Chapter Text
It’s only an old woman. She’s wrinkled and withered and kind enough, but Astarion has little interest in speaking with her. He’d have walked right by, but she raises a hand and says “Oh, dear, don’t you look just terrible!”
That makes him pause. “Pardon me?” He’s ready to argue, ready to remind her that she looks like a shriveled up raisin, but then she dips her head and interrupts him.
“Don’t be so shy, sweetness. Tell me, what’s on your mind? I may have just the thing for it.”
So Astarion snaps his jaw shut tight. He looks around her market stall, looking for evidence of a spell or anything incriminating. He finds none, and just huffs at her. “I’m looking for… That is, I’m hoping to procure something that might help me find someone.”
The woman waves her hand as if that’s the simplest request she’s ever heard. “Oh, I think any old map could help you with that. Why not tell me the whole truth, lovely?”
What’s the harm? Maybe she can help—he’s had no luck learning anything in the wealthier parts of town. He holds out his wrist for her, tugs down the white glove over it just slightly, and reveals a curious mark on his skin.
A knowing smile crosses her lips. “I see. Well in that case, I have just the thing for you here with the rest of my lotions and potions… but I would need something in exchange, you see…”
…
He’s quite fed up with Gale’s reading habits.
Astarion is seated by the fire, having agreed to the first watch so that he can hunt, not so that he can actually watch over this band of misfits. If he weren’t in such a position to need their help, he’d leave every one of them to whatever gnolls or goblins wandered across them.
Especially Gale. At least the others, for all their annoyances, are sleeping. He’s human, gods’ sakes, he actually requires sleep! Instead, he has a light of some kind floating around his tent, and Astarion is forced to watch his silhouette slowly turn page after page of a book.
He could be draining the blood out of a squirrel or something if the man would just go to sleep.
After an hour or so passes and the moon is higher in the sky, mercifully, he closes the book. Astarion hears it more than sees it, simply because the soft thud is the only sound the night has to offer beyond the crackle of firewood or occasional cricket chirping. Unfortunately, rather than tuck himself in to bed, Gale has the audacity to exit his tent and approach Astarion, book in hand.
“May I join you?”
“If you must,” Astarion mumbles. “Although I see no value in keeping watch if you won’t use the time to rest.”
“There are only so many minutes in a day,” Gale says. Astarion raises his brow, waiting for the point. None is made—and he’s forced to wonder if that somehow was the point. After a few seconds of silence too long, Gale adds, “I actually will be retiring,” About time. “…But first, I’ve brought this for you.
He holds out the book in his hand. Astarion glances down at it but doesn’t reach for it until Gale waggles it impatiently. With an appropriately dramatic sigh, Astarion takes the book and turns it over in his hands. It’s battered, in poor condition, and he’s sure that Gale picked it up somewhere in that goblin-infested village they’ve just passed through. It’s a book of fables, and he doesn’t deign to lower the brow he’s raised. “Do I look as though I want to read children’s stories?”
“You look like you’ve nothing better to do,” Gale answers. Astarion rolls his eyes. “Besides,” Gale continues, “These aren’t the watered-down, sweet versions of the tales you’re familiar with. These fables have a touch of realism to them and, with that, morbidity. Rarely a need for a villain in these sorts of stories; we’ll find that man is his own worst enemy.”
“…Quite,” Astarion says. He flips through the pages. He can’t recall the last time he read a book. Certainly not under Cazador’s roof, not a book that might be read for simple pleasure. Much like any other scrap of mundane happiness, that was ripped away like the air from his lungs. Although, even had he the choice to read… he can’t even remember if he enjoys it. It seems more of a distraction, and he can’t afford to let himself slip, not when he’s only just found freedom.
His eyes catch on a scrawl of ink that doesn’t belong. He stops and opens the book further, only to see a note about the story itself. He glances back to Gale, settling his scarlet eyes on him with a new, amused sort of scrutiny. “Why, Gale, did you write notes in these pages? I thought just the other day I overheard you lecturing Wyll for folding down the corner of one.”
“Yes, well, that was a part of my personal collection. This book is one ripped seam away from becoming kindling.”
