Chapter Text
The dragon's mighty wings beat the air, spattering you with its own blood as it intentionally dropped out of the sky on top of you, yet barely able to catch itself as it landed and you dove out of its way. As much as you would have loved to finish it off with Sunburst or even using a Power Word, you were fresh out of spell slots, and sorcery points – you couldn't even have cast a measly little Fireball. You were left with some cantrips, which were admittedly quite powerful at your level of expertise, but even the collection of spell scrolls and spell slot potions you'd brought on your trip were exhausted of their usefulness. Your powerful storm magic was tired within you, but the second origin of your sorcerous abilities crackled with excitement beneath your skin. You were a practiced wielder of your own magical powers and kept a tight rein on the wild magic within you, but you had planned this scenario carefully.
You knew, when you took the job, that it would be a challenge, even for you. A scholar at heart, people were often surprised at the level of innate magical ability you possessed without studying. Most expected you to be a wizard, based on the number of publications you had authored and the unknown magics with which you experimented. None knew that your exceptional natural power was a result of not one, but two sources of magic – the first known sorcerer that had contained, much less controlled, two fonts of power – they just knew you had an affinity for elemental magic and were one of the best duelers in your academy year, even against the barbarians and fighters of your cohort. You spent most of your time performing research at the academy, at which you were now a professor, but had taken on a life of occasional violence only because treasure seekers and monster hunters frequently came upon creatures and magic which had not been well-studied, and you intended to change that, one expedition at a time. Oh, and you needed cash.
At the moment, however, you were not on any kind of research trip for the academy. No, in this instance, you had a more selfish motive, if still scholastic in nature. In studying all that unknown magic, all those undocumented creatures and rituals, you were not only adding to the broader knowledge of magic and its use throughout history – you were also attempting to create and cast the first ever level ten spell, thereby becoming the world's only twenty-first level sorcerer. You knew based on the details of this contract that you would exhaust all of your known resources by the time the fight with the dragon was over. There had been a lot of treacherous territory to cover, and only enough time for a brief respite. You were traveling alone, and knew there was no help coming for you if you got in hot water.
You had no doubt in your ability to finish the dragon off. You weren't low on health yourself, and you could cast another cantrip or two and have it on its knees. Your goal, however, was to attempt to guide your font of wild magic, never used, carefully contained, desperate to escape, into a source of energy for one last, exceedingly powerful burst of storm sorcery. You hoped it would materialize as an electric explosion, and the chances of this were reasonable, given that lightning was your strongest and easiest magic to cast. And so, without the ability to cast nearly any of your other spells, you began to focus on your wild magic, carefully allowing it to rise to the surface without bounding out of control. Just as you began to struggle to keep the chaos magic within yourself, you immediately focused on shoving it back down, pushing back on the flow of power, closing the dam, and instead tried to pull your storm sorcery into its place, as though you were going to draw from it for a cantrip. You relaxed a bit on your suppression of the wild magic, attempting to pull from both sources, coaxing just a bit of the chaotic power to the forefront – and the wild magic instead surged away from you, giddily dragging you along with it and dropping you directly behind the dragon. You sighed – a known behavior of wild magic – and cast one last Ray of Frost at the dragon's belly, killing it instantly, before it could breathe fire at you again. You grunted in frustration. This had been a lot of work for a failed experiment.
You shook your head and moved toward the dragon – your client wanted the contents of its stomach, and at least they were paying handsomely. You slipped your dagger into its hide, preparing to cut, when you suddenly sensed enemy magic in the air surrounding you. You had been Silenced. You spun around, desperately trying to locate the source. Finding none, you began to sprint toward the outer radius of the spell, when a tall figure seized you from behind, one arm around your neck, piercing your abdomen with a dagger of their own, sliding the metal expertly between the segments of your armor. You felt not only a stabbing pain, but also a rapidly spreading paralysis, already traveling down your legs. Snarling, you pulled your second dagger from your boot, but by the time you had an expertly placed stab lined up, your arm had been paralyzed as well, hanging limp from your shoulder, your dagger clattering as it hit the ground, falling from your loose fingers. The man, for you now knew it was a man, stopped restraining you and picked you up, tossing you over his shoulder. You only maintained consciousness for a few more seconds, unable to do anything voluntarily but breathe.
