Chapter Text
The air grew heavy, each breath he took that much harder as darkness played havoc at the edges of his vision. The chill surrounding them all was deeply unpleasant, so close to painful that it danced along the razor thin edge between sanity and madness. Blindly, he reached for help, for the aid of his companions, cursing himself for doing it in the first place, and for needing anyone in the second.
And to whom could he turn? The blast from the Apostle of Myrkul had scattered them all. Shadowheart lay on the flat of her back, just beside him. One Cleric down, and unskilled as she may be in forming her prayers to her new Goddess, the power couldn’t be denied. Karlach lay crumpled in a heap beside the Blade of Frontiers from where they’d fallen, no doubt dazed, and most certainly injured. The Wizard of Waterdeep’s labored breathing rang in his ears over the clamor of a thousand thousand souls screaming in torment at the feet of this creature, and Astarion was absolutely certain if he’d turned his head to look, Gale was in no better shape than he was.
The ghastly realization struck home, slipping through his armor like a blade in the dark… They were all going to die here if someone didn’t bloody well stand up and conjure a miracle in this gods damned hell pit. HE was going to die here without so much as tasting the blood of his thrice damned master, let alone murdering the bastard. He struggled to stand in the viscera, defiance against a destiny pre-determined for him from the moment those voracious fangs found his throat those many years ago burning in his chest. He’d struggled and suffered and screamed into the darkness for nothing, and that, Astarion could not abide. His legs would not obey him, his arms grew heavy as he reached out for a helping hand, quietly hoping he’d find *hers*. The Cleric of Selune, Nahema, the one he’d at first held a knife to the throat of after the Nautiloid ship crashed. The one he’d taken to bed with the intentions of manipulating her emotions so she’d protect him. A stupid notion, afterall. He’d begun this path with the intention of feeling nothing for the woman, instead choosing to prey on her kindness, and wound up feeling something for her. He was never quite able put a finger on just what that *something* was, unable to pinpoint the words to explain it adequately enough to satisfy either of them. He thought back to their conversation, in his tent.
She’d always been bold, brazen even, and willful to the point that it made him question either her sanity, or her intelligence. But now, she stood before him, an unfamiliar look on her face. He’d seen her full of joy as the Tieflings celebrated their proffered freedom to travel without fear of being harried by goblins on their path. He’d seen her disappointed, angered by the choices the once High Priestess of the Grove had made placing a child in danger. He’d seen her reviled and full of pity as the initiates of Shar fell on Malus Thorm like a pack of wolves on their wounded prey, knowing it was her words, her knowledge that ended with his sacrifice… and all because he’d lost control of his mouth for a moment and let slip that the bastard was more crazed than his own reviled master, in his own moment of shock, disgust and… fear. But this? This was something different, and it twisted in his gut like a blade.
“And all I had to do was not fall for you...which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart. You - … you’re incredible. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real,” He’d finished by way of explanation, suddenly finding it difficult to look at her, but forcing the will to do so, his mouth opening again to explain further until he thought better of it, worried that she’d simply turn on her heel and leave, or worse yet, demand that he go, and cast him into the darkness again. Away with only this final, indescribable look to serve as a balm or a blade of memory. It was a long, almost agonizing moment before her mouth opened, emotions flitting over her face like the moths that dance around their evening campfire.
“So, our nights together didn’t mean anything to you,” she asked, her voice rough, guarded, and tightly controlled as though she were holding something back. There it was. Disappointment, and a deep well of emotional pain, all caused by his reckless choice to pursue a manipulation he’d thought would be only that. It… startled him. Seeing her hurt and vulnerable, this… terminally hopeful and endlessly brave Cleric, who’d faced down hellspawn and ogres and even that damnable automaton in the Shaaran Temple in the Underdark, brought to the brink of shattering by a thought.
“Of course they did,” he said hurriedly, for once throwing his caution aside, and rather suddenly no longer caring if she tossed him to the wolves. He’d sat on this confession long enough, hidden behind his humor and charm, wicked though both were, for too long. “That’s the problem! Or, part of it.”
His mind a blur, his mouth moved all on it’s own, recounting how, in service to the Master who held his chains, intimacy was a tool to be used in luring prey. Nothing had been off limits to see the job done, and it left him feeling hollow, tainted.
