Chapter Text
Astarion awoke with sand stuck to his face and the first thing he felt was warm. Nothing about the Szarr palace had ever been warm: not the shitty bunk beds, not the dingy bloodstained kennels, not even his own blood had offered comfort as it flowed in rivers over his flayed flesh.
He digs his hands into the hot sand beneath him, feeling grains of it slip between his fingers, and his brows furrow at the sensation. In what world would he have fallen asleep in sand? He jolts upright as the memories return, of scraping blunt fingernails against the glass of a pod, of clawing his way out just in time to be thrown from the ship and sent hurtling toward the ground. Of a strange magic halting him in mid-air before he could smash on the ground like overripe fruit, lowering him gently to the sun-speckled beach. Sun-speckled. He’s been lying out here for what must’ve been hours, and yet he has not burned. If anything, he feels only pleasantly warm, a sensation wholly unfamiliar to him.
Astarion looks over his surroundings, squinting his eyes against the brightness and vividity of it all. The bright, fleshy purple of the chunks of nautiloid, the shimmering blue of the sea. His situation is horrifying: ripped from everything he’s ever known by strange creatures from a foreign plane, infected with some squirming parasite, and crash-landed in the middle of nowhere. Yet seeing the world around him out of the grayscale filter of night, the feeling of freedom that accompanies the light… he could get used to it. Only…
Only Cazador would have his head if he didn’t get home. He would find him, because he always found him, and the torture would be unlike anything he’s experienced before. Astarion presses his hand to the cliffside beside him, intending to climb it for a better vantage point, but feels a suspicious lack of grip. He attempts to lift himself up and press his feet to the wall, but nearly falls flat on his back as his hand slips unceremoniously. His spider climb is lost to him.
He runs toward the ocean, clumsily slipping off his boots and rolling up his pants as he goes, and wades knee-deep into the water with his brow pinched in anticipation. Waves lap over his shins and the cool water makes him shiver, but other than mild discomfort… nothing. No acidic burn accompanies the feeling of running water splashing against his legs.
Astarion raises his hands to the sky, marvelling at the way his skin has become pink-tinged by its light. Sunburn, a concept so foreign it’s almost alien.
He’s acclimated to the water temperature and its coolness feels refreshing, his bare feet sinking into the sand beneath as waves rush past. He opens his mouth and inhales, the air around him fresh and smelling not of suffocating blood or grime, but of salt. It's almost as though whatever those creatures did to him, it made him mortal.
Made him free.
Astarion laughs: a rasping, hiccupy sort of thing, as though dust-choked from its centuries of neglect. He’s half-ready to fall back into the ocean, but movement from the brush around the shore piques his interest. He turns, and even from some hundred metres away he can see a boar rustling between the leaves, can feel the siren call of its blood cutting through the scent of seasalt. The hunger returns and tears at his insides, momentarily forgotten but never, ever sated. He is not truly mortal, then. It appears as though the infection addressed the symptoms of his condition, but not the cause.
Astarion stumbles slightly as he stalks back toward the shore, pulling his boots back on with his eyes always fixated on the boar as it rummages about. This one must be exceptionally stupid, he thinks. Usually animals can pick up on his predatory nature from miles away.
Perhaps it’s yet another thing lost to the parasite. Not that he’s complaining.
As Astarion prepares to lunge at the beast, he hears the clash of metal and flesh from the hull of the nautiloid behind him. Inside, a lone half-blooded woman faces off against three intellect devourers with the telltale divine magic of a low-level cleric. Astarion shakes off the fear that initially grips him, taking a few steps back as the flashes of bright light drift a little too close to where he stands. He could go and help her, of course, but it was hardly smart for him to wander up to a cleric of his own volition, even if he found himself mostly lacking any telltale vampiric traits. He watches her lay a hand on one of the creatures, shredding it with necrotic energy, and he shrugs to himself. She seems capable enough to handle it on her own.
But something about her was familiar. He had seen her, running about on the nautiloid with a pair of gith. Perhaps she had been responsible for his infection. If he plays his cards right, perhaps she would know where they were, and how to get back home. Even if she didn’t, the act of kidnapping and infecting him couldn't go unpunished.