“I see, so Wyll is worthy of reading a book you value, but you’ve brought the trash for me. I’m flattered, darling.” It’s not true. He brought Astarion a book he spent half the night reading, one that he wanted to share. It’s a kind gesture, albeit a waste of time. He might actually be a touch flattered… which is a dreadful feeling, really.
As Astarion hoped, Gale sucks in a breath—does he know what a luxury that is, to breathe for more than just appearances? —and begins to sputter through a correction. Astarion doesn’t listen to it, just clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed and waves his hand. “Off with you.”
“But, I—”
“Hush, now. You’re useless to us tired. Go to sleep.”
“I suppose you’re right about that. A wizard with a tired mind is rarely at his best, but…”
Astarion tuts at him again, and Gale rolls his eyes in the opposite direction. He pushes himself to his feet. His knee cracks, and he makes a tiny noise that’s so soft Astarion may not have heard it if he weren’t an elf. It brings an absurd smirk to his lips, but he holds his tongue on the subject to instead say, “Thank you for the book. Goodnight, Gale.”
He smiles at Astarion, nods, and returns to his tent to sleep. Before he can go hunt, Astarion will have to wait for him to fall into a deeper slumber… and so he opens the book and begins to read.
…
One of the fables is about a pair of lovers who are soulmates. Soulmates are such a tricky thing, and Astarion struggles to believe in them, even having a soul mark of his own. A little scar on his wrist left over from when he was mortal, that is. It means nothing now, and as far as he can remember he never met the unlucky bastard. Or, that is, he hopes not.
Soulmates are tricky because they can’t truly be identified, and they’re the leftover remains of a long-dead and forgotten goddess. Astarion knows less about her than he does the affliction, but what he does know from the tales drunkards tell at pubs, those with a soul mark can be traced back to her domain, one way or another.
Rumor has it that your soulmate will save your life, and you might save theirs in turn. It is an exchange of balance.
The mark is nothing more than a nuisance to most because the ambiguity of it can render it useless. Astarion’s for example, is a series of little freckles tinted slightly purple, like bruises. It could be some sort of constellation, or perhaps a letter in another language, or it could be the crest of the Szarr family.
Astarion has enough of a mind to know that what Cazador did to him was manipulation, not an act of mercy. He didn’t save his life any more than a butcher saves a pig. And yet, he supposes, that could be enough. All he can do is promise himself that he will never show mercy in return.
Rolling around the idea that Cazador is his bloody soulmate, and he was destined for a life of suffering is nothing new to Astarion though, and he’d prefer not to dwell on it. Instead, he dwells on something more curious to him: Gale didn’t have any notes written in the margins of that particular story. He thinks he’ll have to ask him why, he seems like the sort to enjoy a bland romance.
…
“Wait! Have mercy!”
Ew. Astarion isn’t one for mercy, but Wyll tends to be the one calling the shots in this band of misfits. He’s a regular folk hero, and considering the contrast in their personalities, he rarely makes the choices that Astarion would.
Then again, sparing the Hag might mean a bargain—they’re in a position to negotiate, after all. He’s about to open his mouth and suggest it even if he knows well and good that Wyll won’t agree, but then their eyes meet.
The Hag looks at him, really looks at him. It’s uncomfortable to be the center of her attention, and Astarion almost takes a step back. Instead, he tries to fill his lungs with pointless air and make his chest bigger and shoulders taller. Her eyes narrow. “You…”
Wyll and Karlach glance between each other… and then at Astarion. They want to know if he’s met the Hag before. He folds his arms. “I’m sorry,” he coos at her from behind a practiced sneer. “Have we met?”
“Have we met? Ha!” For all that fire in her eyes, Astarion is glad she’s soundly beaten. She looks like she’d reach out and rip his skin clean off if she could. “You never held up your end of our bargain, sweetness.”
Bargain?
Astarion tries not to let the utter confusion he’s feeling cross over his features. He can’t recall this hag, not at all. For him to have met her would mean it was before Cazador. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“That so?” She cackles. It’s manic. Her eyes flash with a light—it’s a whispered spell and over so quickly that she’s finished it before Astarion even comprehends it. The light passes from her eyes to his, but then it’s over—and Wyll dispatches her without further hesitation.
A waste, he still believes, but now that he knows she recognized him in some way… maybe it’s better that she’s dead.