You woke sometime later, lying prone on a low ledge in a cave that, based on the type of stone, you suspected was close to the dragon's lair, but you could fathomably be anywhere. Carefully, you squinted through your eyelids, checking your surroundings. You had been stripped down to your tunic and trousers, your armor, weapons, and pack nowhere to be seen. You tested your ability to move, your senses and reflexes dulled, but present once more. The wound in your belly was open and oozing, black tendrils spreading slowly across your abdomen, throbbing in pain. You were still Silenced, the sinister magic sizzling in the air. Your captor faced away from you, heating something over a small campfire in the center of the cave's first large room. He looked over his shoulder at you, and you quickly closed your eyes, feigning sleep.
“I know you're awake.” The voice was low and deadly. You didn't open your eyes, not yet. The man stood, bringing with him a white-hot brand. He remained just outside the barrier of his silencing spell. “I intended you to be, when I gave you the antidote to that poison. This wasn't my idea, but it's part of the process, and you, my dear, have to be awake for the whole thing.” Your insides squirmed at the implication. You tried to stand, but your body couldn't cooperate, and by the time you rose to your hands and knees, he was at your side, pushing you down and straddling your body with his thighs, his immense weight preventing you from moving further. He ripped your tunic down the center of your back, and you had no warning before a searing pain erupted between your shoulder blades. Air left your lungs through your ragged throat, but the scream made no noise in the midst of the spell. You reached for something – anything – to help you get out of this, but both of your magics were silent. In the pain and confusion of what was happening, it would only occur to you later that this was odd. Even a silenced and exhausted magic has power thrumming at its core, even if it could only summon enough energy for a cantrip – but yours were silent.
After uncountable seconds of agony, the brand was removed from your skin and tossed aside. The man flipped you over, ripping your tunic from your body and slamming your newly-branded back and cracking the base of your skull against the rough stone of the cave's ledge. A sob escaped you, soundlessly dissipating into the silencing spell. Your arms were slow to respond, but you pushed futilely against him, feeling as though you were wading through mud with every movement. Then he pulled down your trousers, slipping his off just enough to expose the full length of a full-blown erection. You didn't know what ritual he was supposedly performing, or to what end, but you knew what that meant. You reached, grabbed, clawed for your magic, only to find that it was no longer there for you to grasp. Panicking, you attempted to clamp your legs together, but he pulled them apart and slammed his hips down between them so there was no escape. You scrambled, dug deeper for your magic – was this an effect of the poison? He wrapped his hand around your throat and squeezed until your face was red and you had no air. Suddenly, as you flailed, you felt the tiniest tendril of your wild magic, flickering softly in a corner the recesses of your mind. Your assailant lined himself up with your entrance. You grabbed hold of your tiny magical tendril with everything you had, told it to set itself free – and it jumped gleefully, and did.
-------
You were flung from the sky in a bolt of lightning, the simultaneous explosion of thunder coinciding with your landing on the soil and the rumbling of the ground as the sound moved the earth. The commotion would have been exceptionally noticeable, given that there was a blanket of snow covering the earth, and more flakes were gently precipitating on a perfect countryside scene, far removed from the jungle heat of the cave and the dragon's lair in Chult. Your magic seemed to have been buried, for the rich flows of energy within you were completely dry. You were naked even of the torn clothes you'd had left before your transport, having been dumped under a tree, its leafless branches stretching toward the cold, white sky, its roots digging into your body and wounds as you lay there, fists grasping uselessly at the soil, attempting for a moment to understand what had happened.
