Chapter Text
There are a few quirks of vampirism which one would only know about after spending enough time around a vampire. Quiet considers it a great privilege to be able to notice these sorts of things. For example, Vampires do not blush. Neither from arousal nor embarrassment, so even when flustered, Astarion’s pallor is perpetual.
However, vampires do flush under specific circumstances. Astarion had casually explained the phenomenon to Quiet the evening after they had wiped out the last of the goblin cultists.
For most of a vampire’s long and miserable life, what little blood is contained in their body is held deep inside, fueling their un-life, and thus causing their paleness. But, when a vampire is threatened, hunting, or otherwise eager to kill, that blood rushes to their extremities and into the muscles of their limbs. This allows even the weaker spawn of a vampire the use of heightened speed or strength despite them still being fundamentally anaemic creatures. At the same time, this bloodrush causes a flush to the vampire’s cheeks.
So, Quiet has technically seen Astarion blush, but only ever when he is in the throes of extreme violence. Additionally, it is a telltale sign that he is preparing to pounce, like the dilation of a cat’s pupils.
Quiet wonders how much confusion this might have caused the victims of Astarion’s ire since he was freed of Cazador’s domination; it must be bizarre, for the last thing you see before experiencing a bloody death to be the rosy-flushed face of a high elf.
Even now, having known him for almost a year, Quiet startles at the sight of Astarion, having just helped them dispatch a pair of trolls, looking more like he’d just been kissed silly.
“You’re staring at my mouth again, sweet.”
Quiet scoffs. “I almost never see you in colour. Can you blame me?” When they touch his cheek, it’s as cool as ever, despite the unusual redness of his lips.
“Not at all,” he says, kissing their palm before turning away and kneeling to rummage around in the rough leather satchel one of the trolls dropped during the fight. He throws some desiccated flesh and bones over his shoulder. “By the way, are you tired? I do believe we’ve been travelling for something close to seven hours now.”
It’s true — they’d been walking briskly through the Underdark all day after a rather disastrous encounter in a temple of Lolth the previous afternoon. Quiet wants to bring Astarion back above ground in the hopes that some familiar scenery will help settle him. As for themself, Quiet can’t deny that they’re getting sick of the feeling of being surrounded on all sides by stone. Selfishly, they want to see the sun and sky again.
They roll their shoulders. “I could do with a rest, but I’ve got another hour in me. Not quite tired yet.”
Astarion stands and grins at them. “I do love seeing you sleepy. It’s adorable, how useless you become.”
Quiet lightly shoves Astarion’s shoulder, sending him pitching sideways. “You got everything you want from their pockets?”
“Of course. These oafs only had a couple chunks of opal on them anyway. I’ll trade them for potions or poison once we’re upstairs. Or,” he adds, striding onwards, away from the battle site, “maybe a new blouse. All this underground camping has left dust and dirt in the seams of every item of clothing I own, and I’m not sure any amount of prestidigitation can get the stink of Underdark out from the cloth. Eugh.”
As they search for a safe spot to set up camp, Astarion notices tracks in the dirt ahead of them. Three pairs of boots, heading in a perpendicular direction to their own.
“How old are these?” asks Quiet. “You don’t think we’re about to have company, do you?”
“How in the hells am I supposed to know? I’m not a ranger, darling.”
Quiet sighs and frowns at the gulley the tracks lead into. “We could follow, quietly, and if they’re still nearby, see if they have anything of value?”
Astarion hums. “That’s assuming you aren’t possessed by a sudden and irrational desire to run errands for these three strangers.”
“I can promise you, Astarion, I will not be accepting quests from anyone today. Not after the tenday we’ve just had.”
So they quietly follow the tracks for no more than another half hour before coming upon an abandoned camp. It looks like all three travellers rested here for a night before moving on. The remains of a fire are nothing more than a pile of ashes, and Quiet finds a forgotten steel tent peg among the luminous Underdark shrubbery.
Astarion is kneeling by the edges of the old camp when Quiet pokes at the crumbling ashes of the fire.
“Totally cold. I reckon they passed by at least a day ago,” they say. “No chance of catching up or being ambushed by them, I suppose.”
Astarion grunts. “It’s for the best. We’re lucky we missed them.”
Quiet peers over at Astarion with a question on their lips before they see what he’s found in the shrubbery on the other side of the camp. He lifts up the remains of a giant rat, a creature almost as big as a dog, which had been tossed aside and left to rot. Quiet grimaces as Astarion lets the corpse flop back to the ground.