No matter how useful the infection turned out to be.
The sounds of battle fade, and Astarion hears the woman’s laboured breathing as she approaches. She freezes at the sight of him, and he reaches for the first excuse he can find.
“Hurry, I have one of those brain things cornered.” He gets no response, so he turns back to look at her. She clearly took some damage in the fight and is looking at him with an even mix of interest and suspicion, and he tries to stroke her ego. “You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.” The woman scoffs, and he turns back to see her beginning to walk away.
“You seem capable enough. Kill it yourself.” Astarion sighs, and his hand twitches toward his weapon as he crosses the gap between them in two quick strides.
“I was hoping for a benevolent soul,” he chastises, but she turns around whip-quick and raises her god-guided hands toward him.
“If this is a robbery you’re off to a bad start, elf.”
“I just need information, mongrel.” She scowls, but makes no move to attack or escape. “I saw you, scuttling about on that ship. You’re in league with them, aren’t you? Those tentacled–” Astarion cuts himself off with a groan of pain as his head throbs, pain rippling out from behind his eye socket. He sees flashes of a past not his own: slamming pale fists against the glass of a pod, being freed by an unexpected ally. And pieces of something more: a childhood rife with suffering and obscured by shadow. Astarion straightens as the visions clear, and sees the woman before him doing the same. “What was that?”
“It’s the tadpoles,” she starts, and apparently seeing confusion on his face she clarifies, “the parasites we were infected with. They connect us.” Astarion shifts onto his back foot, lowering his knife slowly.
“Huh. And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.” He bows a little, and the woman scoffs as she looks him over once more. Clearly she’s the forgiving type, however, because she makes no move to attack him once he’s defenceless.
“Apology accepted. I might’ve done the same, were the roles reversed.” Astarion takes in the symbols on her chestplate. Unfamiliar, but certainly holy enough to strike fear into the hearts of undead. He doesn’t doubt her for a second.
“A kindred spirit,” he jokes, but she doesn’t seem to find it funny. “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”
“Shadowheart,” she responds, and at Astarion’s raised brow she flushes slightly and turns away. “You should come with me. We need to find a healer, and there are better odds if we stick together.” Astarion hums at that, finally tucking his knife back into his belt. Odd name aside, she seemed capable enough. An ally, though one following an uncommon, likely malevolent, god. Clerics with nothing to hide spoke the names of their celestial sponsors like they were both war cries and casual greetings.
“A healer? Why?” Shadowheart’s brow is pinched with disbelief as she turns back to face him.
“We’re infected with a mind flayer parasite. Without a healer, we have about a week before we transform into one of them.” Astarion stiffens in place, his mind racing ahead of his body as he processes the information. Of course. Once again it is no kindness or blessing that saves him, no hero or god that gave him back the sun. Once again it was a monster, one who only wants to transform and control him. Astarion feels a laugh bubble out of his chest unwittingly, in awe at the cruelty of it all.
“Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” Shadowheart tilts her head at his reaction and appears to start reaching forward to comfort him, so he takes a deliberate step back and plasters on a smile. “Alright. I was ready to go it alone, but perhaps sticking together isn’t such a bad idea.” His eyes rove over her again, and she shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. She seems young, though it’s always difficult to tell with half-humans–their better side blurs the human signs of ageing. Young and troubled, from what he saw of her past. “And you seem like a useful person to know,” he tacks on, and she smiles for the first time out of the entire interaction. He files it away in the back of his mind. “Lead on,” he prompts, and she turns to head back into the hull of the ship.
As she approaches and kills an injured mind flayer, Astarion’s thoughts drift back to the parasite. As much as he wants to avoid transforming into a mind flayer, the idea of having the pleasures of mortality ripped away from him so soon is almost equally unthinkable. For now, he's free. He walks in the sunlight, he waded in water, and his mind (while still clouded by appetite) is blessedly free from the compulsions of Cazador’s orders. He has been conveniently lost, and there would be hell to pay for anyone who tried to take that freedom away from him.