Then, suddenly, as the adrenaline wore off, everything bubbled over into a bone-shattering yell, lasting for several seconds and echoing across the countryside, birds squawking in displeasure at the disruption. Breathing heavily, you shivered as a single tear slid down your cheek, and the cold wind caressed your body. You gingerly rolled over, attempting to stand again, but your legs still didn't have the strength or coordination to hold you up, even with the assistance of the tree, and you fell back over as soon as you took a step. Your knife wound screamed in pain, oozing blood, the tendrils of discoloration now approaching your thighs. You groaned, and set off at a slow crawl. The wet snow combined with the cold wind and your naked body was rapidly freezing you, which wasn't helping with what seemed to be a slow return of the poison's sedative effects.
Inch after agonizing inch, you forced yourself forward, although you didn't know which way “forward” was. You had no idea where you were, actually, but you knew you couldn't stay here. Not that you'd make it very far out of “here,” having barely succeeded in moving a hundred yards away from the tree. A glance behind you let you know that you were leaving a trail of blood for whatever predator wanted an easy meal once you froze to death or succumbed to the poison, whichever came first. Raising your head and looking in front of you, you were surprised to notice a horse-drawn wagon, halted a quarter mile in the distance. A figure was moving toward you at surprising speed. They were wearing navy blue winter formal attire, with a thick red cape. Perhaps more interesting was the figure's hair – it was nearly as white as the surrounding snow. You didn't have it left in you to be afraid, only hoped that the stranger was either benevolent, or would kill you quickly and mercifully, as you stopped trying to crawl and collapsed into the snow. How had this gone so terribly, terribly wrong?
You were barely maintaining consciousness when the figure finally came to stand over you, crouching next to you. You reached out toward him, your arm quickly drooping, snowflakes no longer melting as they dropped onto your skin.
“What's happened here, darling?”
You could barely make out his words, which sounded as though he was underwater. Regardless, you didn't have the ability to respond. He turned you over and gasped, presumably at your wound. You lacked the strength to be embarrassed at your nudity, but he removed his cloak and wrapped it around you. He must have been exceptionally strong, because he then picked you up, seemingly effortlessly, and cradled you in his arms, somehow avoiding jostling you as he ran back toward the carriage.
The last thing you saw before passing out again was a blurry face looking down at you. You couldn't make out many details, but you could tell that he had skin as pale as the cloudy sky, hair white as snow, and beautiful, deep red eyes.
-----
Your consciousness floated in and out, never close enough to the surface for waking, never close enough to the bottom for death. There were periods where you could hear voices speaking over you, but they were muffled, to the point where you had no chance of understanding what was said. There were periods of pain so great that, had you been awake, would have elicited a scream that would awaken all those in a mile radius, but instead, you were left writhing internally, useless against the pain. There were periods where you were suddenly warm, as though you had been placed on a slab of stone heated by the sun; these periods often followed the pain, and the heat helped to lessen the sensation. But mostly, you were unconscious, in a dreamless, silent darkness.
You surprised yourself when you awoke. Your eyes flew open, and you had to force yourself not to gasp for lungfuls of air - you didn't know who, or what, might be watching or listening.
You were in a large room with a fireplace, wardrobe, writing desk, sofa, and dining table. Windows were noticeably absent, the walls covered in tasteful wallpaper and fine art. You were laying in a huge four-poster bed. The mattress was supremely soft, the comforter and pillows made of down and wrapped in luxurious silk sheets, the color of red wine. You were clothed in a simple shift, the light satin held in place by thin straps over your shoulders and doing very little to provide coverage or warmth. Your first sensation was that of extreme cold, the likes of which you had never felt before. You yanked your arms, previously laid on top of the comforter, toward your head and shoved them under the comforter, not finding much more warmth beneath it, your body barely above room temperature.
