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scarredwithcruelintentions · 3 days

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chapter 8: scorched earth and rebirth

Find the master list here!

C/W: Shadowheart being a bitch (again), mentions of past trauma.

W/C: 3,800

A/N: This chapter brought to you by: OneLook Thesaurus.

The trek over the mountain path proved more laborious than he’d anticipated, an ambush of undead laying in wait for their unassuming passage. Though difficult, the battle lasted mere moments, Shadowheart’s radiant attacks a divine intervention against the ghouls. Breathless and bone weary, the group sat for a brief respite.

“That was meant for me, no doubt. I’d recognize Cazador’s minions anywhere,” he panted, hoping neither his expression nor the waver of his voice betrayed his terror.

“It is no matter, dear Star. They’ve been defeated,” you consoled, placing a gentle hand on his knee.

Lae’zel’s eyes flitted between the two, scrutinizing the ease of companionship between them. A devious and knowing smile twisted her lips, making Astarion’s stomach somersault with unease.

“You are lucky she likes you, Nightwalker. Were it up to me, I’d simply kill you for all your trouble,” she smirked, notably more composed than the rest.

“‘Like’ is an understatement. I see whose bed you ended up warming that night, though I suppose it’s no surprise,” Shadowheart scoffed.

Astarion’s head snapped to you, enraged to see a deep flush spreading across your face and into the neck of your armor, rendered speechless by your mortification. Faster than a mortal eye could process, he drew his dagger and lunged for Shadowheart, holding it menacingly to her throat.

“Enough!” he roared.

For her part, Shadowheart remained stoically unimpressed.

“She warmed no beds that night. Your jealousy is unbecoming, Cleric mine. I feel sorry for the poor souls unfortunate enough to grace your sheets,” he hissed.

Shadowheart’s expression turned thunderous, and she shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble.

“How rich, a prostitute bemoaning a night in my bed. You should be so lucky,” she jeered.

“On the contrary, dearest. Two hundred years and ten thousand lovers, none of which I wanted, and yet I’d sooner return to that atrocious work than spend a night with you,” he sneered in contempt.

He smiled as a flash of genuine hurt crossed her face before she drew her lips into a tight line, sniffing primly.

“You wouldn’t be worth the coin anyway,” she said meanly, and he held his ground even as his heart plummeted into his stomach.

They continued to glare at each other in a defensive standoff, neither turning to look at you as you cleared your throat uncomfortably.

“If you two are quite finished with your fight for my honor,” you spoke, an almost imperceptible quiver in your voice, “we have business to attend to. Let us make haste for the creche.”

“Do let’s,” Lae’zel added, a trace of amusement laced through her steely expression.

After another moment of tense silence, Shadowheart relaxed her stance and turned to resume the journey to Rosymorn Monastery. Lae’zel fell in step just behind her, and you looked at him expectantly.

Hurt and adrenaline rang deafeningly in his ears, his posture still tense as he considered sticking his blade between Shadowheart’s shoulders. He startled when warm hands closed around the fist that gripped the dagger hilt, knuckles blanched with the strain. He felt the tension drain from him instantly, the aura of your compassion washing him with a sense of quiet calm.

“Thank you,” you whispered, expression grateful, “You did not have to defend me so ardently; her jibes were uncalled for, and I am sorry on her behalf.”

“Think nothing of it, darling. Besides, you need not apologize for injury you have not committed. It is not your burden to carry, and you’d do well to remember it,” he murmured, adding quietly, “I see how our woes weigh on you.”

“It is not something I have much control over. I simply feel, and I answer the call of whatever it compels me to do.”

Your eyes fell to his feet as the gravity of your words knocked the wind from him, an all too familiar ache reverberating in his chest.

“I know of exactly what you speak, in many a painful way. I am sorry, my love,” he whispered, unaware of his slip.

Your eyes darted back up to meet his, shock evident in their widening. Then, your expression softened, a hopeful fondness writ plainly from your face to the yielding of your posture. You veritably melted at his words, and he smiled tenderly as he watched your shoulders ease. He allowed you to gently take the dagger from him and sheath it at his hip, palms adjoined even as you worked. Once sheathed, your other hand returned to rest atop his, petting your thumb gently across the backs of his knuckles.

“Thank you, again,” you whispered once more, and then dropped his hand.

You strode to catch up with the other two women, bracing yourself for the day’s quest.

He exhaled a breathy sigh, gut fluttering with warmth and delight at your kindness, as he rushed to walk beside you. ______________________________________________________________

The zaith’isk turned out to be a dead end, a monstrous contraption of psionic energy meant to kill both tadpole and host in one fell swoop. Lae’zel was intent upon believing that it had been tampered with, the atmosphere rife with her denial. He supposed he might be as well, had he willingly devoted his entire existence to serving a false god. But, all evidence pointed to exactly that, and as they made their way through the creche, it was only made more apparent that nothing she’d been indoctrinated to believe was true.

You insisted upon saving the stupid egg, much to his dismay, convincing the varsh that the group would raise it well. Though skeptical, the custodian gave you a pair of boots to protect from the acidic pond of the hatchery. You passed it onto Lae’zel, who placed it in her bag with care. He watched the way the women marveled at it with a sense of motherly awe, and dismissed his twinge of pitiful discomfort at the sight. He imagined he’d make a terrible caregiver, what with nothing but torture and abuse set as his precedent.

The Kith’rak proved to be a formidable foe, demanding the artifact from you and striking within milliseconds of your resounding ‘no’. Much to his relief, you’d expected her wrath and dodged the attack with a lightning quick feint to the left. He sprung into action moments later, going for the two wolves that now stood with their teeth bared and hackles raised. Shadowheart screamed somewhere off to the right of him, but he paid her no mind and made quick work of the oversized, hairy beasts.

He looked over to see Shadowheart and Lae’zel begrudgingly fighting back to back, parrying and dodging aggressive strikes of githyanki blades and crossbow bolts. The two women had their quarry well handled, so he turned back to watch you deal the killing blow to the Kith’rak. The air around her was charged with the weave, disembodied whispers paralyzing her in fear as your longsword carved a devastating arc through the fizzling magic with a hiss and finally lodged itself in her carotid artery.

A sadistic sense of pride bloomed in his chest as he watched you rip the blade from her throat, her head lolling unnaturally to the side in its absence, half severed. Then he looked directly at you, gore spattered and chest heaving with exertion, and that pride morphed into the sizzling embers of desire. Even coated in the sweat and viscera of battle, you were a sight to behold.

You handed the greatsword off to Lae’zel, who took it with a pensive frown. He could see the gears turning in her head, the fear of what lay ahead pausing even the great warrior of Creche K’liir in her post-battle revelry.

You continued rooting through the Kith’rak’s belongings, exclaiming triumphantly when you’d found whatever it was you were looking for. Taking the shard of stone the size of your palm, you walked up to the device enabling the glowing barrier and slotted it perfectly into place. The barrier dissipated with an unearthly whoosh, and you took a bold step into the antechamber of the monastery.

Though he was amused by Lae’zel’s hesitancy, he could not quiet the voice in his head that empathized with her fear. An undying queen with enough power to rival godhood against a ragged band of exhausted adventurers, one of whom had been a faithful servant up until this very moment. Astarion felt a pang of sorrow for the gith woman, whose entire world had been upended in less than a day. He remembered what that felt like as plainly as the memory the feeling was drawn from: the night he’d clawed his way out of his own grave.