If he could find a way to control the parasite, rather than remove it, he could have the best of both worlds. Freedom and safety, instead of being forced to choose one at the expense of the other.
Astarion is pulled from his thoughts by Shadowheart’s hiss of pain, the woman jolting back from a collapsing deep-purple rune etched into the side of a stone. Suddenly a hand shoots out from the centre of it, and Shadoweart looks back to Astarion for some sort of direction as a disembodied voice beseeches her to help him. Astarion shrugs at her, and she turns back to the rune, golden energy rolling from her hands as she casts some sort of soothing spell, making the rune noticeably less erratic. She begins to pull on the hand, then, and in her haste–and desire to not be hit by whatever she pulls out–she flings the (tall, human) man directly into Astarion. He just barely sidesteps the worst of the impact, but it means that he, not Shadowheart, is the one the man stands to face.
“Thank you,” he says breathlessly, and Astarion grins. He’s handsome, in the rugged way humans could sometimes be with all that extra hair, and the grey streaks on his head and in his beard gave away that he was at least a little older than his smooth skin and bright eyes implied. He is perhaps slightly taller and broader than Astarion was, elven traits did not lend themselves to human-typical masculinity, but the somewhat simple robes and the quarterstaff at his back implied he was not a fighter, but a spellcaster. A wizard, human co-opter of the weave that was granted naturally to Astarion and his kind.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, and Shadowheart rolls her eyes at him from over the man’s shoulder. “But she was the one who pulled you out,” he adds reluctantly, gesturing past him to his companion, and the man immediately whips around.
“Of course, my apologies. I’m Gale of Waterdeep,” he lunges forward to shake Shadowheart’s hand, and she introduces herself curtly in response. “I assure you I’m usually better at this.”
“At introductions? I would hope so,” she scoffs, and Astarion watches the man’s shoulders soften. She has not a drop of charisma to her name, but it seems that saving someone from a poorly-opened portal earns a girl a bit of social grace.
Shewis also objectively gorgeous, which may be helping some. Astarion glowers a little as the man tilts his head.
“At magic.” So his assumption was correct. He stalks back around to the man’s front, flashing what he hoped was a pleasant smile. Gods know Shadowheart couldn’t put up a friendly front to save her life.
Wizards, especially human ones, are as a whole woefully easy targets. Egotistical and desperate to prove themselves to just about anyone who will listen. From what little he knows of Gale, between the poor excuse for a portal and the unnecessary ‘Of Waterdeep’ title, this one would be no exception.
“I’m Astarion,” he says, and Gale shakes his hand too.
“Charmed,” the man responds pleasantly, and then clears his throat. “Say, but I know you, don’t I? In a manner of speaking. You were on the nautiloid as well.” He’s clearly speaking more to Shadowheart, and it shouldn’t be making Astarion feel as put-out as it is. Shadowheart nods, and Gale smooths his robes in a very measured, practised gesture of nervousness. A liar. “I take it then you were also on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the… ocular region?” Astarion pulls a face, and Gale smiles in understanding before taking on that serious expression again.
“And you’re aware, aren’t you, that after a brief–but painful–period of gestation this parasite will turn us into mind flayers? It’s a process known as ceremorphosis, and I can assure you it is to be avoided.” A know-it-all. Astarion resists the urge to pinch his brow on instinct, despite the man genuinely providing useful information. Ceremorphosis, he repeats to himself, largely detaching from the conversation as Shadowheart explains their plan to locate a healer. Gale seems plenty eager to tag along, and before long the three of them are heading off toward a monastery Shadowheart had apparently seen when she first landed.
Astarion sidles up beside the wizard, leaning forward slightly to catch his gaze and smiling.
“Tell me about yourself, Gale.” The man hums, glancing away slightly as he considers his response and ducks under a low-hanging branch.
