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In Astarion’s defense, the goblin priestess had seemed like she would go down in a single stab. She looked frail, old and hunched over, and goblins were hardly known for being sturdy. It shouldn’t have been all that hard to kill her while everyone else dealt with the rest of the horde.
Of course, he hadn’t known she’d be hiding a barbed blade to shank him in the stomach before he could get a chance to finish her off. It had hurt a lot going in, obviously, but the real issue happened when she pulled the blade out. It had left a gaping wound in his abdomen, and while killing her afterwards made him feel better, it did nothing to staunch the bleeding.
He winced as he pressed a hand against his abdomen, hoping the pressure would be enough, to no avail. Blood still pooled against his palm, and he slowly sank into a seated position, the cold stone wall of the temple against his back. He opened his bag, reaching through it in hopes that maybe he’d forgotten about a health potion, or even some spare rags to act as bandages, but no luck. He’d just have to hope that one of the others found him quickly.
How long did it really take 3 people to kill a handful of goblins?
The sounds of fighting still echoed from the adjoining room, indicating that help in the form of a spare potion or spell wouldn’t be coming for a while. When he’d started travelling with them, he’d thought they’d be competent. That assumption was rapidly being challenged, and when he pulled through this, he’d have to seriously consider if he wanted to stick with them.
Though one of them, the cleric, had an artifact that had protected them from the so-called ‘Absolute’s’ control. If he did leave, he’d have to make sure to take that with him.
Astarion groaned, pressing his hand harder against the wound. It didn’t hurt as bad anymore, the sharp edges of pain slowly being dulled by the fog that closed in around his head. He tried to push himself back up to his feet, but found his legs too shaky to make it even halfway before falling back to the floor. His vision swam, his limbs too heavy to move.
Fuck.
It was at this point that the weight of his situation genuinely began to sink in. Without help, he would die. Again.
It didn’t feel any better than dying the first time.
He’d bleed out on the stone, maybe someone would come back for him, maybe someone wouldn’t. Maybe he’d only be found once Cazador sent someone else to collect him, and they stumbled upon these ruins. At least they wouldn’t be able to bring him back alive.
All at once, he felt pain course through his body, hot and bright and electric, and his eyes shot open, his vision still fuzzy. When had he closed his eyes? How long had it been? Where was he?
Every nerve in his body lit up with pain, too much for him to even scream.
An elf stood over him, long black hair, piercing red eyes, their hand on his chest. They were the source of the pain. He had to get away. Had to get out.
In raw panic, he tried to thrash, to reach for his blade, but his limbs were all pins and needles, unable to fight back.
“Hold still. I’m not doing this for fun, you know.” Their voice snapped him back to reality, to the stone floor of the ruined temple. He recognized the speaker, not as a foe, but an ally. It was Amanita, the paladin he’d been traveling with, who’d let him drink their blood in the dead of night.
Slowly, the white-hot pain began to fade, and Amanita took their hand from his chest. As they did, Astarion could see light trailing from their hand, light that still lingered over the space where his wound had been. Some sort of healing magic, though it felt much harsher than any of the spells the cleric or the bard could cast.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he admitted. “It seemed like the only thing your broken oath was good for was hitting things harder.”
They scowled at the obvious prod towards their sore spot. They’d brushed away any attempt to ask what the particulars of their oath had been before, though even a moron could deduce the whole sordid ordeal had something to do with the amnesiac bard they acted as a second shadow towards.
“I don’t like healing people. Consider yourself lucky that you’re more valuable alive.”
“Oh, I do, darling. And I’m grateful that you abandoned your charge in order to keep me that way.” He smirked, hoping they would catch onto it as a bit of banter.
“Don’t push your luck.” They pushed themself to their feet, before extending a hand to him. “The others are waiting for you. Something about a locked chest I think.”
Astarion took their hand, letting them pull him up. They were strong, clearly, and despite their other loyalties, they were willing to keep him alive and fed so long as he continued to be useful. That was a better deal than he was getting anywhere else, and if he played his cards right, he could maybe even get them to kill Cazador once they made it to Baldur’s Gate. There were plenty of ways he could sell them on the idea, and it wasn’t as if they were adverse to violence.
“I suppose I’ll go solve all their problems then.” He stepped past them, catching the barest hint of a smile on their lips. “Are you coming with?”
Their back was turned, now bent over the puddle of blood Astarion had left behind. “In a moment. Healing just takes a lot out of me.”
“Your loss when we divide the gold three ways.”
Even though he’d said that, when he got to the doorway, he paused and turned back. They were crouched down, using a finger to trace something? A circle? On the ground, presumably in his blood.
That was… worrying. He peered back in, trying to discern what exactly they were doing. They spoke in a hushed voice, barely audible when he strained his ears.
“...Lord, forgive me for the misuse of the power granted through my faith in you, may my transgressions be forgiven for their place in the greater purpose. Your will shall be done, and your daughter returned to her place of honor. I shall make my failings right.” Then they went quiet, head hung, perfectly still.
Against his better judgement, Astarion stepped back into the room. Maybe it was the lingering effects of blood loss making him act irrationally, maybe it was the fact that they seemed sad and vulnerable.
“...Are you okay?” They turned at the sound of his voice, and he immediately regretted speaking. He’d spent a lot of time earning their goodwill, it was stupid to throw all that away like this.
“No,” Their voice was soft, mournful. He’d never heard them as anything but sharp. “But I will keep going regardless.”
Astarion hesitantly stepped closer. He didn’t really know what to say or do now. He was good at quick manipulations, at telling some drunk stranger what they wanted to hear so they’d follow him. That wasn’t exactly the situation now, but maybe it would be close enough to work.
“Well, it’s not as if you’re alone in this, darling.”
They laughed, dry and hollow. “That’s exactly the problem. It would be so much easier if I was doing this alone.”
“Our traveling companions aren’t that helpless. Not all of them, at least.”
“Right. Only one of them begs for my blood and then needs me to stop him from losing it all through a hole in his abdomen.” The barb stung, but at least he got a smirk out of them.
“Well, I managed to take out one of the camp’s leaders while everyone else was struggling to kill a handful of goblins, so I’d say I earned the blood and the healing.” They liked fighting, the back and forth of it, it only made sense that they’d be the same in conversation.
“Of course. Now, would you like to earn some blood tonight, you charming little leech?”
Astarion smirked, mostly to himself about the successful manipulation. They’d gone from despondent, worshipping some god who likely hadn’t even considered them after they broke their oath, to being back in control of the situation. It was almost too easy.
“There’s nothing I’d love more.”
“Then,” and Amanita was next to him in an instant, their breath warm on his ear, “You keep this conversation between us. Not a word to anyone else about any of this.”
“Your secrets are your own. I wouldn’t presume to share them.” Well, he might presume to share them later, if he needed blackmail on them. But that didn’t seem likely. What they had for now was mutually beneficial, and he had no intention of changing that.
“Then you can meet me in my tent tonight.”