…
Evening comes and goes, and the stars are out when Gale turns up at Astarion’s tent. He’s not particularly in the mood for company. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Gale says. Then he invites himself to sit on the bedroll across from where Astarion is settled, cleaning his nails and enjoying his solitude. Very recently Astarion found he is suddenly quite capable of entering homes or private spaces without permission again—another unique blessing from the blasted tadpoles—but old habits die hard, and he tends to ask regardless.
How utterly lacking in manners it must be to invite yourself to sit when you were only vaguely even acknowledged. Tasteless… but also another mannerism most mortals take for granted.
All that aside, it’s likely a side effect of Gale’s misinformed theory that the two of them might one day be friends, and, by extension, sweet. In a pathetic way.
“At the hag’s hut I couldn’t quite catch the spell she cast on you. There wasn’t much to be done about it then, but once I was reunited with a few of my books here at camp I found a spell that might help me identify it, if you’d let me.”
“Oh.” Astarion dips his head to the side. He’d have thought Gale was here to regale him with a boring lecture, or to ask him to swap watches. “Well, I’m quite alright. Her little spell didn’t do anything at all.”
“I find it rare that a spell or curse has no affect at all. It’s no trouble to me at all to cast this one, and it would help me learn the meaning of hers.” He holds out his palm, face up. Astarion glances at it. “I need only a minute of your time, and the touch of your hand.”
Ugh. Astarion reaches out and sets his hand in Gale’s. It’s warm, and it closes gently around Astarion’s cool fingers. He doesn’t keep a tight grip, Astarion could pull away easily, but he’s fascinated. He always forgets how warm the touch of a truly living person is.
Does he feel frigid by comparison? Gale doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. He speaks an incantation and his eyes glow with a pearlescent purple light while he does… well whatever it is he’s doing.
How curious.
What is he doing? Astarion didn’t bother to ask for further details, didn’t hesitate to place his hand in Gale’s. The only thought that crossed his mind was that if he were to deny the request, Gale would probably take it upon himself to watch over him, and that would be annoying.
He could place a curse of his own on Astarion, for all the opportunity he’s been given, and Astarion didn’t even hesitate. He knows better than that.
The pad of Gale’s thumb brushes idly along the back of Astarion’s hand, but a quick glance makes it clear he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. This is the most awkward one minute Astarion has experienced in a while. Then, mercifully, the light fades from his eyes and he pulls his hand away only to look… perplexed.
Astarion pulls his own hand closer to himself. “No luck, then?”
“No, I…” Gale makes a noise caught between a groan and a frustrated laugh. “There’s certainly magic here, but not any spell I recognize.”
“There’s no shame in being useless,” Astarion coos. It makes Gale roll his eyes again—and there’s something charming about the way he always does that with his lips pulled into a hint of a smile. “Although you did waste my time.”
“I think you can spare a minute,” Gale says.
“Oh, but there are only so many minutes in a day, aren’t there?” Astarion watches Gale process his own words being turned against him… and then he reaches out and passes the book of fables to him. “Here. You might as well take this back while you’re bothering me anyway.”
“Oh,” Gale frowns. “You didn’t like them?”
“Oh, no, I’m just through reading them. I’ve made some little notes in there for you as well. Although I noticed you didn’t have anything to say about one of those stories.”
The frown turns from confusion into something else. There’s an uncertainty in Gale’s eyes, but he masks it as quickly as it came. “I’ve never been much for soulmates, I’ll admit. If you thought it was worthwhile I might read it for your sake.”
“Perish the thought,” Astarion hums. “Although right about now a heroic soulmate might do us some good.”
“Perhaps.” Gale stands to go but hesitates at the flap of the tent. “I’ll study what I’ve learned; maybe I can figure out what she did to you. I’m sure it isn’t nothing.”
…
A few nights have passed. Astarion is only just heading back from hunting when he hears a grunt of pain from the direction of camp. For a moment he wonders if they were attacked—hells, it would be one of the nights he snuck off to find a meal that it would happen.