“Let’s see. I hail from Waterdeep, City of Splendors. I’m a wizard of considerable acclaim, and a scholar of exceptional accomplishment. I have a cat, a library, and a weakness for a good glass of wine. And if the mood takes me, I’m known to try my hand at poetry. There.” The man is very polite, of course, but when he broadens his strides to begin pulling away again Astarion can tell that he’s private. Clearly hiding something specific, or else very distrustful. Astarion speeds up to re-engage.
“Do ‘wizards of considerable acclaim’ often get stuck in their own portals?” He teases, and clearly strikes a nerve as the man furrows his brow.
“The tadpole has considerably weakened my spellcasting, as I’m sure is the case for us all. Right, Shadowheart?” He raises his voice to reach her where she forges ahead, and she calls back in agreement. “I assure you, any wizard of decent education would recognise me by name.” It’s clearly a point of insecurity, this ‘newfound’ weakness, and Astarion smiles placatingly. If it were only the tadpole, he wouldn’t be nearly so defensive of his ability. He did something. Something bad . Guilt and desperation were easy to recognise for Astarion, prime markers of an easy target, and both rolled off of Gale in waves like a cheap, excessively-applied cologne.
“Of course, I didn’t mean to doubt your expertise. I’m only a Baldurian magistrate, after all, far be it from me to claim to know about magic.” Gale only nods, and Astarion itches to drag his hands down his face in frustration. Gods, people usually scrambled over themselves to spill their life stories to him.
Then again, Astarion only really talked to drunkards. Astarion’s eyes drift down to Gale's eight-pointed earring, and recognising the symbol he grabs for the potential conversation-starter.
“That’s the symbol of Mystra.” Gale flinches immediately, and Astarion’s grin widens at the tell. “Is it not? A particularly dedicated wizard, aren’t you? Usually only clerics wear the symbols of their gods.” Gale sidesteps a rock, deliberately broadening the distance between them in the process.
“You could say that. I simply find it fitting to pay homage to the one that makes the practise of magic possible. Wouldn’t you?” A fair answer by all accounts. Astarion might’ve been convinced, if Gale hadn’t flinched so violently at the mere mention of the goddess’ name. He’s beginning to find the psychological warfare exceedingly tiring, though, especially since he’s clearly outmatched. Astarion huffs.
“Perhaps. A cagey one, aren’t you? Have something to hide, little mage?” It’s transparent goading at this point, but Astarion can't argue with results. Gale’s jaw tenses, and Astarion finds it a little thrilling to know he’s gotten under the other man’s skin.
“All will be revealed in time, I’m sure.” The conversation is forcefully ended, and Astarion watches the other man pull ahead to Shadowheart’s side just as they round a corner to find a githyanki suspended in the air by a cage trap. As they move closer, Astarion recognises her as one of the pair of gith that Shadowheart had been with on the nautiloid. A potential ally, then, and githyanki are known for their campaign against the illithids. If anyone would know how to cure–or perhaps control–their infection, it would be her. The woman projects herself into their minds with the tadpole, and only Astarion notices that Gale appears unaffected.
Come to think of it, Gale didn’t connect with their minds when they first met, either. He clearly has a mental fortitude that surpasses the rest of them, and as Astarion stares at the back of his head he’s almost tempted to force his way in.
Gale would certainly notice, though, and they were already off to enough of a bad start.
“Those things are dangerous. You two should go, let us handle it,” he chimes in to the conversation between Gale and the tieflings, and the two scurry away after Gale coaxes information on their camp from them. Gale shoots the githyanki down with a firebolt that appears to come to him as easily as breathing, then ignores Shadowheart’s huffing as he invites her–Lae’zel–to join their group. She implores them to head to the tiefling camp to seek out word of her people, and Gale–who has usurped Shadowheart to become de-facto leader at some point on the walk over–agrees. The four of them turn away from Shadowheart’s monastery, instead following the sound of shouting directly into a fight.
It goes down relatively easily, in large part thanks to the human man who had vaulted down from the gate at the beginning of the fight. The group follows Gale into the grove, watches him diffuse the tensions between a human and a tiefling, and disapproves loudly as he promises their help to the refugees sheltering there. Of course the mortal wizard with delusions of grandeur wants to play hero.