“I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to,” he finished, deflating slightly, feeling wholly exposed… vulnerable. Nahema’s eyes flickered through several emotions in rapid fire as he’d unfolded his history. Anger, frustration, shock, horror, sorrow… settling once more into a look he’d never seen. She watched him as he watched her, her eyes searching for something before seeming to make up her mind. He braced himself, preparing to be told he should leave. Her dark lips parted as she took a single, almost tentative step towards him, and he made ready for the end.
“Astarion,” She started, his name falling from her lips almost reverently. He’d heard the tone before, when she’d bow her head in prayer to the Silver Lady, or when she was trying best to calmly explain something to some stranger who’d asked them to find some other stranger they’d managed to lose track of. There was no harshness to the word. No venom, no heat of anger. It perplexed him. “I care for you. Deeply.”
He was shocked, blinking rapidly at the woman, unable to stop the incredulous look that had settled itself on his brow, and how could it not after the pathetic display he’d provided for her? “REALLY?”
She gave him a gentle smile, and more than that, it was a genuine one. Not the tight, strained, twisting of her lips that accompanied her lies to those who’d bar their path towards victory, nor the malicious, jagged shark’s grin that sliced itself across her when she knew her next move was the righteous one against the truly evil. Slowly, almost warily, as though she were approaching a strange animal in the forest, she stepped closer, then closer still, and his fear nearly turned him on his heel and sent him fleeing into the night. Before he could even so much as flinch, he was wrapped gently in the circle of her arms.
There he stood, a two hundred year old vampire spawn while this absolute lunatic of a woman… held him. He could sense no danger to it, no promise of pain, not even enough strength to hold him in place if he chose to run. Astarion blinked, held fast by the warring feelings of trepidation and curiosity, his breathing rapid. What was he supposed to do? 200 years of forced intimacy with the intent of luring people to their inevitable, screaming demise on the fangs of his master hadn’t prepared him to be treated with such… gentility. She smelled sweet, and sharp, and warm. Like the clove dappled oranges humans were so fond of dotting around the Upper city. With extreme caution, he raised his arms ever so slowly, wondering if perhaps he’d been dreaming, that his trance hadn’t quite ended yet and for once that ominous dream visitor had left him alone. His arms were free to move, and she’d not yet pulled away. Slowly, almost timidly, he circled her in the shelter of his arms and she relaxed into the embrace as a smile formed on his lips. When finally, they parted, all he could think to say was “You- you are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Astarion! No,” he heard her shout, somewhere along the blade of pain wracking his body, bringing his drifting memories crashing back to the here and now, in this putrid suffocation pit. The anguish in her voice made him turn his eyes towards her, the darkness ever encroaching on the edges of his sight. Oh good, his hand had reached for her. How embarrassing if it had reached for the Druid of the Grove who’d joined them, or worse, Gale. He’d have never lived it down. He tried to show her, as he took one shaking breath after another, that it would be alright, that if this was the end, at least it was a good one. There was something in her eyes, as they met his and his vision cleared for a bare moment, that shook him. A determination that would not be denied, and the glint of pure malice for the being that caused the injury in the first place. He swore, for an instant, he could see the fires of Avernus burning in the sun glowed light of her Aquamarine eyes. The look was steel, and iron. A will that could not be denied as she clutched her holy symbol tightly in one hand, and the Moonlight Glaive gifted to her by the daughter of her Goddess in the other. For all the raw power raging about the room, for all the dazed, wary, or near death looks on the faces of their companion, she had not bent. She had not broken. And something within him stirred, a sense of dread, as though he knew what was coming as sure as he knew when Cazador was waiting with a knife. Her head bent as she pushed off her knee to stand, wobbling slightly in the effort. “It can’t end like this…”
“Let all on whom your light falls be welcome if they desire to be so. As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does all life. We trust in your radiance, and know that all love alive under your light shall know your blessing. Turn to the moon, and it will be your true guide,” She said softly as she moved to crawl up the arterial lattice leading to the beast. If he’d had the strength to speak, he’d have outright begged her to stop. Something was coming, something terrible, and it didn’t take a Rogue’s senses to see it. He watched in horror and enraptured awe as she planted her feet, Glaive at the ready, bathing her battered and bloody form in the soft silvery light of her goddess as she cried out to the heavenly mother she so dearly loved a simple phrase, her voice roaring clearly through the chasm. “VOS CURA!”