You marched, head held high, straight for the githyanki inquisitor. Lae’zel’s hesitancy only grew with every question, tension rising when you refused to give the inquisitor the Astral Prism. You had to quietly remind Lae’zel that everything was not as it seemed, that the zaith’isk had almost killed her when she threatened to kill you. Astarion marveled at how level-headed you appeared through the whole interaction, hiding your fear well. Had he known you any less, even he might have missed it.

The following battle was hellish, a combination of silver and psionic force that quickly sapped the party of whatever remaining energy reserves they had. It was by no small miracle that they emerged victorious, Lae’zel beheading the inquisitor with the new, and yet familiar, greatsword. Just when they thought they’d have a moment to catch their breath, an astral projection of the lich queen herself materialized before them, towering over their tiny forms like a boot poised to crush a colony of ants.

Vlaakith demanded that they kneel in her presence, attempting to soften the blow to their pride with half-hearted congratulations for besting the inquisitor. Lae’zel knelt reverently, and he watched Shadowheart take a knee in uncertainty. Astarion looked to you, still standing tall and defiant in the face of the would-be god, and snorted derisively. He followed your lead despite Lae’zel’s muttered contempt, refusing to bow to a fraud.

He’d sooner bow to you than this charlatan masquerading as a divine entity, having spent enough time cowed by those that deemed themselves superior.

Vlaakith summoned the Astral Prism from you, suspending it above the illuminated dais, and he watched in fascination as the thing shifted and whirred until it opened, revealing a portal into another plane. The lich queen commanded that you enter the prism, alone, and kill the being within that was claimed to be a trespasser.

You looked up at the monstrous projection, then back at the group, and with a resolute nod, you stepped through the portal. Astarion’s heart clenched with dread as he watched you disappear; there was no telling what was held on the other side. He kept his eyes fixed on the glowing disc, only half paying attention to the words exchanged between the false god and her beholden servitor. He hardly noticed when silence fell and the apparition dissipated with another otherworldly whoosh.

Astarion breathed an audible sigh of relief when you returned from the portal, not even batting an eye as it swirled shut behind you.

“I met our dream visitor,” you said, voice echoing in the nigh empty chamber.

“And you killed them, as Vlaakith commanded?” Lae’zel asked, bristling.

“I did no such thing. They are our only line of defense against the Absolute, Lae, and you know it,” you responded matter-of-factly.

“Hshar’lak! I should gut you where you stand,” she growled, blade poised to strike.

“And yet you won’t, as you too know that something is off here. Something has been off from the moment we stepped foot in the creche. You cannot deny it any longer, Lae,” you murmured, stepping forward to place a hand over her wrist and gently lower her sword.

“You are right. Damn it! I know you are right. I am hshar’lak this day. I have failed my queen, my people,” Lae’zel wailed, and Astarion winced at the pain so clearly displayed in her stance and her voice.

“You’ve done no such thing, Lae’zel,” you replied.

The brusque woman shook your hand from her arm, but made no more moves to attack you. She sat heavily on the bottom step of the dais, head falling into her hands.

“There must be some way I can appease the undying queen. To think that I spit in the face of Ascension, all for an istik!” she snarled, rounding on you with hardened eyes and bared teeth.

You said nothing, only pulled out your lyre and began to pluck a gentle tune. The music swirled around the group, providing a sense of rest that cured their ailments and bolstered their resolve. He felt it as Lae’zel’s distress dulled with the return of her wits, the atmosphere lighter for it. Shadowheart spoke a quiet prayer of healing that had the group on their feet moments later.

You motioned them forward, exploring the cavernous chamber for any signs of the Blood of Lathander. He watched as you picked up a hunk of amber, what looked to be droplets of blood suspended within, and then promptly tossed it aside, continuing your exploration.

“A piece of amber containing the blood of a god, is that not exactly what we’ve come here for?” he questioned sardonically.

“A fake, meant to throw off those with a less trained eye,” you responded, rifling through more chests and drawers.

“Ah, naturally! How could I be so silly?”

You looked up at him, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips.

“Easily, Rogue,” you quipped.

“Hey!” he snapped, but your attention was now trained elsewhere.

Two statues of the god himself stood facing each other. After reading one of the plaques, you made a confusing series of turns and then shoved the statue. He was surprised to hear the turning of long rusted gears, watching raptly as the statue rotated in place until it faced into the chamber.

You moved to the opposite statue, shoving with all your might, but it wouldn’t budge. You backed off to catch your breath then tried once more, to no avail. Blue in the face and panting with exertion, you held a hand out to him.

“Grease, please,” you heaved.

He cocked an inquisitive brow at you, but did as you asked, handing over a bottle of grease that had been rattling around in his pack since the outset of the journey. He watched you pull the stopper and upend the bottle over the statue’s base, giving it a few hard shakes to get the last of it out.

“Clever,” he intoned.

With a fierce tug, the statue yielded and turned to face the wall of the chamber. The shrill whining of stone grinding against stone echoed as the wall gave way to a passage filled with magical luminescence. He watched you intently as you completed each perilous puzzle, thwarted each obstacle leading to your prize. Finally, the last glowing barrier fell, and the group was greeted with the sight of a legendary mace, infused with holy light and attached to the pommel with none other than the Blood of Lathander.

He was taken aback by the pause in your step, could sense you thinking, though what about he could not say. He caught your imperceptible shrug and watched proudly as you strode forward, grabbing the thing by the hilt and yanking it free with all your might.

Before they could celebrate their victory, though, a sizzling shield of magical energy came down, trapping you in place. The whirring sound of machinery filled the chamber, along with the otherworldly buzzing of beams of light coming together to power up a massive weapon.

He found himself speaking before he was even sure of what he was going to say, what he was going to do.

“I’ll get you out! The rest of you, go! NOW!” he bellowed.

He did not pause to watch Shadowheart and Lae’zel scramble away, following the path of the ray out of the monastery and presumably to safety. He hastily pulled his longbow from its sheath against his back, nocking an arrow and shooting down at the source of its power. It took three well placed shots, but the forcefield gave, and you rushed forward to grab him.

He shook his head, looking up as the ceiling began to crumble, dust obscuring his vision as chunks of stone fell around him.

“GO!” he shouted, hoping you heard him over the sound of the monastery collapsing.

The last thing he heard was the sharp cry of his name, the sound of your sweet voice raised to a piercing shriek. Then, there was only darkness. ______________________________________________________________

He came to on his back, the face of the desiccated skeleton known only as ‘Withers’ hovering above him.

“Rise,” it commanded in a growl.

A searing pain split his skull and he ached all over. He raised a hand to his forehead, groaning.

“Gods, what happened?” he questioned aloud to no one in particular.

“You died, for a moment,” he heard you intone. He opened his eyes to find you standing close by, chewing your lip in worry and hugging your arms close.

Something ferocious in him snapped at the thought.

“What in the sweet Hells were you thinking, activating that lance? I was right there! Gods!” he scoffed, “Do you have any idea how much that hurt?!”

“I’m so sorry, Astarion. I’ll be more careful next time,” you whispered, eyes glassy.

He still burned with righteous anger, but felt himself soften some at the sorrow on your face.

Still, he felt it pertinent to drive the point home.

“Next time? No, no, no! If there is a ‘next time’, I’ll be the one aiming the all-powerful weapon, thank you.”

He heard a quiet sniffle and watched guiltily as you reached up to run your arm along your nose.

“Sorry,” you mumbled again, casting your eyes downward.

He heaved a tired sigh, taking your hand.

“Although, I do appreciate you trying to fix your mistake,” he added, voice much softer.

You looked up to meet his eyes, a tear running down your cheek.

“Just don’t do it again. Now, shall we head to bed? Or do you have any other chaos you need to unleash here?” he asked, voice and expression taking on a devious quality.