What pisses Astarion off more than Gale’s good intentions, though, is that it seemed like he may actually be capable enough to follow through. For every moment he spent following Gale around, listening to him question Lae’zel about her people and Shadowheart about her magic, he became more and more concerned that the man was too intelligent to manipulate. He only used weak magic, but he cast it as easy as breathing, each component weaving together a perfect tapestry that was almost distracting in its artistry. He had a thick spellbook tucked into his pack, but the man never consulted it. Everything there was to know about magic was committed to his memory.
What are Astarion’s charms really worth when compared to the brain-penetrating power of a mind flayer tadpole, which Gale seems to stave off so easily?
They pick up Wyll, who happens to be the famed Blade of Frontiers, and their second heroic human male of the day leads them straight into the druid's grove where some kid is being imprisoned. Serves her right for getting caught, Astarion figures, but Wyll and Gale are practically falling over themselves trying to save her. They succeed, of course, that dangerous mix of wit and charm that they had between them, and he catches Lae'zel rolling her eyes as Wyll follows the head druid into a corner and begins berating her. Gale hangs back, however, and Astarion raises a brow as he watches the man deliberate.
“Something on your mind?” Astarion presses, and Gale snaps out of his thoughts with a smile.
“Oh no, just tired is all. It's about time for a rest, is it not?”
“We still need to see the healer.”
“Finding Zorru is our first priority.”
“We also need to speak to Zevlor,” Wyll adds as he returns, and there's a collective groan from everyone but Gale. Astarion can feel the tension building within the group and takes a step back, preparing for a fight, when Gale clears his throat instead.
“We should all go see the healer now, just in case. She's right here, after all.” Lae'zel scoffs, but makes no move to fight him. “Afterward Wyll and I can speak to Zevlor, and since you all find the idea so tedious, the three of you can locate Zorru in the meantime. Is everybody happy?” The group murmurs their assent, and then everyone follows Wyll deeper into the bowels of the druid Cove.
It goes awfully, as things are prone to do with them. Not only does she fail to offer any solution beyond suicide, but she enlists Wyll for yet another do-gooder rescue quest that he's apparently incapable of refusing. The group begins to leave, and once they reach the door it is only Astarion who notices that the humans have gone missing, stolen away into a corner.
“I'm feeling a little ill,” he sighs, waving a hand at Shadowheart and Lae'zel. “You two go on ahead. I might find a place for us to set up camp for the night instead.” The both of them scowl at him for sending them off alone together, but Astarion is already distracted by the discussion happening between the two humans they'd left behind.
Gale looks nervous, as though delivering some kind of confession, and Astarion frowns. He puts all that effort into trying to get to know the man, and Wyll gets everything laid out before him because he, what , saved a child? Big deal. Gale's expression is pleading, now, as though asking for help with something, and Astarion can practically smell the outcome of the conversation even before Wyll claps the wizard on the shoulder and smiles at him. They begin to walk toward the exit, so Astarion steals out into the main Cove. He accepts the tiefling woman's locket graciously, pocketing it and heading back out into the wilderness to find a campsite like he'd promised.
It seems like they may all be in it for a longer haul than initially expected. It would take a few days at the least to locate and rescue the druid, and Wyll seemed intent on dragging them every which way for fetch quests in the meantime which would only add to their travel time. The druid wasn't even a certainty, and if that option failed their next choice would be a githyanki creche that could easily take weeks to reach on foot.
With each day that passed, it would become more likely that someone figured him out, or that Cazador started sending people to find him. If either situation came to be, Astarionneedes someone on his side. Someone who could defend him from attackers and stake-wielding companions alike, should the need arise. He can see himself getting along with Shadowheart on some superficial level, but she is even cagier than Gale, and he has no reason to believe she wouldn't throw him to the wolves even if he did make her like him. Lae'zel is far too murderous to even consider, which leaves the two humans.
Gale had seemed like a good call initially, but he was rapidly growing more problematic. Clearly insecure, polite and well-meaning, but almost aggressively asocial. He has suspiciously strong physical constitution and mental fortitude for a man who appears as weak as he does, too.