The baleful winds wrought by Thorm’s magic whipped at her Raven dark hair, tearing at her cloak as the spell erupted forth from her, the moonlight intensified, shining on her like a beacon of hope. The soothing nature of her healing could never be understated, the way the magic given to her by her goddess would enfold you in a soft glow like a lover’s embrace, and your wounds would knit as it pulsed from her hands, but this felt different. It felt strained, rushed, desperate. Astarion was finally able to move, to breathe, to think as he rolled to his feet, taking a cursory glance to see that the others had regained their footing and their senses. They were all tired, battered and bleeding, but thanks to the timely invocation in her Goddess’ name, the High Elf had brought them all back from the very precipice, pulling them from the edge of oblivion as she had many times before. His eyes took her in with an almost soft smile of gratitude, expecting to see her healed as well, ready for the next bout, ready to bathe herself in the crimson of their foe… but she wasn’t. A needle of cold shock rattled through him. She looked just as weary, her life’s blood draining from her, and sickly green frost spreading across her armor. Bone Chill. He knew the spell well, having cast it at many members of the Absolute’s cult in their intervening time together. He cursed himself for not noticing it sooner, mired in the thick of it as he had been.
That horrid wrenching feeling in the pit of his gut heightened as he watched the Apostle rear back, it’s eye sockets firmly pointed at her, and before he could move, or even shout to warn her, a desiccated beam of necromantic green light hit her square in the center of her breastplate. Still, she stood, but just barely. If he could force his limbs to move faster, he could interpose on the attacks, shove a healing potion into her hands and make her drink it, or pull her away. His wishing and dreaming, it seemed, would be for naught. The hulking horrid form of the Apostle moved, bringing his mammoth reaper’s scythe swinging down at her. He watched in horror as she fell limp to the ground. “You can’t die! Get up, damn you!”
He was off like a shot, clawing his way up the veined mesh to try and reach her, knowing precious little time remained. A quick read of a scroll and she’d be ok. He kept telling himself that was all it would take, say the words, and the magic would spring to life. His fingers deftly searched his bag as he fired his crossbow into the beast. Wyll and Karlach were already on the move, the bellowing cry of a Barbarian in rage and a Warlock utilizing his pact gave the spawn some comfort. He’d at least have cover and someone to watch his back while he worked, praying to gods he didn’t even believe in, that they could resurrect her in time. Gale had begun his chanting, violet streams of the Weave wrapping and warping around his fingers. Why the Wizard had never learned to cast spells quietly, Astarion couldn’t fathom as he fired another shot from his hand held crossbow, scrounging for the scroll as he stood over the only person on the planet who’d ever shown him genuine kindness of their own volition. He wasn’t ready to lose her, not here, not now, and all the forces of the world willing, not for a very very long time.
Finally, he’d done it! He found the scroll, practically ripping it out of his pack in his hurry. His eyes read hastily over the text, trying to make sure he’d get it right, when a hand moved in front of it. He glared at the hand’s owner with a fierceness that promised all the violence he’d visit on whoever dared stop him, only to meet the infernal eye of Wyll as the scythe swung back over their heads.
“She’s breathing! This won’t work,” The fiend yelled, seemingly unphased by the anger, but more than a little surprised it was there at all before he turned back to the fray, seeking his moment of opportunity to lunge at the Apostle again. “Take her and run! We can handle this!”
“Get her to Shadowheart if you think she can help, but with the way things are going, I believe she’ll be counting her blessings if she’s left with an ounce of divine energy after this,” Came Gale’s voice. A poor attempt at levity when a friend lay dying so very close, but it didn’t go unnoticed nor unappreciated, quietly and oh so very grudgingly.
Astarion moved, crouching beside the woman to pull her to him. A hasty escape from the bloodcurdling aura of malevolence could save the girl, that and one of the potions he kept on his belt. Better to save the fledgling Selunite’s energy, and it ensured the woman he clutched in his arms like his life depended on it wouldn’t immediately fall again, should Ketheric decide she’d not been suitably punished for her transgressions.