An ice spike embedded itself into your heart at that moment in time, completely separate from your temperature. If you felt cold, that meant your magic - your storm sorcery, one of the most powerful magics this side of the Nine Hells - was gone. Your magic - that effortlessly and without input, borrowed from the blazing inferno of the sun to keep you warm, or that skimmed from the cold fury of a blizzard to keep you cool, that allowed you to wear any clothing or armor and stay comfortable no matter the weather - was gone. Panicking, you cast around in your mind to find your magic, sweeping the deepest recesses, the tiniest crevices, and finding… nothing. Not a single drop of power, just dry, dead, withered, dusty emptiness. Your wild magic was gone without a trace as well, leaving your mind deathly quiet. You drew your focus outward and attempted to pull up a shocking grasp, whispering the spell, concentrating on your palm, telling yourself that your magic would surely come when it was called, but the electricity failed to erupt from your skin as it always had before.
At this, you lost control and loosed a sob. You didn't know where you were, or under whose control. You had no access to magic to defend yourself or procure money or rations, and you were only moderately proficient in daggers and crossbows, unable to wield a sword or bow. You were going to die, if you could even escape this place to start with.
A cat, which you hadn't seen before, sitting on the sofa, looking for all the world like a decorative pillow, raised its head and yawned at the noise, standing and stretching, and jumping down from its perch. You watched as it trotted away, seeming to walk through the exit, disappearing without opening the door. Ignoring this for now, you decided that you needed to do two things before you could attempt to leave. First, you needed some winter clothes to restore your normal body temperature, especially outside where you hoped to end up. Second, you needed some kind of weapon.
The wardrobe was just beyond the breakfast table, and this would be your best shot at clothing. Meanwhile, the table might have offered a selection of cutlery. Bracing yourself to leave the bed for the cold room air, you curled into yourself, then launched out of bed and made for the wardrobe.
What you hadn't expected was the pain. Every inch of your skin felt as though it was on fire, your joints seemingly full of needles. Filled with complete and utter shock, and unsure how to proceed, you lurched to the table, collapsing on it to support yourself, barely breathing despite the intense pain, afraid to expand your chest and invite worse, and barely containing a scream. You glanced around for ideas, fear rapidly taking over. Your magic was crippled, yes, but now your body was, too. The sharpest object you could see was a butter knife in a place setting on the table - no steak or butcher's knives could be found, which you decided was likely purposeful. You carefully reached to take it in your left hand, trying to move as little as possible, still barely keeping yourself from groaning as fire licked up your nerves.
Suddenly, the doorknob turned, disrupting your reach, and you steeled yourself for what you knew you had to do. You stood upright, raising your right hand to shoulder level as though you were waiting to summon a firebolt, ignoring the searing pain that erupted in your body and the creaking in your bones.
A man entered the room, confidently but but not loudly, and paused upon taking sight of you. He was genuinely beautiful, for all appearances having been expertly chiseled from marble, his snow white hair and alabaster skin contrasting with the deep maroon of his eyes and the rich plum color of his ruffled shirt. The fabric nearly, but not entirely, covered an ugly scar, the only defect in his beautiful skin, in the shape of... fang marks. Panic spiked through you in an instant – even on your best day, a vampire would be a mark you wouldn't accept. With most targets, you risked injury and death. With a vampire, you risked undead immortality in the darkness, forced to succumb to the whims and torture of a vicious, heartless master. The man was tall and carried himself gracefully, commandingly. His body language was not hostile, but you knew you needed to act as though he were.
“Ah,” he said, his eyes flickering to the cat, who had reappeared and was napping on the sofa. “I was told you were awake, darling, not that you were up.” You could barely call yourself that, as your ability to withstand this amount of pain was decreasing by the second. He resumed his path toward you.
“Stop there,” you commanded, forcing your voice through cracked and ragged vocal cords, beginning to tremble slightly through your body. To your surprise, he obeyed. To both your surprises, evidently, as he widened his eyes at you, and then furrowed his brows. After a moment to recover, he shook his head. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he insisted as he moved closer once more.