“No, no more chaos, I promise. Lae’zel is in a right fit about Vlaakith and the destruction of the creche, and I accidentally got you killed. I feel as though I’ve ruined everything,” you whimpered, voice shaky.

“My sweet, we spat in the face of a self-proclaimed god and procured a legendary weapon today. Could it have possibly gone any better?” he smirked.

A watery giggle escaped you at his antics, the sound soothing the last of the anger from him.

“When you put it like that, I suppose not,” you smiled.

You wrung your hands, a habit he noticed you indulged in only when nervous.

“Is there something you’d like to ask me, dearest?” he inquired, brow raised.

“I…I was wondering if I might make it up to you…with dinner?” you asked coyly, looking up at him through your lashes.

The embers of desire stoked to life low in his belly, though he did not show it. So eager, so willing you were to provide him with sustenance. However did he get so lucky?

He made a show of stroking his chin, humming quietly.

“And what if I’d like to sample another meal tonight?” he asked playfully, looking around the camp at the other companions. He stifled his laughter at your immediate glower.

“Then you’d be dead before morning,” you grumbled.

“Right, of course. Nonetheless, I wonder what they might taste like. Theoretically, of course,” he added, taking joy in the jealousy written across your expression.

“Of course,” was all you said in response, face still drawn tight and sour.

“I imagine Gale to be rich and dark, something like a well aged brandy,” he intoned, snickering to himself when your frown deepened.

“But Shadowheart,” he continued, “I’ve no idea. What do you imagine our little enigma might taste like?”

“Something that’d knock you on your arse in no time flat. Calishite Absinthe, most like,” you responded monotonously.

“That sounds rather appealing, don’t you think?” he asked, reveling in toying with you.

“Perhaps.”

“If you had to take a bite of anyone here, who might it be, darling?” he intoned, devious glint to his eyes despite the fragile hope in his heart.

You looked directly at him, seeing through the facade and into his being.

“You, of course. Fair’s fair,” you murmured.

He felt his stomach somersault with excitement, choosing to pass it off as a step in the right direction towards his original plan. He turned to face you fully, hand not holding yours coming up to cup your face.

“Two hundred years, I’ve had this condition, and yet…you were my first real meal,” he whispered, thumb sweeping over the plane of your cheek.

“A good first, I hope,” you whispered back, lips parting with your breath as you inched closer to him.

“The most delicious of firsts, darling,” he murmured, cool breath fanning across your face with the proximity.

Instinctually, he broke his hold of your hand and wrapped his arm around the small of your back, delighting in your small cry as he hauled you closer to him. Your hands came up to rest against his chest as he leaned down, eyes scanning yours for any hesitation. When he found none, only unbridled want present in their depths, he delicately pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was short, chaste, but no less sweet for it. Your mouth was plush and warm against his, and it yielded beautifully as you gasped into him. He delighted in the taste of you, sticky sweet and intoxicating, pressed to his lips so willingly.

Sensing the prying gazes of his companions, and that of one bag of bones just to the right of him, Astarion broke the kiss begrudgingly.

“We have an audience,” he murmured, resting his forehead upon yours.

“Right,” you squeaked, squeezing a chuckle from him at your adorable innocence.

You pressed gently against his chest, and he broke his hold on you, giving you space to step back. You cleared your throat and brushed your hands down the front of your armor, grimacing as you remembered the blood and grime that smeared it.

“I’m going to the Chionthar to wash. Meet me later? For dinner?”

“Of course, darling. I impatiently await your return,” he answered in a sultry purr.

He watched as you hurried away to your tent and then out of the campgrounds to the river, a dastardly smirk plastered across his face.

Not much longer now.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 7 days

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chapter 7: sorrowful lash

Find the master list here!

CW: Allusions to past trauma.

W/C: 1,835

A/N: A shorter chapter this time.

Astarion rolled over, a pain unlike any he’d experienced in his two hundred years as a spawn cleaving his skull. He recognized the symptoms of a hangover, shocked to find that he could still develop one as a vampire. Though, he supposed he had drunk quite a bit to numb the shocking sting of your rejection. He moaned his discomfort, blinking blearily against the sun’s rays penetrating his tent as he sat up. He gave himself a moment to gather his bearings and then parted its flaps, wincing at the sudden increase in brightness.

Looking around the grounds, he was surprised to find them all but deserted. He could hear Karlach humming somewhere nearby, and smelled the unnaturally dark ozone of Gale on the breeze. He could not, however, find anything more than the faint fragrance of you that lingered on your belongings. It appeared as though you’d left for the day, and a sense of panic washed over him as the events of the evening prior came to the forefront of his mind.

Gods, what have I done? I’ve ruined it!

He caught sight of Karlach in his peripheral vision, head whipping around to glare at her.

“Where’ve they gone?” he snapped, voice harsher than he’d meant it to be.

“Aw, cheer up, Soldier! She’ll be back before you know it,” she chirped with a grin, taking no offense at his sour tone.

“And just what in the bloody Hells is that supposed to mean?” he snarled, bristling with embarrassment at her knowing expression.

“You’re daft if you truly believe we don’t all see it, Astarion,” was all she said in response, bright smile still residing on her face. She continued her trek onward, whistling a jaunty tune.

“That’s not a damn answer!” he shouted after her.

She only continued to whistle as she walked out of his line of sight.

He huffed his annoyance, then retreated back into his tent, yanking the furs of his bedroll up over his head.

Apparently, it was to be another very long and arduous day. ______________________________________________________________

The next time he popped his head out, the dusk was already losing its battle for the sky to the blanket of night. He was relieved to see Shadowheart and Lae’zel making nice over a shared meal, Wyll laughing heartily with Gale as Karlach told impassioned tales of her adventures in the Hells. His eyes continued to scan the campgrounds, looking for any sign of you and finding none. He could smell that you’d made it back, but could not locate your whereabouts among the other companions. A warning bell tolled in his mind, anxiety tightening its chokehold on his unbeating heart.

He crept silently from his tent, following your scent as it gradually intensified. He found you sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree by the riverbank, knees drawn to your chest and arms hugging them close. He marveled at the glow of the waxing moon on your skin, sleeves of your nightdress falling to expose your shoulders. Your hair rippled gently with the breeze, reminding him of the water as it ran over and between hidden stones. You gazed out into the waiting darkness, eerily silent.

“I’d ask if you wanted company, but I doubt you’ve come all the way out here to find it,” he called out, grimacing guiltily when you startled.

When the frantic beating of your heart had slowed to a normal pace again, he took stock of your expression. There was a weary mournfulness burdening your gaze, and he was briefly arrested in his movement by just how terribly sad you looked. You said nothing, but moved to make room for him to sit next to you.

“Just needed some space to think, ‘s all,” you whispered, voice strangely devoid of emotion.

He wrung his hands uneasily, a million worries about what might have caused your strife darting through his mind.

“About last night -” he began, but you held up a hand to stop him.

“I don’t need apologies. As I’ve said before, it’s not you. Yours was far from the first bed I’d declined at the party.”

That drove an unwitting chuckle from him, quickly hushing himself at the unimpressed raise of your brow.

“I may have overheard several…propositions, shall we say, for a night of shared ecstasy,” he explained.

You cracked a small smile, momentarily loosening the grip around his heart.

“Eavesdropping, were you?” you questioned, amusement plain.

“Perhaps,” was his only reply.

You looked away again, staring unseeingly at the horizon.

Without turning to address him directly, you asked in a cold, distant tone, “Then why did you try your luck? What makes you think you’re any different?”