“Bloodless,” he states, nudging the beast with the toe of his boot. “They must have shared it between them. It’s almost sweet.” His face is hard and grim.
This is the first evidence of the freed spawn’s activities they’ve come across. It feels unlikely, given the sheer number that were released into the Underdark, but it goes to show just how vast the caverns are. This near-miss might be something of a miracle.
“They’re fending for themselves down here,” says Quiet softly. “That’s a relief. You were worried they’d resort to cannibalism, I remember.”
Astarion sneers down at the giant rat. “So some of them are self-sufficient. But I have a terrible suspicion that most are doing far worse. We still have time to discover the chewed-up corpses of my victims lying about somewhere in these miserable caves.”
Quiet joins Astarion’s side and winds an arm around his elbow. “That’s not fair. You couldn’t have given them a better chance. Besides, what happens to them is their own business. It’s not yours anymore. That was the whole point of you freeing them, wasn’t it? It’s their choice now.”
He sighs. “I hate it when you’re right. It always makes me feel so dirty, but yes, dammit, you’re right. I just can’t help being a little dramatic about it sometimes.”
“And that’s within your right too.” Quiet kisses his knuckles briefly before pulling away again. “Now, I’m tired, and I want this stinking armour off. I don’t think either of us want to make camp here, so let’s hurry up and find a better spot, hm? I think we can still make it to the Harper’s elevator by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Hm.” Astarion stares at the rat for a second or two longer before turning away.
They walk for a few minutes, maybe only long enough for the spawns’ camp to be out of sight, before settling on a sheltered spot out of the way of anything resembling a travelled path. Quiet helps Astarion pitch a tent under the canopy of an enormous glowing mushroom, and by the time the camp is set up, Quiet is yawning and itching to get out of their armour.
After forcing down some dried meat and tough bread, Quiet crawls into the bedroll and begins finger-combing their hair. It’s not utterly filthy, but conjured water and tallow soap can only do so much. Additionally, their horns are getting flaky at the base without any of the horn wax they’d forgotten to bring on this trip. They can’t help thinking about the comforts of a big city: warm baths, soft beds, fresh fruit and vegetables. An adventure in the Underdark always loses its shine after the first tenday.
As if reading their mind, Astarion grunts as he lowers himself onto the bedroll and says, “Thank the gods I literally cannot sweat. This place is beautiful, certainly, but everything that grows and lives here seems hells-bent on making me as disgusting as possible. Spores, slime, ichor, mould… What ever happened to good old fashioned blood and gore?”
Quiet chuckles and closes their eyes. They both undoubtedly smell atrocious but, after days of travelling together with no access to plumbing, Quiet at least has developed a sort of nose-blindness. “I’m sure the hook horrors find you equally as revolting.”
“I’m hurt,” he says, sliding an arm over Quiet’s stomach and settling against them. “But in all seriousness, I can’t wait to be free from the stink of fungal blooms. Perhaps, once we’re on the surface once more, we could travel north for winter? Longer nights means less reason for me to cower like vermin in caves and sewers. I might even be able to walk through an open-air marketplace in the afternoon and not burn to a cinder.”
“Of course,” Quiet mumbles back. “I’ve never seen Neverwinter, or Waterdeep before.” They pause, then add, “I think. I don’t remember.”
A cool hand brushes loose hair from Quiet’s forehead. “Gale would be positively luminous to see you again in person, I’m sure.”
The touch on Quiet’s skin is gentle, innocent. He seems fascinated by the warmth they give off at all times, like a stone left out in the sun. Astarion’s finger follows the curve of their brow and brushes over the vulnerable soft spot of their temple before vanishing again.
They can’t remember the last time they and Astarion slept together. They’ve just been following his lead these past months, happy to wait for him for as long as it takes.
That night in the graveyard in Baldur’s Gate was not the last time Astarion had sex with them, but it might have been the last, and only, time he did so with unambiguous enthusiasm. It’s hard not to wonder if Astarion might have realised on his own accord that sex with Quiet simply isn’t safe or healthy for him. If that is the case, Quiet will not hold it against him (they can’t) and they will be happy with whatever kind of relationship Astarion can still give them (they must be).
Thinking about it, as Astarion’s cold breath dances over their shoulder, only brings up the uglier thoughts from where they hide deep in the swamps of Quiet’s mind; When will he grow bored of them? When will fickle, capricious Astarion decide he has better things to do than follow them around?