“Stay where you are, or I will cast Fireball on you, and draw an earthquake the likes of which will turn this building to rubble,” you threatened, drawing yourself up as tall as possible, but allowing your left hand to support you on the table while the fingers of your right hand moved as though you were summoning a spell. You were rapidly losing strength, and soon would not be able to hold yourself upright.
He did stop, but after a somewhat stunned moment of observing you more closely, he raised an eyebrow at you. “That will be difficult, given that you have no magic.” Cold fear drove down your spine, then. How could he possibly know that? Is he responsible for this? “In fact, I'm quite surprised you're even standing, darling.” That was becoming less true, as you were now sagging a significant amount of weight onto your left hand, your limited energy being sapped by the soul-rending pain. Goosebumps erupted over your skin as you felt another wave of ice move through you; you allowed your right hand to fall to the table as well, now leaning over it, shivering, but not breaking eye contact with the man. “Try testing that assumption,” you gritted out, your vision turning black around the edges.
At this, the man smirked slightly. “If you're chilly, there is a fleece robe in that closet. Since you're obviously fine, you can feel free to put it on. Just make sure nothing touches that wound.”
Your poisoned stab wound. You wanted to know how it looked, to ascertain how bad it was, but you couldn't see it without pulling up the hem of your shift and exposing yourself to the man. A fraction of a second of breaking eye contact to look down at your body before returning his stare was all he needed to know what you were thinking.
“Relax, my dear. There is no need to worry about modesty - I have already seen you naked,” he said, a wicked smile now playing on his face. Perhaps the vampire did not intend to hurt or kill you at this moment, but he would certainly toy with you.
With a groan, you fell to your elbows on the dining table, rattling the place settings and setting the man in motion again. “Let me help you,” he said. You had to get out of here before you lost consciousness again. Summoning your strength, you grabbed the butter knife you had wanted earlier and pointed it at him, halting him an arm's length away, his hands raised. For an instant, you were surprised that this worked – in what world would a vampire be stopped by a butter knife? You didn't have time to ponder, however, as you backed away from him, toward the wardrobe, leaning heavily on your non-knife arm for support. Using the last of your energy to fight through the agony of whatever it was that afflicted you, your heel struck the leg of a chair, ruining your precarious balance and sending you down and onto your back. The knife dropped out of your hand, forgotten in your effort to fight through the surge of excruciating pain brought on by the impact.
The man came to stand beside you, opening the wardrobe and pulling out a thick woolen robe. He knelt softly next to you, taking in your terrified face as you looked up at him.
“I was not lying,” he said. “I won't hurt you -” you whimpered as he wrapped the robe around you, the firm pressure of him moving you only adding to the pain you experienced “- you can feel free to keep this robe, and...” he paused for a moment, watching as you lost your fight to maintain consciousness.
“And, I have seen you naked.”
-----
You woke again, finding yourself returned to the four-poster, this time wrapped in the luxurious robe in addition to the comforter. You still felt as though frost was flowing through your veins, both in the sense that you were still freezing cold, but also that every heartbeat felt as though your chest was being stabbed with shards of ice. Gods, would you ever wake to a painless body again?
“Ah, so you've blessed the waking world with your consciousness again, have you?” said a silky voice to your right, in a bored tone. Startled, you looked toward the source of the sound, finding that it originated from your vampiric visitor, who was on the bed, propped up against the headboard with some pillows, lazily turning the page of a book in his lap. When you didn't answer, his eyes slid to you, followed by the rest of his face turning to look at you, nonplussed. You couldn't move, eyes glued to him.
He allowed the silence to hang in the air for a moment longer, then returned to his book. “You know, if I had wanted to kill you, turn you into a spawn, or simply feed on you, I could have done that at any time.” A page turned. “Including when you alerted the three closest cities to your presence with that ill-advised display of theatrics.” You winced internally. “Or, I could have let you be consumed by the paralysis poison until you could no longer breathe, or neglected to maintain your temperature at a safe level, since your nervous system currently seems to have forgotten how to regulate it in the absence of your magic.”