The grip around his heart tightened once again, breath catching in his throat and dizzying him with its sudden ferocity. Words failed him as a sense of burning shame enveloped him.

“I see the way each one of you looks at me. Admiration, adoration, idolatry…lust. As though I’m something to be consumed, a bottomless well of giving. A savior from your many sins. Have I not my own to atone for as well? Am I not due an ounce of respect for all I’ve sacrificed to get us this far?”

Though your words carried the weight of long held anger, they fell from your lips with a lifeless monotony. He hastily opened his mouth - to explain or apologize, he knew not which - but you began to speak again.

“I suppose it matters not. I am whatever I am perceived to be. No more, no less.”

A haunting echo of his own emotions reverberated dully within his skull; he knew this pain. Had lived with it for too long himself. He lost himself in the roar of agony between his ears for a time, startling when he heard a quiet sniffle.

“Forgive me,” you whispered, breath hiccupping with sorrow.

Finding his voice, he murmured, “Dearest, there is nothing to forgive. It is I who should be asking your forgiveness, once again. I would lie and say it was the wine talking, but I find that I can’t when it comes to you.”

He was surprised by his own honesty, words falling from him with an ease he was unaware he possessed. You turned to look at him shrewdly, tears spilling as you narrowed your eyes to discern his truthfulness. You said nothing, wordlessly urging him to continue. He took a shaking breath, steadying himself.

“You have shown me kindness unlike anyone I’ve met in the whole of my life, both before I was turned and after. You have no expectations of me, have given me no reason to believe that your motives lie elsewhere. You are simply lovely, just for the sake of being so.

I, too, have been wanted for things I was unprepared to give, and have been forced to give them anyway. It is a burden I would not wish upon anyone, least of all you. So, please, forgive me. I am not well versed in matters of sentient interaction beyond those of carnal depravity.”

You sucked in a gasping breath as he finished his monologue, and he turned sharply to look at you just as a great sob pushed past your lips. An icy shard of dread punched through him at the sound, fearful he’d said something wrong yet again. He watched your hands twist in the fabric of your nightdress just over your heart, clawing as though you could rip the wretched thing from your chest just so that this torment, whatever it may be, might end.

“Have I done it wrong again?” he whispered, nerves making his voice tremble.

You only cried harder, despair leaking freely from you and into the recesses of his soul, a reflection of your pain mirrored in him with its intensity. He was at a loss as to how to comfort you, never having seen you so distraught. Something urged him to reach out to you, to hold you and pet through the strands of your hair soothingly until you quieted. But another voice, louder and more ominous, told him that he should not touch you just yet. It screamed that you knew exactly of what he spoke, knew it in a way he dared not fathom.

He began to hum the lament of yours that he so loved, unsurely at first, then with more fervor. It had helped him in his darkest moment of weakness; he could only hope that it would help you much the same. Your fitful sobs gradually turned into hiccups, sniffles and then silence as you came back to yourself, listening intently to your favored tune whispered back to you. You eventually reached out to clasp his hand in yours, placing a sweet kiss on the back of it in thanks.

You gestured at the space between you and him, asking quietly, “May I?”

He wordlessly held his arm aloft, inviting you to sidle closer as he continued to hum your song. You folded into his arms, resting your head against his chest to feel the rumble of his voice. He reached a hand up and into your soft tresses, blunt nails scraping along your scalp as he sang the last phrase. A contented silence fell in its wake, one hand running idly through your hair as you held the other.

You eventually broke it with a quiet apology.

“Whatever are you sorry for now, my sweet?” he murmured, continuing his slow, soothing ministrations.

“That you’ve been used that way,” you whispered back, cautious of breaking the fragile moment.

“Ah, that. Think nothing of it, darling. If anything, it’s taught me to cherish these moments of freedom all the more.”

“Nonetheless, it’s an awful burden to carry,” you responded forlornly.

“It is one of many that weighs on me, but it is far from the worst,” he intoned, voice bitter and solemn.

“I am always here to lend an ear, should you ever need it, dear Star.”

“Perhaps one day,” he answered, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

The lull in conversation preceded another blanket of comfortable silence, and he listened to the sound of your breath mingled with the night ambiance. It was serene, startlingly so, to hold you close and offer you the same sanctuary you’d given him so freely. An uncharacteristic tenderness overwhelmed him, and he clutched you ever so slightly tighter, as though this beautiful dream were liable to shatter around him at any moment.

You cleared your throat, breaking the silence for a final time.

“We found the gith creche today. I’m taking Lae and Shadowheart with me tomorrow to infiltrate it. Lae insists that the zaith’isk will cure us, but I have my reservations. Besides, I found a reference as to the Blood of Lathander’s whereabouts, and I have reason to believe it might be hidden somewhere in the temple the gith commandeered. Would you like to join us and cause some chaos?”

“My dear, there’s nothing I’d love more.”

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 11 days

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chapter 6: ruination and regret

Find the master list here!

CW: Too many feels, emotional manipulation and allusion to past trauma.

W/C: 3,890

A/N: Thank you for all of your likes, comments and reblogs! They make my day! Enjoy!

The day had been harrowing to say the least. The whole party had ventured out together to take on the goblin encampment, and had they not all set forth, he was sure none who had would’ve made it back. He could only remember bits and pieces of the mission, so wracked with nerves and adrenaline as he was.

He remembered his awe at the skillful, deceptive manner in which you’d talked your way into the raid celebration; the searing pain in his skull and the voice of the ‘Absolute’ commanding abeyance at the bridge to entry before the little contraption Shadowheart carried around silenced it once again.

He remembered saving the ridiculous and terrible bard’s hide. He’d disagreed with your motion to help the idiot, but had ultimately been outvoted. Some case you’d made about ‘kindred spirits’, or the likes, had garnered enough sympathy from the rest to warrant standing idly by as you picked a fight with an ogre. He’d never admit it, but the rush of the ensuing fight had made saving the silly little man worthwhile.

He remembered a sense of pride at watching you command authority over the goblins guarding the temple doors, once again talking yourself into a place you didn’t belong, though the goblins were none the wiser. He remembered the way you’d expertly manipulated the priestess into giving you a private audience, and then ran your sword clean through her in her own chapel.

You’d had far less propriety with the drow, something fierce and dangerous sparking behind your eyes at the sight of her. You’d simply walked up, blade in hand, and brought your arm down in a swift and brutal arc over her front. Despite your surprise attack, she was not as easily felled as the priestess, and your stunt had earned the group another raging fight over your insolence. He’d found himself preoccupied by you throughout, fighting without finesse as he bore witness to the formidably masterful way you wove your magical artistry alongside your weapon attacks to create a devastating and beautiful offensive assault.

He remembered the distractingly delicious smell of your blood on the air, too absorbed in the warm comfort it brought him to notice the way your strikes had gone sloppy, your dodges glacially slow by comparison, as the group engaged the final horde.

He remembered the falling curve of the hobgoblin leader’s war hammer, as if in slow motion, and the sickening crunch of your skull echoing in the sudden and vast emptiness of his mind.

He remembered watching helplessly, transfixed in horror, as you crumpled to the sticky cobblestone of the temple floor, the fragrant essence of your life force that he’d come to know so intimately spilling in a hapless and rapidly spreading pool around you.

He remembered the deafening roar of shocked silence at the sight of you, so small and vulnerable at the monster’s feet, your beautiful countenance dulled by the pallor of death.

He remembered registering the piercing sound of a feral scream, remembered being spurred into action by it. Remembered the fury and the fear that pushed him to take life indiscriminately, reveling in the gratuitous bloodshed at his hands as he brutalized a path to your limp form. Remembered slaying all who came near with reckless abandon, almost taking Shadowheart out when she made to cast a healing incantation on you.