And the looming spectre that is his past. The event that stole away the lion's share of his magic. That made him so touchy about the subject of Mystra, and forced him to implore Wyll for his help. The mystery was interesting, of course, and Astarion was compelled to investigate, but it would not be useful. Astarion did not appreciate surprises.
Wyll, on the other hand… incredibly charismatic, and certainly intelligent, though not to the dangerous or suspiciously-fortified degree that Gale is. Mortal, human at that, and itching for the chance to save a life. The monster hunter aspect is worrying, as is the mystery patron he refuses to speak on, but if Astarion moves quickly enough, is discreet enough, he could establish a rapport before Wyll or his boss find out that he's a vampire.
Astarion has convinced people to leave homes, businesses, and marriages behind. If Wyll is simply sponsored or employed to kill monsters, Astarion could solve the issue soon enough.
An almost offensively indiscreet rustling comes from the brush to his left, and Astarionturnes to watch his companions stumble through to his clearing. Wyll inspects the area and nods graciously, the group beginning to settle in for the night ahead. Shadowheart drifts a ways away, prickly as she is, while Wyll and Gale set up side by side in an obnoxious display of early-onset companionship. Astarion had intended to place his tent next to them, but is instead interrupted by Wyll beckoning Lae'zel to his side.
“So, Lae'zel. Do you believe in love at first sight?” Wyll's voice drips with charm as he speaks, and his face shows genuine dismay when she refuses.
Then genuine interest when she reaffirms a belief in ‘carnal pleasure’ instead.
Ah.
Perhaps Gale had been the right choice after all.
Not that he cares if his marks sleep around. But on second thought, Wyll doesn't seem the type to spare a monster just because he likes them. Truthfully though, Astarion isn't interested in getting in Lae'zel's way in any capacity. The woman would undoubtedly gut him in his sleep without blinking. So he turns around and sets up a few metres over instead, loitering around once he's done to subtly spy on Gale. The man pulls book after book from portals and bottomless bags, drawing symbols on the air to enchant the outside of his tent with some type of weatherproofing, and the inside with warm, gentle light. Astarion glances away for a moment, and when he looks back Gale has the audacity to be setting up a telescope.
Astarion knew he and his companions had found pillows, tools, and even small tables in the grove. He could believe that Lae'zel had found that grindstone there, or rather threatened some poor tiefling into giving it to her. But a telescope? Astarion did not believe for a second that Gale had just found pristine astrological equipment. The man definitely has some kind of permanent Waterdhavian-library dimension door. It's so infuriating that Astarion has to stalk off into the woods to blow off some steam. He loots some poorly hidden hunter's stash, kills and drains a wild pig, and then loiters around until the scent of campfire smoke and cooked fish has faded away to avoid having to make an excuse not to eat.
When Astarion slinks back to camp Wyll and Lae'zel are poring over a map of the area, the flimsy paper moments from tearing the way they're constantly trying to wrench it from each others’ hands. Shadowheart is reading silently, shooting shifty glances toward the others every few minutes, and Gale…
Maybe he should say Gales. Because there are two of them, perfectly mirrored and inspecting each other like a three-dimensional reflection. Bewildered, Astarion wanders toward him. Them. Did a reflection count as a person?
“Is that an illusion, or have you had an identical twin this whole time?” Astarion opens, and Gale throws him a small smile over his shoulder.
“Part illusion, part construct,” he brags, and his voice echoes unnaturally. “Be that as it may,” he waves a hand and one of them disappears, the other turning around to face him. Astarion is honestly impressed, if forced to choose, he would've assumed the real Gale was the illusion, not the other way around. He opens his mouth to say just that, when Gale interjects instead. It's as though the man has a sixth sense for when Astarion is about to flirt with him.
“Ceremorphosis,” he starts, and Astarion's stomach drops. “What does it make you think of?”
Truthfully? Cazador. Waking up buried underground and permanently warped, indentured to a cruel master. The feeling of freedom being ripped away from him. But that would provoke a whole lot of unnecessary questions. Astarion meets Gale's gaze, sees the intrigue there, smiles shakily. “Until quite recently, nothing at all.” Gale nods in understanding, hands on his hips. He's so sincere it's almost sickening.