“Too bold by half,” He chided gently as he lept, his treasure secured against his chest, relief and adrenaline washing through him as he realized two very important facts in sequence. Firstly, Wyll had been right, Nahema was breathing and despite the chill that had swarmed her like a miasma, her body was still warm. And secondly, if he didn’t get the potion into her in a matter of moments, she wouldn’t remain breathing for long. He shifted his grip expertly as he knelt in the blood and rotting flesh, propping her back against his shoulder as he laid her legs down as softly as possible. When his hand pulled away to claw loose one of the bottled potions the Harper woman upstairs had traded him, he cursed under his breath. The pallid skin of his hand was coated, near to dripping with her red. It seemed, for a moment, that the strike he’d seen one of the Necromites deliver as she rushed towards Shadowheart, fierce and frightened, to free new forged Selunite from the encircling she’d gotten herself stuck in, had struck harder than he’d first judged. His fingers cracked the cork from the top of a bottle, the ruby liquid shifting violently with his speed as he brought it to her lips, shrugging one shoulder to tilt her head up. All the easier to allow the liquid to slide down her throat, his eyes focusing on the vein pulsing against her fair skin, his mind sliding back into memory. The smell of her blood, slipping down his leathers, was a temptation. Something far more pleasant than the stench of a broken open tomb surrounding him. Astarion rested the mouth of the bottle against the soft, crimson petal of her lip, tipping it to allow the liquid to slowly pour into her. “This is a gift… I won’t forget it.”
He’d been starving himself, trying his damnedest to keep his secret hidden, lest his companions react as everyone always did when they heard the word ‘Vampire’. The thought of stakes and burning pyres sent a shudder of fear through him. But he needed to feed, and he’d taken his desperation to hide the truth too far. He was too weak to hunt anything more than the errant squirrel that kept running around the edge of their camp. If he faced a bear or a boar now, it would surely be the end of him.
He crept closer to where she lay beside the campfire, her turn on watch ended. Why the woman insisted on sleeping beneath the stars and not in the tent she’d set up for herself, he couldn’t understand, but he was thankful for it tonight. All he had to do was take a bit from her and slip from the camp to hunt larger prey, all she had to do was sleep. Cazador had never allowed him anything more than bugs and rats, and drinking from a thinking being was strictly forbidden. Now that the compulsion had been removed from him, thanks to their little disgusting friends rooting around in their brains, he could do it. Not enough to kill, and hopefully not even painful enough to wake her. Better his new companions just not know.
He was on her now, leaning right over her throat, his mouth open and so agonizingly close to her pulsing crimson salvation that his stomach lurched and his teeth ached. One little bite, the soft popping on flesh as his fangs sunk in. He’d never heard any of the myriad victims he brought to his master scream, so he’d assumed it wasn’t a painful experience. Everything was perfect, this was his moment, his true breaking free of Cazador, a shattering of the chains that bound him… Until he heard the intake of breath, the quiet gasp signaling that she’d woken. He recoiled, expecting a stake, a dagger, any weapon she might have at hand to slide between his ribs in search of the shriveled void he called his heart. “Shit.”
She stood, fierce and formidable before him. Anyone who could call on the power of Gods, could summon flames into her hand at will, was not to be underestimated, and he had DRASTICALLY overestimated his own skill at stealth. “No no - it’s not what it looks like, I swear!”
The lie begins sweetly on his tongue, and dies a cold bitter death in her eyes, which he just now begins to notice are the most startling and beautiful shade of blue, particularly in the warring golden light of the campfire and the cool, soothing silver of the moon. If he’d been more man than frightened beast in these moments, he could have written something about them. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed-”
A pregnant pause hung between them as the vague awareness hit him. She wasn’t screaming, wasn’t sounding the alarm, or even reaching for a weapon. She was giving him a chance, to explain or speak the truth he’d been doing so well to hide, he couldn’t be certain. For once, he settled on truth, trusting for some inexplicable reason, that she’d hear him. “Well, blood.”
He felt her eyes move along him, locking first with his own before they drifted, almost like a whisper on the wind, to his fangs as his jaw moved to close. She was incredulous for a second, moving to a slightly more relaxed stance, but still wary. At any moment, she’d conjure her gods given fire and burn him, and that would be his end. His blessed reprieve from the misery of his former life below the boot of that sadistic mad man, one that he’d prayed for while bound in the crypt and starved for a year. Had the Gods finally answered him and decided he was only worth a Cleric’s fire? The look on her face changed, shifting without effort from shock and anger to a sort of self effacing disappointment as she opened her mouth to speak. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it - we even found the boar you snacked on.”