Remembered thrashing against the excruciating heat of Karlach’s arms as she hauled him backwards, intent upon fighting his way back to your side no matter the cost. The placating gestures of his other companions as he rushed to hold your slight frame, platitudes of ‘It’s over’ and ‘Let us help’ bouncing off the wall of his despair as he hissed at them to keep their distance. The poorly hidden grim expression drawing Shadowheart’s face into gaunt severity as she assessed the state of you from afar, any attempt she made to come nearer met with his rabid hostility.

The feel of Lae’zel’s swordpoint at his nape and Karlach’s burning hands fisted in his doublet as he was dragged away mercilessly, the shrill and penetrating sound of mourning ringing in his ears.

It was not until much later - long after you’d been revived and the last embers of the celebratory bonfire had guttered out - that Astarion realized the tortured wail he’d heard as he was wrenched from your motionless, cold body was that of his own. The lack of your warmth to guide and protect him, however fleeting, turned out to be an agony far more unfathomable than that of his plan’s ruination. ______________________________________________________________

Despite Shadowheart’s use of the Revivify incantation, your wounds continued to pain you and your skin had a sickly dullness to it that rivaled that of a plague infected pauper. He was more than sure that even his mortal counterparts could hear the stressed whistle of your breath past your lips as the party trudged in the direction of the Grove. Everyone continued to glance worriedly at you as you winced and gritted your teeth through the pain of movement. For your part, you continued to refuse any offers of helping hands, pride making you stubborn.

Astarion would have found it amusing had he not found it disconcerting. You’d done so much for all of them, himself included, but could not accept help for yourself. It pointed to a deeper, more traumatic motivation than he was comfortable putting his finger on. He chose to remain quiet instead, eyeing you carefully should your ability to continue onward falter.

When it inevitably did, he was at your side in an instant, beating even the hulking Elven druid in his wide and sweeping reflexive strides. He did not even have the wherewithal to chuckle to himself at the many disappointed expressions on the surrounding faces. You were his only concern, and he could smell the fatigue in what little blood had been restored to you. Ignoring your weak protests, he swept you into his arms with the strength of a man ten times his size and carried you the rest of the way to the Grove, warmth spreading from his chest when he recognized the evening out of your fitful, waking breaths into those of dreamless sleep.

Back at the Grove and with access to all of his magical medicinals, Halsin, Nettie and Shadowheart worked in tandem to restore your battle weary body to full health. It took quite some skill and patience, but it was managed, and he watched your expression with keen eyes, looking for any hidden signs of discomfort. Finding none, Astarion breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, feeling as though a heavy burden of sorrow had been lifted from him.

After some discussion with Halsin and the retrieval of the group’s reward, you sought out Zevlor to convey the news of the goblin leaders’ demise. It appeared, however, that the whole of the Grove already knew, as the tieflings were gathered en masse just inside the gate, hugging and shouting and laughing with their relief. The exiled Hellrider held out a meager coin purse, which you turned down vehemently.

Were he sure it would not reflect badly upon his character to reach out and take it in your stead, he might have done so. As it stood, Astarion ruefully averted his gaze from the little bag, jaw muscles working to hold his snide remarks safely behind his teeth. Just as he thought that things could get no worse, the tiefling leader suggested he and the others put on a celebration that night at camp.

Backwards as it was, you accepted the invitation graciously, though he could see a wariness hidden behind the warmth of your gaze. He was proud to have managed not more than a tired sigh at the refugee’s overzealous gratitude, eyes nigh on rolling out of their sockets as a chaste kiss was placed on the backs of your bloody knuckles. And he thought his own actions insultingly obsequious.

With a tiefling entourage, you led the group of exhausted adventurers out of the Grove gate and the short distance back to the campgrounds that he’d come to find some comfort of familiarity in, even with its lack of lavish accommodation. Had Astarion been a more sentimental man, he might even consider the little stretch of land to be home. He tried not to think too hard about the implications of that errant musing.

Once at camp, the tieflings began to set up for the impromptu celebration while the intrepid adventurers washed and rested. More than anything, he wanted to fall into the dreamless trance of his meditative state, but the ruckus of the tieflings made any real rest all but impossible. His mind wandered to you, those icy tendrils of dread constricting his chest for a moment at the memory of your death. He resigned to sit just in the mouth of his tent, eyes trained on your bloodied form as you darted from one guest to the next, providing help where it was needed.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind’s eye, the fear of your demise continued to dog him, and the small voice in his head that demanded he solidify his importance to you reminded him of his ill-conceived notion of seducing you. It persuaded him to move forward with the next phase this evening, a feeling of wary excitement washing over him at the thought. As though reading his depraved mentation, your eyes found his in that moment, and you flashed him a tired but sweet smile. He felt a small smile grace his face in return, and he nodded his head in acknowledgment. Satisfied, you turned back to your task.

He supposed he ought to make his way over to the druid to have his wounds seen to. He heaved a sigh and stood with some effort, eyes continuing to track your petite form as you disappeared into your tent. He watched you emerge with a bundle of cloth in your arms, smelling the fragrant soap you loved so much. A flare of arousal shot through him, his mind wandering to the night he’d caught you bathing.

His stomach lurched at the memory, though with desire or disgust, he couldn’t tell. He reached the elf just as you bid the camp a temporary farewell and strode away to wash. It had been a long day indeed, and he lamented at the continued slow stretch of time before he would be able to set to his task. ______________________________________________________________

Afternoon turned to dusk, and dusk to dark as the camp roared to life with celebration. The tieflings and his companions alike made merry together, dancing and singing and drinking with reckless abandon. He thought it silly, knowing the grueling journey still to come. So much death and loss, and still the little mortals found reason to be joyous. He presumed that this was what mortals figured they must do, celebrate whatever it was they were afforded, as their lives were fleeting in the grand web of the cosmos. He loathed their naivety, loathed his wisdom and knowing of life’s many pains.

Loathed just how shattered his perception of humanity had become.

He sipped gingerly at the terrible wine provided as he held back from the crowd, gaze following you as you flitted about the camp, taking stock of all there and thanking them for the lively party. He heard all of the honeyed words spoken to you, a twist of disdain marring the lines of his face. It seemed he had more competition for your hand than he’d thought; even the tieflings made their passes, hoping to grace your bedroll that night in thanks.

You politely declined every advance, much to his relief, and continued your rounds about the guests. He listened in on your low conversation with Zevlor, his voice heavy and pained with loss. He watched your small hands grasp the Hellrider’s, much the same as you’d held his not so long ago, and that tumultuous green monster in his gut forced an unbidden low growl from his throat. Thankfully, he was too far from the action for anyone to discern his ire. The tiefling leader merely expressed his gratitude for your assistance and strode away.

His gaze followed you to Alfira, listening contentedly to the peals of your laughter like so many tinkling feywild bells as she suggested writing a ballad of your heroics. You sat with her, cradling your lyre like a newborn, and played bawdy tunes of frivolity and bliss. A growing crowd gathered to listen, singing along where the words were known and listening intently where they were not. He found himself gravitating towards the fray, some invisible pull drawing him to be nearer to you.

He stopped just at the edge of it and stood quietly by Shadowheart, who eyed him with a knowing smirk. He scowled at her, snickering when she rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine.

“Something catch your eye, leech?” she drawled.

“Only all of the foolish food laid before me, blood rife with drunkenness and unwarranted gaiety,” he quipped back.