“Why go to all this trouble, then?” you growled, even that small movement of your jaw painful. He sighed, then shrugged.
“I enjoy theatrical displays,” he said.
The door to your room opened once more, and a thick, mustachioed dwarf bobbed inside. The elf's gaze snapped to him, closing his book and setting it aside.
“I came as fast as I could, sire,” the dwarf said, red-faced and out of breath, setting a large black leather bag on the mattress next to you as he walked to your side of the bed. Slightly shocked to see a dwarven vampire, you didn't realize he was speaking to you at first when he said, “Good morning, miss, so good to see you awake, it is. I'll just take your arm, here -”
“No,” you stated firmly, yanking your arm out of his grasp, not knowing what had come over you, as cooperation was certainly less likely to get you killed than resisting, only knowing that you would break if even one more person touched you without your consent. The dwarf was equally surprised, his mouth fluttering open for a moment before reaching for you again, as if you were a petulant child.
“Nonsense, I just need to check -”
“You will not,” you cried, pushing away from him toward the center of the bed and immediately curling in on yourself as the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. Of course, further from the dwarf meant closer to the elf, and you knew that the dwarf was likely safer; so why was it that you found yourself cowering toward the vampire, as if he would protect you from his own servant? The dwarf looked to his master for guidance, a non-verbal conversation occurring between them as you gripped the comforter in your hands, trying desperately to calm yourself. You needed a level head if you were to have any chance at survival.
“It's fine, Atticus. We'll try again later,” said the elf. Atticus was clearly not pleased with that answer, as he spluttered -
“But, sire, she needs -”
“You may go,” said the vampire, more firmly this time. Frustrated but obedient, the dwarf picked up his bag and left the room, giving you a hard look as he closed the door behind him. The elf sighed again.
“Atticus is the reason you are alive,” he said. “He is my best cleric, and very skilled at the healing arts. And believe it or not, he is not a spawn. He is here voluntarily.”
“And what is it that you are keeping me alive for?” you grunted, not turning to face him.
“You still don't understand, do you?” he asked.
“Understand what?” you demanded, suddenly defiant. When he didn't answer immediately, you flipped over, ignoring the searing pain beneath your skin. “Understand that you are a full blooded vampire in command of an army of spawn, for whom a sorceress stripped of her magic and so weak she can barely move, would make an excellent meal? Or perhaps you want to study this poison, so that you can replicate it for your own nefarious purposes? Or maybe you'll just turn me into your eternal slave? Regardless, I don't make it out of this with my life, so you might as well kill me now and get it over with.” He did not seem surprised by your response, but you could swear you saw just a modicum of hurt flash in his eyes.
“Understand that I saved your life,” he intoned quietly. “Understand that I will not kill you, or make you a slave, or rape you, or whatever you believe me capable of.” You forced yourself not to wince as he said the word rape, compelling your thoughts not to turn to how close you had already come to that fate. “Understand that you're still alive today because I plucked you out of a blizzard, brought you to my castle, found you excellent medical attention, and used my own body to keep you warm enough that your heart would still beat. Understand that you are safe while you are within these walls, and I will neither force you to stay, nor make you leave. Understand that I will help you get your magic back, should you desire my not-inconsequential assistance.”
You stared at him, dumbfounded. A vampire... behaving altruistically? There had to be a catch, some reason for him to make this offer.
“And what aren't you telling me?” you asked dryly. “What debt do I owe you in return?” He averted his eyes.
“You are related to a... previously dear friend of mine,” he said, attempting indifference, but you could tell he didn't like discussing this. “Rest assured that the debt has already been paid, many times over.”
You were still shocked at this entire situation. He might as well have told you that he obtained his fortune by clowning in the traveling circus.
“He must have been pretty close to you to be worth all that.”