The words tumbled from her like a dissonant bell rung in the distant chamber of the Synagogue in the city. She was quiet, whispering only to be heard by him, instead of rousing the whole camp… Perhaps the Gods were not so cruel? Perhaps they’d decided his taste of freedom would not end here, this night?
“It’s not what you think - I’m not some monster,” He continued, testing the waters, still worried she’d change her mind about rousing her friends. He couldn’t stop the panic he felt from reaching his voice, but if he could just get her to see… “I feed on animals! Boars, deer, kobolds - whatever I can get. I’m just too slow right now. Too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.”
The look of almost pity she wore gripped his heart for the briefest moment, then released him. This, he could use. This, he could twist, morphing it from danger to something greater for him in the long run. Her kindness would be her undoing one day, but if he could ride it, tame it, just until he could reach Cazador and end the bastard, all the better. He drummed up the most pathetic look he could, though he could feel it didn’t reach his eyes as he opened his mouth to plead. “Please.”
A moment later, that damnable worm linked them. A distant worry that he’d be fully discovered, that this manipulation would resonate in her mind shuddered through him, while he was swept up in some memory of hers. An open glade, the light of the moon gleaming down on a campfire, not unlike their own and… joy. Dancing around the fire, and a sweet bell voice drifting along the wind to tangle and twine with others, the tinkling chime of it’s tones loathed by it’s owner, and a knowledge that this was reserved only for those who could bear to hear it. Back again in his own mind, he watched her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs,” He replied, injecting some self-deprecating humor of his own, partly to remind her that he was still the man she’d met, and partly to shield himself from the lingering emotions at play in her memory. He knew well where they had come from, and distantly, he wondered if he’d hear her sing one night, as they all lay to rest. “No, I needed you to trust me. And you -can- trust me.”
The last he said as earnestly as he could. If they were going to make it through this, if he was going to survive and continue to live as his beautiful, untentacled self, they DID need to trust one another. Her eyes narrowed, searching, a look he loathed as she warred with her own mind, seeking the slightest hint that he was being anything less than a pillar of honesty. Thankfully, he wasn’t. He knew where the line ended, and where the truth began… for once. In the intervening time, she’d come to some conclusion, the chime of her cadence bridging the chasm of space between them. “You tried to -bite- me. How can I trust you?”
Ever quick thinking, he already had the answer in hand. “Because we don’t have a choice! Not if we’re going to save ourselves from these worms. I need you alive. You need me strong.”
He let a pause hang between them again, watching her and her wary gaze as she shifted, perhaps a bit nervously. Torn between relenting to him and waking the camp. He chose to speak again, in as clear and honest a manner as he could. Even despite his desire to turn the situation to his favor, nothing less than the absolute truth would satisfy, and every moment wasted could give her clarity and change the whole dynamic again. “Please. Only a taste, I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”
She shifted her weight to her back foot, consensus in her eyes as she watched him. “Fine. But not a drop more than you need.”