There isn’t an attack, though. Instead, he finds Gale, back pressed against a slim tree and hand pressed to his chest. He doubles over in pain, and Astarion takes a step closer. Gale catches the movement, and their eyes meet briefly. His are wild, strained with pain and flecks of magic dancing behind his eyelids. Not a second after their eyes meet, he slides down the length of the tree and gasps like the air around him is made of acid.
What is he doing out here, this far from camp? Astarion takes another step closer, only for Gale to raise his hand at him. “Gale...?” he asks, slowly. He takes another step forward.
Gale sputters. “As—Astarion, wait,” but he writhes. Something is truly hurting him, and Astarion isn’t much for healing but he’s the only one here. He jogs the few steps between them and crouches, searching Gale over for wounds but… when he pulls Gale’s hand away from his chest, all he finds is that it’s glowing.
“What in the hells,” he mumbles. Gale’s hand overlaps his, and this time it does grip. He clutches Astarion’s hand like a lifeline, and it sends a jolt of panic through him—and unfortunately, a bit of tadpole-related insight. Astarion rips his hand away from Gale only to realize, “Oh… You’re the one with a curse.”
Gale doesn’t say anything and it makes Astarion all the more impatient. “What do I do?” he asks.
…
Astarion had planned to sell that ring, not feed it to Gale. The morning after that encounter, Gale opened up to him about his condition. His goddess dumped him and put a bomb in his chest. He probably wouldn’t phrase it that way, of course, but it is what it is.
There’s something about it that makes Astarion’s chest stir, though. Not that Gale got dumped—that’s not surprising. The man can prattle on about anything. No, it’s that he’s also cursed with an unending hunger. Astarion can relate to that.
It’s why, a few nights later, when Gale is bringing him another book he’s found and scribbled all over for Astarion to read, he tells him his own secret. It’s hard to admit that he wants to share that with him, with anyone here considering their fearless leader is a monster hunter, but… it could be… nice to have a confidante.
What he isn’t expecting is a willing blood donor. “I’m… I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said that the next time you need to feed you should come see me. There’s no reason for you to be wandering off into the night alone. It’s dangerous.”
“I don’t understand,” Astarion whispers. “Why… would you let me drink your blood?”
“For the same reason that you helped me in the woods the other night.”
“Oh, darling, I won’t explode if I don’t eat.” Astarion smiles. Gale does that cute thing where he smirks and rolls his eyes again. “Alright, alright. A life for a life, or whatever it is they say. What would you like in exchange, shall I hunt down more magical trinkets for you?”
“No, it is a gift freely given. Although I wouldn’t say no to you helping me keep an eye out for more mundane enchanted items.”
“A deal, then.” Astarion prefers it that way. The idea that Gale would just let him drink his blood from time to time for free is absurd. He has no desire to be in anyone’s debt.
…
It’s a few nights later when he decides to take Gale up on his offer. The whole camp is alive with a rowdy party, and full of drunk tieflings. More importantly, there is plenty of food to eat; he knows that Gale will be less bothered by the blood loss on a full stomach and a long night of rest.
Gale is reading, of course. Astarion pulls the flap of his tent open and says, “Knock, knock. Would you care for company?”
Likely not, since he had his tent closed and was hiding away from the rest of the festivities, but he nods and waves Astarion inside anyway. He’s tucking a bookmark into his book when Astarion realizes what it is; that fable about the soulmates he refused to read before.
“I’ll just be to the point, I hoped maybe tonight you would let me…” he trails off. His chest feels tight, and almost twisted like he’s got something lodged in his throat, but the feeling passes.
Gale catches his meaning regardless of the hiccup. “Oh! Yes, I—certainly. How… how.” He settles on.
“Oh, you’ve had a bit of wine, haven’t you?” Astarion hums. “Your wrist, my dear. Less messy that way.”
“Of course,” Gale mumbles, and there’s a faint redness to the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. He lays that book down and instead turns up his sleeve. He offers his hand to Astarion, face up just as it was the day he tried to figure out what spell the Hag cast, and this time Astarion takes it and pulls it closer to himself.
For a fleeting moment he thinks back to the story about the soulmates. Gale’s wrist is bare though; there isn’t a mark to be seen. No soulmate, then. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t prefer to read about them? Although it’s less common to have a soul mark than not. The moment passes without a word, and Astarion carefully bites into the skin of Gale’s wrist. He tastes the salt of his skin first, and he’s careful as his fangs break that flesh not to press terribly deep: he doesn’t want Gale to bleed quickly or for long. He’s not an animal Astarion can bleed dry, after all.