“She,” he corrected. “And she was worth 'all that,' and much more.”
“What happened to her?” You knew exactly of whom he was speaking. She was the reason for your dual magic-wielding. She was the reason that every one of her direct female descendants had exceptional innate talent and would rise to be among the best in their class, conducting world-bettering work across the realms. She was the reason that anyone on the planet existed, rather than morphing into Mind Flayers, controlled by an all-powerful Netherbrain.
“You should know,” he said quietly. “She...” Here he hesitated, seeming to struggle to decide whether to tell you. “She was your many-great-grandmother Tav.”
You said nothing, processing the idea that you were... safe with this vampire? Tav was a highly accomplished and savvy individual, and this was one of her dear friends, or so he said. If she trusted him, you likely should as well, even if it went against your every instinct. At any rate, trusting him was currently your only option.
“Now, I came here in the first place because I knew you would be getting cold again. Judging by your lips, which are currently blue, I would say that I was correct.” You couldn't deny that you felt frozen, and the only reason you weren't shivering is because of how much it would hurt. However, he said he'd been using his own body to keep you warm - how would that work now that you were awake? You tried to avoid thinking about the sudden, unbidden thought that belatedly sprang to mind - that the handsome elf had been looking at your lips.
“Yes,” you admitted. “And, while I'm not afraid of you anymore -” this was a lie, and he knew it, for he scoffed - “there has to be some other way to offer warmth besides staying here with me.” Somehow wrapped around me, you didn't add.
“You proposed a Fireball, earlier?” he suggested. It was your turn to scoff. “We tried heating metal sheets and placing them near you, but they didn't warm you enough and we couldn't very well lay you on top of them. I was going to try using them to heat the mattress and then move you to the warm spot, but then I recognized that this would require frequent changes and lots of servant work, so I…” Here he had the decency to look somewhat sheepish. “I just laid with you and warmed you myself. You are not the only one with the ability to manually control your body temperature.”
Gods, every word out of this man's mouth railed against everything you knew about vampires. You blinked at him.
“So, are you going to let me help you, or shall I leave you to freeze in your own stubbornness?” he asked, finally turning his whole body to face you, instead of merely his head. Your nostrils flared as you inhaled the whiff of citrus and bergamot that the resultant movement of the air provided from him. You'd expected… more of an odor of decay, if you were honest with yourself. Not summertime in Myth Drannor.
“I-” you hesitated, still, evaluating any other possible option. Finding none, you finally acquiesced. “I will accept your help.” He rolled his eyes at you.
“I'm going to need to lift you, and it will most likely hurt,” he said, not unkindly. “So no more butter knives, okay?”
You nodded, bracing yourself for the pain, but found yourself flinching away from him as he reached for you, without exactly realizing what you were doing. You knew full well you had just consented to this. You told yourself that it was because you naturally still didn't fully trust him, and were afraid of how much his touch would hurt, and it definitely wasn't because the last man who had restrained you against his body had nearly succeeded in raping and killing you, and your body was reacting accordingly.
The elf tilted his head and furrowed his brow slightly at your response. You wondered if he was connecting it to your response to Atticus. If he was, he didn't mention it as his expression relaxed and he backed off.
“Mmm, perhaps you should come to me, darling.” You nodded again, suddenly too nervous to speak. The pain was unbelievably bad – your skin felt as though it was being flayed off, your hair on fire – as you moved closer to him and pressed yourself into his arms. You had successfully restrained a groan until he lifted you to sit between his legs, your back against his chest. At this, a whimper escaped your throat, a tear sliding down your cheek as you thought about just how helpless you really were in this moment. He sucked in a breath sympathetically upon hearing the sound, but made no other acknowledgment as he pulled the comforter up over you both. He removed his arms from underneath, reaching for his book before settling his arms around the lump of you under the sheets and setting the novel on your belly, not opening it quite yet.