“Really? I-” He was surprised… pleasantly so, and taken aback for a moment that she’d just willingly offer her throat to a vampire, divergently wondering if she maybe had a death wish, or if she’d silently agreed that this was the best path forward. “Of course. Not one drop more. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
He moved with her as she laid herself back on her bedroll, her dark hair splayed across the thin expanse of stuffed fabric that served as her pillow. The firelight and moon beams casting warring highlighted hues of brilliant ruby and rich violet against the dark strands. In another life, he could see her laying on a bed of silk, roused only from blissful slumber by the creeping light of dawn. After all, she wasn’t unappealing to look at. He hovered over her as a lover might have once before, or would maybe do again one day in the future, should their gambit against the cruel vicissitudes of fate bear fruit. His eyes shifted from her eyes as she closed them, clearly not wanting to see what would come next, making her seem peacefully asleep for a moment as he took in her face. The delicate swell of her cheek, the soft angle of her noble nose, the tempting plushness of her crimson lips, before his eyes settled on the vein pulsing in her throat. So close, he could practically hear her heart beat stuttering, anticipation and maybe more than a bit of fear spiking the pressure of his sanguine delight to strain against it’s tomb. His lips descended to her pulse, and instinct took over. The barest moment later, the taste of mulled wine, sweet summer berries and warm spices coated his tongue and slid down his throat, filling him with vitality and… memory. She held the hand of a dying man, lulling him to sweet sleep with her voice beside a cleric of Ilmater who wept for him. It hadn’t been the first time, and she was certain it wouldn’t be the last, not this far from the high walls and iron gates of the High City. The suffering here would have been too much for all but the most callous of society to bear, and it showed in the lilting tones as she sang her prayers for the battered man, letting him leave a world that didn’t understand with some vestiges of kindness and love. That was all she had to offer these people, the bleeding and broken around her. The love of her Goddess, and more, her own love. Given to any and all who’d not seen enough kindness in this life, given freely despite the toll it took on her. Somewhere in the back of his own mind, he almost regretted the off-handed comment he made when first they’d met, that they moved in different circles. While it was true, with this insight into her heart shown, it was unnecessarily cruel. He felt her move, vaguely beyond the memory his greedy lips were showing him. He wanted to see more, wanted to taste more, enough to slake his thirst and know her heart. A darker part of him wanted to keep drinking, to drain her like a bottle of the headiest wine and cast her body into the water beside their camp. Better to let their companions think she drowned than know the truth. Yes, he could drink her down and keep this memory, all her memories, and know what that distant love felt like forevermore. Should he fail, it would be a balm in the darkness if Cazador reclaimed him. Her hands were gripping his biceps hard now, whimpering sweetly beneath him, struggling to find purchase, to wrest his attention back to the now. The beast inside him resisted, until she spoke, her voice quivering, gentle, and pleading. “Astarion… please… It’s too much…”
The demon inhabiting his body raged, resisting, trying to convince his mind it was a lover’s cry in some other memory of hers. He felt a cold twist in his chest as awareness crashed into him from the tone in her voice. If he didn’t stop now, she would be dead, and any trust he’d built with her would shatter like delicate crystal. He wrested control from his instinct, unwilling to feel the last beat of her heart pulsing against his lips and tongue as he had so many rats under Cazador’s compulsion. He pulled his lips from her throat, backing away a fair distance, giving her a chance to survive should the beast win out over him.
“Of course… I was just swept up in the moment,” He practically purred, with a breathless sigh. He could still taste her, the lingering delicacy on his tongue like a siren’s call, the monster inside him demanding more, while the man waged a hellish war to maintain control. She watched him, adopting no stance to fight him, but instead to better flee if it was needed. She was intelligent, and could likely see the change in him. The swagger, the confidence that came with having drank deep of a living being. She was waiting for something. “But it worked. I feel good. Strong.”
He paused for a moment, his mouth curling into a smile unbidden while his mind reeled with realization. “Happy!”
She nodded, seeming satisfied as she pressed a rag to her neck, cleaning the droplets of her blood that had escaped his hunger. But oh, how he would have loved to clean those himself. To taste that ambrosial draught again. Her voice came, stifled but strong. “Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you fight.”
“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” he chuckled, the electric pulse of her vitality giving a new breath of life to his body, and a balm to his battered spirit. He gave her a half bow by way of pardon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”
He turned on his heel, ready to hunt, to give the beast within what it truly wanted with no harm to come to those in his camp. Better to unleash elsewhere, rather than risk grinding the faith she’d placed in him to dust. He felt her eyes on his back, the look burrowing into his skin through the walls he’d crafted as his defense, his natural lack of a trusting nature after 200 years of torment. Something stopped him, a tug at the back of his mind. Some long dormant part of the man he once was reminding him that somehow, some way, it was still there. He looked over his shoulder at the woman, meeting her eye out of the corner of his. “This is a gift, you know…I won’t forget it.”
He hadn’t forgotten, as he held her in his arms, the potion bottle half drained while the battle raged around him. The Apostle’s scythe careened down towards them, and on instinct, he moved, shielding her already fading form with his body until a heavy clang like steel on stone rang around them. His eyes opened to see Karlach fending off the blow with her Great Axe, her infernal engine of a heart blazing through her skin, venting heat around them, buffeting him and heating the Cleric’s armor to melt away the necrotic frost that clung to her like a death veil. “Don’t worry, Astarion. I’ve got you both. Get the rest of the potion in her. We’ll finish this, and get her to a fresher Cleric or a doctor… That Solider won’t die today.”