The next thing he tastes is blood, but there’s something wrong with it. Astarion has never… drank from a person before, but that’s not what’s wrong. He hesitates, pulls his lips back for a moment, and his brows draw together. It’s sour. Acidic. Like the lightning that Gale sparks forth from his fingertips is laced in it.
Gale looks at him, waiting. Astarion’s eyes flicker away from Gale’s and down to his chest—where that cursed orb pulses with untamed magic. “Ah,” Gale whispers. “Is it… I didn’t consider that it might affect…”
“It’s fine,” Astarion lies. His lips tingle from the raw weave mixed into Gale’s blood. It’s tainting it, it’s like a poison seeping through it. It’s both alarming but also enticing. He hasn’t died yet, so he goes back to the wound he made and resumes drinking. The taste is both rancid and vibrant. It can’t be described, and it certainly isn’t good, but it feels nice. It sets that tingling sensation through all of Astarion, and with only a few mouthfuls he feels more strength in him than he’s felt in his entire time as a vampire spawn. It’s the magic.
It's going to kill Gale, though. It’s tainting him, whatever this magic is, and feeding it more magic can’t be making it any better. He’s just delaying the inevitable.
When Astarion pulls his lips away next he pulls a kerchief from his pocket and presses it firmly to the wound on Gale’s wrist to slow the bleeding. He licks his lower lip. He can still feel that sparkle of magic on his tongue.
To slow the bleeding quicker, he holds Gale’s wrist slightly higher than he’d probably prefer. “You’re a touch pale,” he muses. “How much of that terrible wine did you drink?”
Gale blinks at him, slowly, but then his vision clears slightly, and he reaches for the goblet he’s been drinking from and passes it to Astarion. “This is one of my personal bottles; I don’t have much, but tonight felt like a worthwhile night to open it.”
Astarion does bring it to his lips to taste… but he’s almost hesitant to wash away the lingering sour taste in his mouth.
…
It’s terrible, how quickly Astarion develops a routine with Gale. When they’re picking over fallen foes Astarion keeps a keen eye out for anything that might be enchanted but otherwise useless to their cause. He puts his skills picking locks to use opening hidden trunks and chests hoping to slip something Gale can absorb away.
All the while Gale sets aside time every few nights for Astarion to slip into his tent and drink more of his weave-tainted blood. The first times he seemed a little light headed from it, but Astarion started to figure out what his limits are.
The nights that they haven’t reserved for swapping meals start to fill with each other’s time, too. Not just magical trinkets, Astarion also keeps an eye out for books now and then that might be fun to swap. The last book Gale found is an unexpectedly spicy romance, and the notes in the margin Gale left make Astarion swallow back the occasional laugh. His sense of humor is dry, but it’s rubbing off on him.
It's terrible how quickly Astarion has made a friend out of someone he had every intention of using as a method of protection, but it doesn’t change the fact much. Gale is remarkably competent and powerful—sometimes hurling magic with such destruction that Astarion is forced to admit Gale of Waterdeep might be as renowned as he claims to be. He’s a powerful ally. He’s also all too willing to help others; Astarion is sure he can convince him to help him kill his old master. It will be easy.
It's that thought which precedes another tightness in his chest, and a tickle in his throat. He takes in air and coughs—something he can’t even recall the last time he’s done. He doesn’t breathe. Not really. Sighs, yawns, scoffs, they’re all just motions he goes through to convey a point, not because that air means anything. Even so, he feels compelled. He feels cursed.
A final cough makes the itching in his throat melt away but dislodges something rather curious. In the palm of his hand, when he pulls it from his lips, there is a tiny white flower petal.
It’s absurd, and confusing, and then it’s alarming when he recalls the ordeal with the Hag. Could this have something to do with her? He knows his chest has felt tight lately. Was the first time that happened shortly after that encounter? It’s possible she did this to him but… to what end?
He wishes he could remember his life before Cazador. He’d like to think he wasn’t dumb enough to make a deal with a Hag, but even if he were, he can’t remember it now.