jamie's skin. They feel it then, his presence, his "bite"; it's like two invisible shards of freezing glass ripping into the side of their neck. Blood spurts from them, coating the walls of the bathroom in crimson spray. They feel their heart contract as Mephistopheles grasps it tight in his frigid grip. Jamie's mouth opens to scream, but he chokes the noise in their throat.
Is this it? Oh hells, it is. This is the day Mephistopheles kills them.
He chokes everything, then.
Jamie's lungs shudder but can no longer inflate. Their gasps are grotesque but inaudible. That's good, at least, Jamie thinks as their veins drain dry. It means Gale won't hear. He won't come bounding up the stairs to try and save them. He won't think he can fight off the First Vampire, the entity that holds Jamie's heart far more literally than sweet Gale ever could.
It means Jamie won't have to watch him die, too.
Their psyche is nothing but red fog, just cold space and blood. They feel their body list forward. "Their body." Ha. No, this body is his, and it is separate, now, so distinct from Jamie that they can't even care when it begins to tumble off the vanity onto the floor.
But they never reach the floor. They stop mid-fall, suspended in the air. Then they're placed gently, silently, down on the hardwood.
Mephistopheles releases them all at once.
Jamie breathes so deeply it hurts their throat and devolves into a coughing fit as fresh air wallops unprepared lungs. The temperature rises quickly and makes them dizzy, nauseous. Their heart rockets back into motion. Each beat is panicked and screaming.
Their vision blurs, but they try to focus. They lock in on a nearly-white fist, force it to close, and use the last bit of energy they have to activate their magic. The force of it pulls the blood in, peels it off the walls and back into the gouges Mephistopheles left in their neck. Warmth wriggles through them and drags them back from the brink.
Life essence fuels them once more.
"What the fuck," they cough, "was that?"
"A reminder." Mephistopheles' voice is cold now. Every hint of that sleazy, slouchy, put-upon persona has dried like old blood.
"Okay, well, consider me reminded," Jamie says. Their voice is a croak. The body they live in is shaking. They try to still it, but there's no point, really.
"And consider me disappointed," Mephistopheles says. "I trust you will mind your tongue. I have half a mind to fork it."
Jamie nods. "I hear you."
They hate it, hate themself for playing along, but the devil's display was—okay, fine, it was intimidating. Jamie's scared, alright? Big deal.
"Let's try again!" Mephistopheles says lightly. "I am nothing if not magnanimous. Now, my most spirited Chosen, tell me. Why do you think I am here?"
"To give me an assignment," Jamie says, because that's the only thing it could be. They know this, knew this all along. "It's been ten years since you gave me one. Ten years since you answered me, too. I've, uh, tried to summon you."
"Quaint. Whose feelings are hurt now? And here I thought you were upset with me over your boyfriend's soul. I didn't realize it was merely my inattention that had you studying the bottoms of Waterdhavian whiskey bottles every night."
Jamie's stomach is ice, and it is not Mephistopheles's magic that does it.
"Look, who do you need me to kill?" they snap. "Please just show me who it is and leave me alone. I'll get it done."
They hear his smile widening as his next words reach them. "I know you will."
Jamie's eyes clamp closed. This is familiar. It's how Mephistopheles delivers his assignments. Easier to show them, to implant the mark directly into their memory like some psychic crystal ball, than to hand them a map and a name and a deadline. Jamie prefers it, too.
Well. Normally.
Tonight, it almost makes them wish they'd never forged their pact at all.
Visions swim before them.
A quiet, sun-lit side street in Baldur's Gate. A silhouette of a slender man with curly hair and a fine coat, facing away from Jamie. A clean blade at his hip. He gazes skyward. His shoulders bounce once, then again and again, like he's laughing at something unseen.
Even from behind, Jamie knows this man. This vampire.
"No," they hear themself whisper. "I can't, man. Not him."
Another vision.
A bustling ballroom. Dim, sensual lighting. Wine. Smoke. Food. Blood. There he is again, lounging in a chair Jamie imagines he'd call a "throne." Someone kneels before him. Their head is bowed. They tremble. He strokes their jaw with delicate fingers, leans in as if for a kiss, then wraps a gloved hand around their throat.
"Seriously, Mephistopheles, c'mon," Jamie protests. "Why do you want me to…? You made him this way!"