Sometimes, it seems like a miracle that the two of them can even act like this. Given what they’d both lost and sacrificed to survive, wouldn’t it be so much easier for them to be bitter, empty, and violently jealous? Perhaps, if the winds of fate had landed them just slightly to the left, Astarion would be a cruel and emotionless vampire lord, and Quiet would be an insane herald of Bhaal. Instead, they are here, together, smiling about silly things, living.
Of course, the shadows of what-would-be still linger behind them both. There is nothing one can do to sever a shadow from oneself.
Sleep is beginning to pull them away from the moment. For now, they sink into the feeling of Astarion stroking their hair, and the weight of his arm over their body.
After a little while, long enough for Quiet to almost slip down into the mists of sleep, Astarion murmurs, “You would really go all the way to Neverwinter with me?”
“Of course.”
“It’s far. And it will be a pain, only ever travelling in the dark.”
“I know.”
Astarion says nothing else.
Quiet sleeps, deeply and soundly, and is only woken briefly some hours later by the feeling of Astarion untangling himself from their resting position. He’ll be going off to hunt, now that his trance is complete. He’ll be back before Quiet wakes up properly. He always is. But when Quiet returns to their dreams, they do so while surrendering to the nightly, baseless worry that they might wake up alone the next day.
The Harpers’ elevator is well-hidden behind an illusory wall. To Quiet’s chagrin, it takes them and Astarion together a full hour to find the right spot in the cliff face, despite a hand-drawn map and lengthy guide loaned to them by Jaheira. When they do finally find it, it’s barely more than a crack in the stone that they have to wedge themselves into and through to find the secret elevator shaft.
“That old witch must have written those directions poorly on purpose,” Astaron spits as he squeezes through the passage behind Quiet. “I’m sure she’s cackling away right now, imagining us fumbling about in the dark for hours on end looking for this blasted thing.”
Quiet, inspecting the lift mechanism, snorts. “You’re assuming she thinks about us at all. I’m pretty sure she has better things to do than play a prank on you, Astarion.”
“Hm. Maybe you’re right. However, though I’d like to think she’s completely forgotten about me, I am naturally very hard to forget. And you, she seemed to have developed a sort of fondness for. Like some kind of a surrogate grandmother.” He leans against the wooden rail surrounding the elevator as Quiet unwinds the ropes connected to the weights. “I’d bet good gold that if we pay her another visit on the rare occasion that she’s spending time with those sprogs of hers in the city, that you could convince her to part with some magic items of considerable potency.”
Quiet gives him a dubious look. “You think all I have to do is give her some big sad eyes and she’ll hand over all sorts of goodies from her adventuring days?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t think she likes me that much. The last time we spoke, she threatened to put the mean end of a scimitar through my throat if I showed any signs of pursuing the urge I had just given up.”
“I believe that’s her way of showing affection, darling. If she truly didn't trust you, she would have put that scimitar to use.”
Astarion watches with rapt appreciation as Quiet rolls up their sleeves and begins cranking the winch to raise the elevator. The platform slowly begins to lift upwards into the gloom above them. It’s a smooth and easy process thanks to the iron weights sliding down the other side of the winch, but Quiet needs to put their back into it nonetheless. At the very least, they’re relieved to know that if they need a break they can pause their winching and the elevator won’t plummet to the floor of the shaft.
“Need a hand with that, dear?”
“Don’t try to pretend you actually want to,” Quiet says with an exerted grin.
Astarion shrugs, smiling beatifically. “Fine. If you insist, I’ll simply stand here and enjoy the show.”
It takes close to an hour for the elevator to rise out of the underdark and into the tunnels connecting the rooms of a Harper cache. By then, Quiet’s shoulders are aching. They step off of the platform and onto solid ground with a sigh.
Jaheira had warned them that the cache would likely be uninhabited if they ever dropped by, but had been tactfully silent about whether or not it’s still in use. Inevitably, Astarion begins sticking his hands into every loose crate and chest he comes across while he and Quiet make their way through the tunnels.
“Our dear Jaheira won’t mind us commandeering some arrows of lightning, would she? They’re hardly seeing any use stuffed in a box down here.” He throws another bundle of ammunition into his bag. “Oh, what’s this? An arrow of teleportation, how fun.”
Quiet placidly watches his cheerful looting of the cache. “We never saw the inside of any of these crates.”
“Of course we didn’t. How silly of you to even mention it, darling. Would you care for some potions of healing?”
“I am running low, now that you mention it.”