“Naturally. While more cheerful than I’d prefer, loss is indeed a thing to be celebrated. The Dark Lady graces us this day,” she nodded.

Astarion held his tongue, a biting retort just at the tip of it.

Shadowheart sighed into his silence, continuing, “Any plans to take a bed partner tonight?”

She turned to look at him fully, brows raised in a quizzical expression. He moved to mirror her, face betraying nothing more than amusement.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, my darling Cleric,” he chuckled.

Shadowheart’s expression softened uncharacteristically, her voice lowering to match, “I see the way you look at her. It’s the same as we all do. There is much to be admired there.”

He nearly spluttered, so taken aback by her sudden change in countenance.

“I suppose there is,” was all he said in response. With that, the conversation ended.

He turned his attention back to you, noting the lull in the music, and piped up from his place at the back of the crowd.

“Would you be so kind as to grace us with The Lament for That Which Is Lost, my dear? I believe all of this whimsy is in need of tempering.”

Your eyes snapped to him, a question held in your now-somber gaze. He nodded imperceptibly and watched as your shoulders sagged with the weight of reality. You looked to Alfira, who shook her head with a perplexed tilt to her brows. You heaved a great sigh, and he could smell the inquisitive trepidation floating along the breeze as you began to pluck your sorry tune.

He closed his eyes, the smell of sadness heavy in the air, and hummed along with your lovely voice. He could hear the start of quiet sobs and sniffles from all those before him and felt a sudden pang of guilt at ruining their moment of jubilation. Worst of all, he could smell the agony and unease pouring from you, fragrance more poignant than the rest. Though your voice did not waver once, he could tell from your choked breaths that tears flowed freely from you.

As the song came to a close, he opened his eyes and looked around. All of the tiefling guests held each other close, exhaling their grief into the surrounding atmosphere. He saw Alfira lean forward to hug you, and you melted into her arms, shoulders slumped and shaking with your sorrow. Even Shadowheart dashed tears from her eyes.

“That was beautiful,” Alfira marveled, her own eyes glassy and dripping. “Would you teach me sometime?”

“Of course, my dear friend,” you responded with a watery laugh. You then turned to address the group.

“While it is pertinent to remember all that has been sacrificed for this victory, tonight is a night of celebration. We should never forget the cost of what it took to get here - I’m not sure any of us even can - but we must remember ourselves. Even in the face of loss, we have held onto the strength to carry forward in their memory, just as they would want us to. Now, I bid you go enjoy yourselves. Eat, drink and be merry, just as they would, were they here to join us.”

With a hearty cheer, the party returned to its former resplendence, though not without a small amount more solemnity. He attempted to slink away, unprepared for your disdain in the face of his actions. He was once again reminded of just how little of his autonomy he’d held as Cazador’s spawn - his slave - and just how much he did not belong among this rag-tag group of do-gooders.

“If it was my attention you wanted, you could have just asked,” you quipped from behind him. He could feel your scrutinizing gaze as his shoulders slumped infinitesimally lower in dejected self pity.

He turned to face you, chewing his words carefully before responding.

“This sort of revelry is a bit garish, don’t you think?” he asked, trying to salvage whatever dignity he might still hold in your eyes.

“Not at all. A hard battle was won, and this lot can finally move onward with their lives. Build homes, families. Learn to be grateful, to love living again.”

Your gaze penetrated the very depths of his soul, and he feared what you might find there. Was it just as much a bottomless, dark void as he thought it to be? He felt the swelling tide of panic clawing at his insides, and fought to keep his grip on the reality of the moment. Logic told him you could see no more of him than he of you, and he could not feel the tadpole squirming behind his eye, nor the telltale fuzziness of thought detection magic. Those truths lent him the strength to maintain his composure.

“Besides,” you added, a curious tilt to your head, “I don’t believe you’d think that for a moment. When have you ever been one to turn down a little revelry over bloodshed?”

A wave of icy fear nearly consumed him at your accusatory words - until he caught the uptick of a smirk on your lips. He breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, widening smile gracing his own face.

“Truthfully, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they’d toast for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here…”

You raised a quizzical brow as he swigged the sour wine.

“I hate it. This is awful!”

The bark of your surprised laughter was worth his flippant antics. Your smirk had turned into a wry grin, no doubt mirroring his own.

“You’re terrible, Astarion,” you giggled. “Is it truly so bad? Think of all the goblins you killed! Surely that must count for something!”

You hid your snickering behind your hand, and his expression softened some, finding joy in making you laugh.

“True enough, I suppose. That was fun! Still, I would have liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine,” he sniffed playfully, barely containing his own giggles.

“Give me that, you bloody scoundrel,” you chuckled, snatching the wine from his grasp. Your fingers grazed his as you clasped the neck of the bottle, and he watched a slight shiver run through you as you brought the mouth of it to your lips, taking a great gulp. He watched the line of your throat bob with each swallow, spilled rivulets running from the corners of your mouth and down the exposed column of flesh.

He licked his lips unconsciously, the movement reflexive as he trained his gaze on the translucent trails of redness disappearing into the bosom of your dress, stains blooming along the neckline…how he wished he could follow them with his tongue and leave a different dribble of red in their wake.

He was broken from his reverie by your heaving gasp, having finally broken your mockery of a kiss.

“Have you no taste, dear Star? A full-bodied, dry red. I would’ve thought you’d like anything of the sort,” you smirked at him, still panting with breathlessness. Your eyes had glazed some with the haziness of the alcohol swirling in your blood. He wondered briefly if you would taste different while soused - and then caught the heavy-lidded heat in your eyes, your words registering as bold flirtation, as bold as you’d been with him.

Now is my chance.

“I have plenty of taste, darling. I’ve been eating you, after all,” he purred. His sly grin only widened as your cheeks heated further, desire chasing the warmth of the wine in your system.

“All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?” he continued, intonation rich and low, enticing you to draw closer in order to hear his words.

“Knowing you?” you giggled, “Most likely.”

“Come now, don’t be so sour,” he tutted, “I like a good time as much as anyone.”

His voice had become more vibration than sound, the gravel of it surprising even him. That disorienting fire had ignited low in his belly, and he found himself almost eager to ask you to lie with him.

“You know,” he murmured, “we could always make our own entertainment, darling. Get a little…closer, so to speak.”

As if heeding his own words, he drifted ever nearer to you, reaching out to take the half-empty wine bottle from your grasp. His fingers purposely brushed over yours, and he reveled in the shudder that wracked through you, a small noise catching in your throat. He bit back at the groan that threatened to bubble up from his own.

“Maybe…” you breathed. After a brief pause of thought, you added, “If you say ‘please’.”

“What?”

He could not hide his shock at your request, your eyes unwavering in their seriousness despite your stifled giggle. He steeled himself, the sound of your laughter lending him the courage to proceed.

“Please,” he whispered.

A flash of surprise etched its way across your features, followed by an almost imperceptible tightening of your jaw and hardening of your gaze. You held yourself rigidly, hardly daring to breathe against whatever onslaught of discomfort had overcome you.

“While a most tempting offer, I’m afraid I must decline.”

Though you continued to smile pleasantly at him, there was a hollowness to it that had not been present before. He faltered momentarily, perplexed by your response and unsure of what to do next. Should he press you? The thought left him dizzy with abhorrence.

Recovering himself, he gave you a stiff and shallow bow.

“As you wish, my sweet. The offer stands, should you change your mind.”

“I’ll remember that,” you said, voice devoid of the fondness you’d so openly displayed just moments before.

With that, you spun on your heel and traipsed away, bidding everyone a good night and disappearing into your tent.