One more scene.
It's the first time they've really seen him in twenty years, the first vision that shows him straight on. It's him. It's Astarion.
Alone. Flat and still as a corpse on a bloodstained bed. The room is so dark Jamie wouldn't be able to see without Mephistopheles interfering, but he does, so they do. They see silver hair, red eyes, and pointy ears. They see full lips and broad shoulders. They see streaks of blood running down pale cheeks, much like Jamie's own. A scar on his collarbone that Jamie doesn't recognize. A bored expression on his cold face.
Nerves twist in Jamie's gut. What happened to him? What has Astarion done to get on the Lord of Blood's hit list?
The visions fade, bringing the cozy little bathroom back into view. Jamie blinks. The candlelight seems too bright now. Their breaths are out of rhythm. Hm.
"You'll head for Baldur's Gate at first light," Mephistopheles muses. He sounds as close and casual as if he were sitting beside them, reading the names of the books Gale keeps stacked by the bathtub. "All things considered, this is overdue, really."
"Nonono, look, I—" Jamie clears their throat and tries to speak calmly. Like that'll help. Like they haven't learned better by now. "I can't. Anyone but him. Please, Meph."
A cold, incorporeal hand rests on their shoulder. It's not comforting. It's not supposed to be. Jamie fights back an instinct to claw at it.
"My child, do you reckon 'Lord Ancunín' would protest so if your positions were reversed?"
"I don't care!" Jamie shrugs off the hand anyway. "I just don't want to kill him, after everything."
"After what? After you helped him send me seven thousand and seven delicious souls and ascend to unholy power, then left him for a human with delusions of grandeur?"
"That's not how it went!" Jamie yells. They can't help but punctuate it with a slam of their fist against the floor. They don't even care if Gale hears anymore. In fact, they hope he does. Maybe he's right. Maybe together, they can defeat this undead son of a bitch. Lock him in Cania or some shit. Then Jamie won't have to return to Baldur's Gate.
They won't have to be the one who kills Astarion for good.
There is no part of Jamie that still loves the person Astarion became. But once upon a time, Jamie loved the person Astarion was. Jamie also loved a cleric who was finding herself and a tiefling who wanted to live and a young man who missed his father. Now all of them are, in different ways, gone.
That doesn't mean Jamie wants to fucking kill them. Especially not the vampire spawn who helped Jamie learn how to love anything at all.
"Mm, carry on stewing in your thoughts, sugar," Mephistopheles says dreamily. He smacks his lips like he's tasting them. Savoring. "But don't forget it was the influx of souls you served me that made Astarion who he is. That rendered me a god. You understand power, Jamie. You cannot end me. You cannot hope to end me. But you can end Astarion, and you will."
"You don't get it," Jamie tries. Jamie is not the type to beg, but tonight they're getting close. Their accent slips, the Wealthy Waterdeep Propriety they borrow forgotten. "I know him, Meph. We been through so much shit. He was the first person who 'got' me, and I feel like he's not even... like, I haven't heard of him fuckin' shit up in the Gate. And I would've, you know? I pay attention! Does he really need to die? There's gotta be vamps in Cormyr or Barovia getting up to worse."
Jamie hears ice tinkling into a glass. Typical. They're pouring out their soul, and the devil's pouring himself a drink down in Hell.
"I hope you don't expect sympathy," he says. "We had rules about this. Wrote 'em myself! And you broke them, as mortals are wont to do. Tedious habit you all have, but what's a devil to do? This should feel like any other assignment to you. It's your own fault that it isn't so."
"Just tell me why." Jamie flinches when they hear their voice crack. "Why do I have to kill him?"
"It's simple. He's disappointing," Mephistopheles says. He's getting quieter as he speaks, a fading echo retreating from Jamie's mind. He's heading back home.
"Astarion fails me," he says. "And I dispose of all tools that break."
Before Jamie can reply, before they can beg him to take it back or make it right or something, gods, the red tint dissolves from their vision. The remaining bloodstains disappear from the walls like they were never there. Like nothing ever happened.
Jamie blinks. They raise a hand to their cheek. It comes away dry.
But by the time their beloved, worried Gale yanks the door open, glasses askew and bathrobe #2 falling off his shoulder, Jamie is crying.