“How serendipitous. Let’s have a look…” Astarion digs around in the chest full of potion bottles. There’s a lot of clinks and rattling, and one of his arms plunges to the bottom in search of his prize. “I’m sure I saw one down—ah! ”
Astarion yelps like he’s been bitten. He yanks his hand back and scampers to the opposite wall, pressing his back to the stone and clutching his wrist with his other hand. He’s white as a sheet and bearing his teeth at the chest like a wild animal.
First, Quiet braces for the chest to transform into a mimic. When that doesn’t happen, in the following second, they hurry to Astarion’s side to check his hand.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” For a troubling moment, Quiet suspects Astarion has stumbled across a trap intended to catch thieves in the act. It will be hard to explain it being triggered to Jaheira.
Astarion glares at the hand which he had buried in the chest. “It burned,” he hisses out, sounding almost offended. “It really burned me. I can’t believe I forgot about that.”
“What are you talking about?” Quiet takes his hand and inspects it. The skin on his fingers is slightly pink, like he had just been holding a cup of some piping hot mulled wine, but not burnt. There’s no wound to heal. “What did you just touch?”
He gathers himself, but does not get any closer to the chest. “There’s a bottle of holy water in that chest,” he says. “It’s sealed, but even touching the damned glass hurts me. It’s like trying to hold a tin cup of boiling hot water.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. It’s so very nice to be reminded that I am still a lowly member of the undead after all these decades.”
Quiet goes to kneel by the chest, digs around among the potions, and finds what Astarion is talking about. A single vial of innocuous water, sealed by cork and wax. They hold it up, letting the water slosh back and forth.
Astarion bristles, narrowed eyes locked onto the vial. “Would you please stop playing with that horrid stuff? Just smash it on the ground and be done with it.”
“You know, I’m able to make this horrid stuff myself, technically. Any paladin can.”
“And why in the hells would you ever do that?”
“Holy water can hurt more things than just you, Astarion.”
Astarion sighs. “Given just how many of my fellow monsters I recently freed unto this world, I suppose I can’t fault you for wanting to keep at least some on hand.” He points a finger at Quiet. “But keep that water far away from me. I shouldn’t need to tell you that a single drop of it will scald me worse than bloody acid.”
Quiet tucks the vial of holy water away into their pack and picks out a couple potions of healing from the open chest. “Of course. The same way I never cook with garlic and never wear clothes with silver buttons.” They get to their feet and return to his side. “You’re sure you’re not hurt? I can give you a bit of healing magic to soothe the burn.”
“I’m fine, it was just a shock.” He flexes his hand. The pinkish heat-marks on his fingers have already faded. “You know, Cazador never played with holy water, even when torturing us. He had every tool at his disposal, but never that one. I suppose it would have been too much of a risk of his own precious skin.”
“So you’ve never actually been burned by holy water?”
“No,” he says, fixing Quiet with one of his practised smiles. “And let's keep it that way.”
The many tiny adjustments Quiet has made since defeating the Netherbrain and destroying the tadpoles never seem like anything significant until a moment like this. At times when they and Astarion come upon a shallow river and their instinct is to simply wade across it; they must instead find a bridge. When Astarion is lusting after a certain silk doublet only to find that the closures are made from pure silver; Quiet must spend an evening painstakingly plucking out the thread with the tip of a dagger, removing the closures, and then sewing a new set of brass, gold, or pewter into the fabric. When they are about to spend the day resting in a bothy, they cannot just walk inside together; Astarion must wait for Quiet to enter then give their express invitation for Astarion to join them.
Not once has Quiet hesitated to make these adjustments. It would be a lie to say that they have struggled to keep these little details in mind (after tendays of initially travelling with an Astarion who is immune to every vampiric weakness, it has taken some time to get used to an Astarion who can be completely incinerated by sunlight within a minute) but Quiet has been making a concerted effort to avoid a grisly radiance-related disaster. They would happily bend over backwards if it meant keeping Astarion from more pain.
If anything, Quiet might have underestimated the impact of their efforts. More than once, they have noticed the expression Astarion makes as he watches them replace his silverware, or search a map for a footbridge, or drape a heavy blanket over a thin curtain to prevent sunlight bleeding through.
Never has Quiet commented on that face. It’s the kind of expression they know Astarion would smother under a smirk or rote flirtation if any attention was drawn to it. It’s a delicate expression. It’s an expression which breaks Quiet’s heart in the sweetest of ways. He must know what it means — what this means to Quiet, at least.
Maybe they still don't know what they are to Astarion, exactly. He is inscrutable on the best of days, afterall, and hasn’t made an effort to define this relationship himself. But they don’t mind waiting for him. They hope he knows that too.