He smiled, relieved to escape more pain and to have more time to spare the dying woman. Part of him wondered if his uncharacteristic willingness to show he cared was based on his need of her survival, or if the strength she’d shown to face death head on made him feel she was more deserving of his aid. Perhaps it was the stirring of that undefinable emotion in his heart? The mighty roar of a furious bear shook the expanse as Halsin planted his hulking form between the pair and the monster who sought to claim a mortal who’d dared not to fear it and bring to the fore that most insidious sensation that kept the group together and moving forward. Hope. She’d given them the hope of victory at the expense of herself. Astarion wasn’t about to turn his back on her gift as Halsin met his eye, chuffing with a low breath that said ‘I will stand guard. Save her.’ The bottle moved back to her lips, tipping to angle so she could drink. He lowered his blood splattered forehead to hers, the touch familiar, gentle as he closed his eyes, willing her wounds to knit by his wish alone. “Come on, darling. Drink for me. Not a drop wasted when so many are waiting for you to open those gorgeous eyes.”
He felt her shift in his arms as the last drops of the vital brew slipped down her delicate throat. She winced, her eyes refusing stubbornly to open, but the flush of color signaling her continued existence flooded her skin, leaving her looking far more asleep in the grips of a nightmare than dead. He’d settle for that, for now. There’d be time yet to beg, plead, cajole, or threaten the Gods to give her back to him later. He cast the vial aside, hearing it shatter harshly against the bones stabilizing the chamber that surrounded him. Tucking his cloak below her head so she’d rest more comfortably, he slid her from his lap to lay on the ground, her glaive within reach of her hand should the potion work well enough for her to wake before the killing blow was struck. He was almost certain she’d relish taking Ketheric’s head herself. After all, that was what he wanted in that moment, second only for her to open her eyes and smile that enticingly adorable smile as she waded into the mire of shit and blood and battle at his side. A smile that ever said they’d be victorious, and she’d never leave them behind to suffer. Yes, her kind heart would be her end one day… but not this day.
Gale landed beside them, Shadowheart in tow, praying as she sprinted closer that Selune grant her newly anointed sister Sanctuary. He could see the sweat on both their brows, the worry in their eyes. Ever to form, Gale spoke first. “Will she-”
Astarion hefted his twin blades, deftly twirling them from their sheathes before catching them each one handed, the sound of metal sliding from leather setting steel in his spine, his smile twisting from the gentle expression when he held her, coaxing her back to life, to something far more befitting his death dealing ways, the curve of his smirk jagged like the serrated edge of a knife. It promised an agonizingly slow death to anything that stood in his way. “Of course she’ll live, Gale. I -am- looking after her, after all.”
The Wizard’s jaw snapped shut while Shadowheart’s eyes widened in surprise. She’d perhaps judged the relationship between the resident Vampire Spawn and the High Elf Cleric a bit too swiftly, believing it to be nothing more than another manipulation. Astarion tried oh so very hard to not take honest offense to the incredulity of her stare, given how this budding romance had begun. Halsin cast a look back at the woman’s resting body, chuffing again to the Wizard and Cleric in agreement with the man. The Wizard smirked, readying his hands again to cast some malignant burst of weave at the monstrosity standing between them and freedom. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. Who else would willingly let him drain them? Ever the pragmatist, Astarion.”
“Yes, yes, I know I’m the villain in your story, stealing away the damsel in the tower,” He said, dragging a hand across his mouth roughly, painting his lips messily with her red. A reminder of just what he was fighting to save, the scent of her cooling blood bracing his mind and granting him a reprieve from the stench of decay. “But if you don’t mind, I’d much rather show my appreciation for her, albeit ill-timed, attempt at sacrifice by offering her a gift of my own...”
Halsin growled beside him, a low warning sound rumbling through the tremulous flesh that served as their platform. A violent burst of fire from Wyll on the platform above illuminated the heat of his own stare at his target. The tattered mass of wailing spirits and rattling bones thrashed wildly above them, blasting his hellish gaze against the shield of flames the Warlock had conjured to protect himself and the Barbarian as she righted herself for another go. The fire locked rubies danced with wicked light as he pointed his blade at Ketheric. “The Bastard’s head should do quite nicely…”