It is also a little charming.
“Ah yes, the good old days.” Gale's expression drops along with his arms, and then he begins to count on his fingers. “Day one: fever and memory loss.” The opposite of his own transformation then. When Astarion awoke in his shitty wooden coffin he knew instinctively that he would never feel warm again, and would remember the moment forever. Maybe he would be immune to fever, given that he didn't have a functioning thermoregulatory system in the first place. Astarion was permanently room-temperature.
“Day two: hallucinations and greying skin.” Astarion didn't know if his skin could get much greyer, but hallucinations sounded promising. Perhaps he'd start seeing Cazador where he wasn't, like he had when the torture became particularly grotesque. Maybe shadows would stretch out to form his silhouette, fangs gleaming. Fangs that claimed to give eternal life, and could definitely take it away.
“Day three: hair loss, and blood leaking from all orifices. Need I go on?” The hair loss may honestly be the worst part, but Astarion's mind glosses over it in favour of memories of blood. Pooling from his wounds as he bled to death in an alley, taking all his warmth and soaking it into the dirt that clogged the cracks in the pavement. Taking his warmth permanently, a physical sensation accompanying the drain of his life into those same cracks. Then into that same fanged mouth.
The next time he bled it was not accompanied by warmth, nor any feeling of loss. Astarion could go on bleeding forever, but he would not die. He could tear his nails off clawing up from his grave, wear his fingers down to the bone and then some, feel all the pain in his exposed, fraying nerves. But it would be pointless, because pain was a promise that would go unfulfilled. An instinctual alarm signalling the arrival of a death that could not come for Astarion.
A habit you cannot break long after it stops being useful, like keeping to one side of an empty bed.
“Astarion? Are you alright?” Astarion shakes his head slowly, and as Gale reaches toward him he snaps out of it. He steps back, and Gale's hand returns to his side as though it never left. Insightful, this one.
“I hadn't expected our resident bloodthirsty rogue to have such a weak stomach,” he teases, and Astarion can only smile wearily. Gale recognises the tonal shift, of course he does, remaining cautiously distant even as his hands twitch at his sides. A fast learner, too.
“We will find a cure,” he begins, gently. Believing that Astarion's distress came from worries about the future rather than memories of the past. “The archdruid Halsin will be able to help us. Even if he can't, we have the option of Lae'zel's creche to consider as well. You'll be back in Baldur's Gate within a tenday.” Astarion's shoulders stiffen even as he wills his voice to come out smooth.
“Of course,” he replies, and Gale's brow furrows in a way that suggests he is not coming across as composed as he'd hoped.
“Additionally, none of us look particularly feverish. Perhaps we'll have even longer than I initially expected.” And that, for once, is comforting. Even if Astarion is immune to fever, the others aren't showing any symptoms either. Maybe he could be free longer than a week. Perhaps he'd get a month.
Perhaps he'd never undergo ceremorphosis at all; undead brain matter can't be very nutritious, after all. “Alright, you've convinced me,” and that hits his usual cadence. Gale smiles, and it's almost sweet to watch him release a tension Astarion hadn't even noticed him holding. So empathetic, after barely a day of knowing each other.
“I'm glad. Goodnight, Astarion,” Gale says, and Astarion bows out of the conversation to return to his tent. The interaction was, as a whole, woefully unsuccessful in terms of enticing the man to fall for him, and he also has a feeling he'd been much too vulnerable.
Plus, devastatingly, beneath that asocial veneer Gale had struck Astarion in several of his weaknesses. Insight, sweetness, innocence. Those are the types that Astarion is vulnerable to. The ones he'd sought out when the torture was particularly grim, when he wanted to believe his life was something different. They make him feel guilty enough to make stupid choices, like allowing his prey to escape. He needs to stick to the plan: the same two-part code of conduct that has kept him alive the last two centuries could surely last another month. Step 1: make him fall.
Step 2: do not fall in return.