Astarion was rooted to the spot as he watched your retreating form, dumbstruck by your sudden change in demeanor and swift exit from the conversation. The camp had begun to quiet as the darkness of night deepened, the growing number of visible stars telling of the late hour. He gazed morosely into the dying embers of the once roaring bonfire, wondering just where he’d gone wrong.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 15 days

Text

chapter 5: a lament for all things lost

Find the master list here!

CW: Shadowheart being a bitch, overwhelming bad feelings and emotional manipulation

W/C: 3,173

A/N: I am on a ROLL people!

After an unsuccessful hunt, Astarion had given in to the pleas of his distracted mind for rest, though he was hard pressed to find any. He laid awake the rest of the night and into the wee hours of the morning, tossing and turning with the blaze of his desire and weight of his guilt. After so many long years of numb, performative intimacy, he was unaware he still possessed the ability to feel arousal. It caught him completely off guard, feeding the roiling cacophony of his emotions.

The feeling had been pleasant, wanted even, when he disassociated it from his body’s natural reaction to the many forced liaisons of his past, but - therein lay the issue. Lust, pleasure, physical intimacy: it was all steeped in profound disgust and loathing learned over two centuries of abuse. He felt ashamed for watching you unknowingly, guilty for taking pleasure in it and, worst yet, revolted by his own body’s response. It had not truly been his body since Cazador turned him, and he found himself woefully unprepared to take accountability for his actions and their consequences.

Lost in the morass of his increasingly loud distress, he hardly noticed when the darkness gave way to dawn. It was not until he heard groggy voices and the telltale clanging of cookware being handled without care that he realized just how much time had passed. He groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face, hunger pains making themselves known at the mixed scents of his companions wafting along the gentle breeze.

Before long, he caught your sweet fragrance in the mix and focused in on it, ears pricked for the soft sound of your voice. You declared today to be a day of rest, claiming that everyone needed to gather their strength for the coming fight with the goblins.

He heard Shadowheart’s derisive snort.

“You just need a day to recover from volunteering yourself as the leech’s dinner.”

You did not deign to respond to her, but she must have seen something wounded in your expression, and it only fueled her line of teasing.

“Lover’s quarrel? Already?” He could hear the mocking smile in her voice and was grateful for his absence from the conversation, lest he slit her throat then and there for her cruel jest.

“We’re not lovers,” you snapped gratingly, “and I was not his dinner. No doubt he found another, more filling meal.”

He recognized his own words from his first feeding as Shadowheart continued to bait you with her snide comments.

“Sounds as though you’re green with envy, friend.”

He heard a dish clatter to the ground and her indignant shout alongside the placating words of the rest of the group, gently coaxing you to ease your grip on her throat.

“Lay off the wine, friend,” he heard you snarl. He smirked with undignified pride.

You presumably stood, addressing the rest of the group.

“We are all exhausted and spread thin by the never ending bloodshed and horror we have been burdened with. By all means, if you wish to join the slain tomorrow, be my guest and ignore my wisdom. But, if you wish to live, to fight another day, you will heed my words and rest. Does anyone else dare question my orders?”

He could almost see the seething expression contorting your delicate features in his mind’s eye.

“Good,” he heard you growl into the answering silence. “Now that’s settled, I’m off to find some peace away from you lot of squabbling children.”

He listened to the grumbled complaints and scandalized murmurs of the rest of the group as the sound of your bare feet across the packed earth receded until it was out of earshot.

“How unlike our vampire trollop to leave his favorite lady companion wanting,” Shadowheart sniffed before she, too, left his hearing radius.

He repressed a pained whimper, the vacuous cavity of his chest constricting with grief and renewed self-loathing at her words.

I will never be anything more than Cazador’s painted whore.

He could no longer smell your comforting aroma on the breeze. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion wandered along the riverbank in the dappled light of late afternoon, thoughts consumed by the ever growing storm of his hatred, fury and terror. He chose to embrace his vampiric nature for the time being and neglected his habit of breathing, the lack of your sweet, floral scent causing a cavernous emptiness to yawn within him.

He passed the oak tree from which he spied on your bathing the previous night and winced. He really should find you and apologize for his deplorable behavior, let alone confess his sin, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet. The swirling vortex of his mind disallowed his focus to reach anything beyond self-deprecation.

As he meandered aimlessly, he registered the melodious sound of a string instrument somewhere in the distance and chose to follow it. Some ways away, he found you sitting in the shade of a massive elm, plucking the haunting melody he’d heard you humming last night. Your voice accompanied the music, rich and sad, singing in a language he did not recognize. It evoked a wistfulness in him for a life he never had, and he stood back to listen to your song.

The final verse came to a close, and he was struck with a vague sense of unease at repeating his actions from the night prior, so he cleared his throat and made his presence known. You startled, looking warily in his direction until you realized who it was, then rolled your eyes in exasperation.

“Sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard the music whilst I was out for a stroll, and found myself captivated. That was stunning,” he murmured, “and terribly sad.”

You shot a cold glare at him before heaving a heavy sigh and relenting.

“It was a lament for all things lost to the passage of time.”

“Such as…” he prompted.

“Life, love… innocence,” you finished in a small whisper.

He felt a pang of deep sorrow reverberate in his chest.

“And the language?” he asked, unwilling to broach the clearly sore subject. You had not pressed him until it had become absolutely necessary, so he thought it only fair to afford you the same respect.

“Olde Elvish,” you answered plaintively.

“I wasn’t aware bardic schools taught Olde Elvish,” he responded, surprised. “I thought it extinct.”

“My mother used to sing it when I was a babe. It always moved me to tears, and one night, after my father’s untimely passing, I picked up her lyre and began to pluck the tune from memory. She taught me all she knew from that night onward,” you sniffled. “I never studied formally as a bard. Everything I know was handed down from generations of musically inclined Weave wielders.”

“I…” he floundered, at a loss for words. A feat not easily accomplished when it came to him, you continued to prove an exception to the masses.

“Why are you here, Astarion?” you groused, looking at him shrewdly as you swiped a thumb beneath your eyes.

“May I?” he gestured at the space next to you, asking for invitation to sit.

“Answer me first,” you bit out.

“I… I wish to apologize for my ghastly behavior yesterday evening.” He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the wave of cowardly discomfort at his honesty. “You must understand, I have been conditioned to fear closeness, vulnerability. All it’s ever gotten me is a knife in the back.”

He opened his eyes at your watery sigh to see you patting the space beside yourself. He joined you graciously, extending his legs and leaning back against the trunk of the sprawling elm.

“And you must understand that I do not mean to repeat the mistakes of all those before me. None of us do. We are in this fight together, whether we like it or not, so we must learn to trust one another.”

Ever the pragmatist, he could see the toll being a leader had taken in your eyes, along with the weary burden of words left unspoken. He had a feeling you knew just what it felt like to be fundamentally deceived, and his chest constricted with empathy. Another foreign feeling only you had thus far been able to rouse in him. He felt compelled to continue his track of truthfulness, and decided to tell you about his hunt gone awry.

“There is something more I must tell you…” he began uncertainly.

You gave him an expectant stare.

“I… happened upon you washing. Last night. When I went to hunt.” The words came out stilted, feeling weighty and wrong in his mouth.

A charming flush bloomed across your delicate face, scarlet tipping your ears and working its way down your bosom. Your eyes and mouth were round with embarrassment, and for a moment he feared that he had made a terrible error in judgment.

And then you cackled, wild and full, and he found himself helpless to do anything other than chuckle along with you. You flashed a blinding smile at him and raised an inquisitive brow.

“Oh? And did you enjoy the show?”

