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The atmosphere at camp that first night is fraught with tension—not the fun kind—worry and uncertainty, everyone reeling from the recent trauma. Processing it all. Reminds you a bit of home, really. You know a thing or two about sharing space with the only handful of people in this world going through the same horrid experience as you.
Now here you all sit sharing a meal together, too. Or, well, they are.
"Something wrong, Astarion? You're not eating."
The half-orc is looking at you with suspicion—no, with concern. They are all looking at you, in fact. Then this is your cue. Time to put on a show. Play your part.
"Well," you sniff haughtily, "to be honest, this is hardly the caliber of cuisine I'm used to. No offense meant, darling."
"None taken; Gale cooked."
"And I did my best with our severely limited provisions, thank you very much. Sorry it isn't up to your standards, Astarion."
You conjure distant memories of decadent meals as unreal to you now as the forgotten color of your own eyes. Can't have anyone sneaking a peek into your mind through your shared connection and seeing blood and vermin—your usual sustenance.
"Even so, please try to eat something," she insists.
"Why? To build team camaraderie? I can think of far more exciting ways to get better acquainted."
"We all need to keep our strength up," she says, ignoring the flirtatious distraction. "For the journey to that cure Lae'zel spoke of."
Maybe I don't want a cure, you almost snap. But that wouldn't align with the image you've woven for them of a carefree magistrate who must have a comfortable life in the city worth returning to. They cannot know the truth. At least not until they trust you enough to tolerate a monster in their midst. Until you've proven yourself marginally more useful alive.
So you regard the stew warily. Hunger gnaws at your gut, never sated, but only for blood. Still... After a full day in glorious sunlight, perhaps you could decide to push your luck just a bit further. Who knows what other remarkable exceptions to your condition the tadpole has provided? What's the harm in a little experimenting?
You tentatively lift the spoon to your mouth.
Later, whilst the others are asleep in their beds after you so generously offered to keep watch, your evening is spent retching up the meager contents of your stomach into the bushes. It's completely vile. Turns out the mind flayer tadpole can't or won't alter every inconvienient facet of your undead physiology. Walking in the sun? Yes, by all means. Eating food? Very much still a no. Makes perfect sense!
"I see Gale's cooking really didn't agree with you."
Her voice manages to startle you. Not many people can do that anymore. Damn. It will be more challenging to seduce her after she's seen you like this, so weak and sick. It doesn't matter. There is always a way. You are a professional, after all.
You fumble for an explanation that might satisfy your traveling companion. Would she believe a garlic allergy, or is that too on the nose? You could claim someone tried to poison you. Or you did it yourself to avoid the inevitable transformation but got the dosage wrong, play her sympathetic heart like the strings of her lyre. That could work.
But she doesn't ask any questions, for which you are immensely grateful.
Your stomach rolls and lurches painfully again. You taste something metallic on your tongue, doubling over to subtly spit out a clot of old blood into the grass. Pray she doesn't see; she would think it's already too late for you. She fears the tadpole—fears death, fears becoming something else, losing control of her body, as any reasonable person would in this situation. You almost want to tell her things can get so much worse than that. Worse than she is even capable of imagining.
"Astarion, hey. Breathe."
You breathe. There's a warm pressure against your back—her hand, you realize, solid and soothing.
"Look at me?"
You look at her.
She presses her fingers to your forehead. Gentle. You can't recall the last time anyone touched you like that.
"No fever," she mutters as if to herself, brushing stray sweaty curls away from your face then withdrawing her hand. Your eyes linger on the veins under her skin. "You feel too cold, actually. You're shaking. Come sit by the fire."
You obey. Allow her to coax you over to a bedroll. Somehow you have fooled her into believing you're worth caring for.
"I didn't know you're a healer," you hear yourself saying. Where are you? You don't feel entirely present in this moment. Perhaps you haven't been for quite a while.
"Because I'm not. Just a mother."
She says it a touch wistfully, and you realize how little you truly know about this woman whose throat you held a knife to mere hours before. She carries herself like a soldier but calls herself a bard. Probably middle-aged, if the graying hair and lines beneath her eyes are any indication. And she has at least one child, apparently. You wonder vaguely if anyone waits for her back in Baldur's Gate. You wonder how it feels to be missed.
You don't know what to say to that, however, so you don't speak.
"It's okay to be scared, you know," she says quietly. "I'm scared, too. But we're in this together."
You laugh bitterly. She sincerely thinks it is fear making you ill, doesn't she, like some pathetic creature. A mistaken assumption, obviously, but...
You are, though.
Terrified.
A fear so bone-deep and familiar it is home to you. You're afraid this has all been some bizarrely wonderful nightmare, that you'll wake up any moment in a gloomy crypt with Cazador looming over you. Even more afraid that it's real and you actually have something to lose. You would sooner eat another wriggling parasite—hells, an entire pot of that damn stew—than go back to Cazador.
He will find you, you're certain. He will send hunters to track you down like a dog. Escape is impossible. This is nothing more than a brief reprieve in the misery of your eternal existence. You fear what he would do to anyone who gets in his way.
You're a little afraid, too, of her. Of this unrelenting, undeserved kindness. Of what happens to you when it goes away.
"Why are you helping me?" you ask. She must want something. Everyone does.
"Maybe I just need you well enough to fight tomorrow," she offers. "Or, consider: you're a person who could use some help. Simple as that."
"You're too good for this sorry world," you say like it's an accusation. Too good to me.
She shrugs. "Well, go with the first answer then. Need anything?"
"No, I think not."
The one thing you need, you don't dare ask for. Not yet.
"Try to get some rest, okay? Dawn can't be too far off."
"Wait. Before you go..."
"Yeah?"
"I...would appreciate if you didn't mention this to the others."
That earns a strange look from her, but she nods. "Of course. Good night, Astarion."
"Thank you. Sweet dreams."
Exhaustion pulls at you but you can't rest, nor do you hunt; you aren't strong or quick enough tonight. Instead you watch the sunrise, bathed in its light for the first time in centuries. It is completely worth the awful, sleepless night which preceded it. Your days are numbered, you know, between the parasite and Cazador, but you are damn well going to make every second of that freedom count.