Very quickly, you felt your back grow pleasantly warm, even through the fleece robe you still wore. You had to admit that it helped significantly with the pain, and you soon felt yourself relaxing against his body. You felt his heart as it beat against your back, and focused on syncing your breathing with his, attempting to calm the amount of adrenaline in your body as the warmth spread through you. After a few moments, the elf spoke from behind your right ear.
“I've given you quite a bit of information in the past few minutes, haven't I?” he asked smoothly. “It's only fair if I get some information from you in return, don't you think?” You tried to quell the surge of panic that rose up in you in that moment. You might not desire to talk about whatever it is he would want to know, but so far he had given you no reason to think that he was asking with nefarious intent.
“Okay,” you croaked, your throat cracked and painful.
“What is your name?” There was no way you were going to give him that. You picked a new one quickly, the name of the author of your most recent novel -
“Amelie.”
“Hmm! An interesting choice. Want to try again?”
“If you already know the answer, why bother asking?” you retorted, annoyed.
“I'm just trying to see whether you have memory loss,” he said innocently.
“Tell me yours first.” He laughed, his chest shaking with the sound, before he moved his lips back to your ear.
“Aren't you needy?” he said in a low voice that was closer to a growl, and you found goosebumps flaring down your spine, unrelated to any cold or fear you still felt.
“Very well. My name is Astarion.” You let that sink in. You had not heard of Astarion in any of the stories passed down from your ancestor. You could name the other players in her mind flayer rescue tale, but not Astarion. That didn't mean he was being untruthful about knowing her well – your family matriarch had known, cooperated with, and saved thousands of people over her lifetime – but it meant that your mind still wasn't fully at ease. “Now, yours.”
You closed your eyes in defeat, and spoke your name quietly. He hummed in approval. The next question was softly spoken, after a beat of silence.
“What was done to you?” You tensed, a wave of pain roiling through your body, more intense after the brief respite. You shook your head slightly, unwilling to discuss that with him, hoping upon hope that he did not press you for this. You knew you needed to tell him, that it would give him necessary information to help you heal and to get your magic back, but right now you were barely holding on, and if you had to relive those moments, you would lose control. He leaned until he could observe your face, but you didn't look at him.
“Alright,” he said, in a tone that was respectful, but frustrated. “Who did this to you, then?”
“I don't know,” you admitted quietly. “I never got a good look at him. He wasn't familiar to me.”
“But he definitely was a man?” Astarion asked, seizing upon the one detail you'd remembered. Unbidden, an image of the man's arousal as he pinned you to the slab of rock sprang to your mind. Distracted, trying to shove the vision away, unable to devote brain space to a measured response while also suppressing a panic attack, you responded breathily,
“There wasn't much doubt about that.”
Astarion made a noise of surprise, and was then silent. You kicked yourself – you knew what he was correctly assuming, adding up your behavior toward him and his male healer, the way he had found you, the poison you had been given. He was kind enough not to say anything else or press you further on the matter, however.
This time, tears fell freely from your eyes, unable to contain the swell of emotions after having disclosed your fate to someone else. The admission made you feel smaller, incompetent, worthless. Astarion neither commented nor moved to comfort you, just picked up his book and opened to the bookmarked page, allowing you to work through your feelings on your own. After a bit, you were able to relax once more against his chest, focusing on the warmth that was flowing through you again. A few moments later, his voice came gently from your left.
“You can lay back, if you wish. Recall that every other time we've done this, you have been unconscious.” We, you thought. We've done this before. The thought of him protecting you like this, even whilst you were unconscious, sent an unexpected wave of affection through you. You'd never had to ask anyone for help – not like this. And with him, you hadn't needed to ask. The notion was overwhelming.
You did as he suggested, though, relaxing your neck until your head rested on his shoulder, closing your eyes. Immediately you began to drift off, the first time since before the dragon fight that you had sought unconsciousness rather than fighting it tooth and nail. You fell asleep as he turned a page.