At the reminder of his arousal, the scalding sensation of shame erupted over him in a vicious surge.

“What does it matter?” he snapped, a remorseful sigh escaping him at your affronted expression.

“This is what I mean, Astarion!” you shouted, gesticulating furiously, “You flirt, you tease, you share your burdens with me, and then you brutally shut me out! Every time! What is it that you want from me, because I’m quite tired of the neverending headache of your mood swings!”

“It’s not as if you’re any better!” he yelled in answer, temporarily losing his grip on the brewing storm of vitriol in his mind.

You reeled back as though struck.

“Bloody unbelievable,” you muttered, tucking your lyre under an arm and abruptly standing to leave. “I’ll never get any fucking peace.”

His hand shot out to grab yours, fear of losing the sanctuary you provided making his movements instinctive. You whipped around, expression murderous and preparing to scream.

“Wait,” he exhaled shakily, “Just…wait. Give me a moment to compose myself.”

You shook his hand loose, but remained in place, glaring at him.

“Forgive me,” he whimpered, staring at his knees. The proverbial floodgates burst in spectacular fashion, and he was quickly overwhelmed by the torrent of negative emotions that bled from them. He shook with the might of the onslaught, startled by the salty tang of his own tears. It only made him tremble more hysterically, a surely pitiful sight.

To his utmost surprise, you set your lyre down and knelt next to him, taking his face in your hands. He squeezed his eyes shut in discomfort, another whimper escaping him.

“Please don’t touch me,” he whispered, voice scratchy and quivering.

You withdrew your hands instantly, instead quietly asking, “What would you like me to do?”

“Will you play that song for me?” he asked in a pathetic warble.

“The Lament for That Which Is Lost?”

He nodded imperceptibly, and was immediately rewarded by the soft, sad strum of the lyre. As your voice joined in, he allowed the deluge of feeling to swallow him. He was lost in a sea of emotion, finding his many old acquaintances: shame, dread, rage, envy, hatred, terror, bitterness, apathy. Worst of all was the grief that wracked his body with violent sobs, guilt and regret for the countless wrongs he’d committed, anguish for all the wrongs committed against him.

However, he also encountered many of the new feelings you inspired within him: delight, sorrow, compassion, jealousy, warmth, guilt, desire. While not altogether positive, the feelings you’d introduced him to were a welcome reprieve from the centuries’ worth of misery he’d become accustomed to, and he grabbed onto them like a life raft as he waited out the crux of the storm. ______________________________________________________________

Slowly, ever so slowly, he came back to the present moment and focused on the hypnotic sound of your voice. He knew not what the words meant, but he didn’t need to in order to feel the devastating sense of loss that they carried. Your soft lilt reverberated in his chest, and he took a deep breath in, filling himself with the sweet, musky aroma of your skin. It helped to ease the tide of his agony back into submission, and he opened his eyes to watch the last of your performance.

He found himself enraptured by the beauty of you, eyes closed and immersed in the music much as he had been, the tracks of your own tears carrying smudges of kohl in spidery lines down your face. You were the kind of beautiful that he would have brought back to Cazador were the circumstances different, and it caused his chest to twinge with resentment. You sung the last line and plucked the closing chord, voice wavering slightly as a final tear began its slow descent over the planes of your face.

When you opened your puffy eyes, you gazed directly into his. It felt as if you were looking into the darkest parts of his soul, and he fought the urge to shy away from you. In an act of uncharacteristic bravado, he swung his legs around to sit on his knees facing you. He gently removed the lyre from your grasp and leaned it against the trunk of the great tree.

He reached out tentatively with both hands, holding your face the way you’d held his the night before. Your cheeks blazed in his palms, and an involuntary shiver ran up your spine at his cool touch. You blinked slowly as his thumbs swept the remainder of your tears away, smudging the wispy tracks of kohl in the process. A throaty chuckle escaped him as he took in the smeared stains of oily blackness on your skin, and you leaned forward to be closer to the sound.

“Your laugh is music to my ears,” you whispered, eyes full of tender promise.

He inhaled sharply and gravitated toward you, running a delicate thumb over the swell of your bottom lip, delighted when they parted in a breathy gasp. He could feel the damp warmth of your soft, panting breaths against his face as he leaned closer still, the saccharine scent of jasmine blossoms and orange peel and you so heavy in the air around him that he could taste it.

Just as the space between his body and yours shrunk to an infinitesimal degree, the sharp pain of his hunger returned with a vengeance, and he could not hide his grimace, nor the wince of discomfort that escaped his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, concern laced in the tilt of your brows, small hands coming to encircle his wrists.

The moment broken, you leaned back, removing his hands from your face. It was all he could do not to follow your scent and bury his fangs in your throat.

“The hunger,” he groaned, “it’s inescapable.”

“When did you last eat?” you whispered, eyes round with worry.

“The night I drank from you,” he gasped, the pain wracking him with a shudder that forced his eyes shut.

“Feed from me,” you murmured, his eyes snapping open in exalted bewilderment, sure he’d misheard you.

“What was that?”

“Feed from me,” you said again, louder this time.

He salivated at the memory of your blood across his tongue, wanting nothing more than to be filled with your life’s essence, to be emboldened by it. Then, he remembered the coming battle.

“I can’t,” he bemoaned, “You need your strength for tomorrow.”

“As do you,” you responded, gaze resolute.

“Are you sure? Here… now?” he asked once more, voice wavering equivocally with the fog of hunger hanging over his mind.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded in assent.

No sooner had the words left your lips than Astarion’s mouth was at your throat. He hadn’t even given you time to brush your hair aside and bare your neck to him, so starved as he was. With a harsh cry, his fangs pierced the tender skin over your jugular, tongue immediately darting out to lap at the blood spilling from the wound.

He paced himself this time around, both for want to savor his meal as well as that of your safety. He could tell when the initial daze from the bite wore off, your blood taking on a richer, more full-bodied flavor. It almost had a fattiness to it, and it quenched his thirst in a way nothing else had ever been capable of.

Before long, he could feel your body trembling like a leaf in the wind. He hadn’t drunk enough for bloodlessness to be the cause, though he worried nonetheless. It would be so like him to push past the discomfort and hurt you, taking from you the way he had been taken from…but there was work yet to be done in the way of gaining your trust. He was about to pull away when he tasted it - the syrupy flavor of your desire. A low sigh pushed its way past your lips, a sound inaudible to all but his keen ears.

Now, this I can work with. This I can exploit.

He continued to drink, the honeyed taste of you heavy on his tongue. He paid close attention to the way your body responded, quiet whimpers and little shivers steadily giving you away. Your hands clawed at the earth beneath you, pulling up clumps of grass and clods of dirt with their ferocity.

Inevitably, your shivers of delight became shivers of cold, shock setting in and ruining the atmosphere. Hunger mitigated, Astarion begrudgingly pulled back, replacing his mouth with the pressure of his hand to staunch the bleeding. You retrieved the amulet from your pocket with a shaky grasp, whispering the incantation into your cupped palms. Its magic washed over you in an instant, heat and color returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you, my sweet,” he murmured, making a show of licking the last of you from his lips.

You averted your eyes bashfully, lively flush deepening.

“Don’t mention it, dear Star,” you mumbled, eyes widening at your slip.

After a moment of shocked disbelief, a devious grin split his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, darling. Could you repeat yourself for me?”

“I said ‘don’t mention it’,” you spoke up.

“Not that, the last bit,” he replied, expression smug when he caught the sheepish look on your face.

“Dear Star,” you whispered, avoiding his eyes.

“That is indeed what I thought I’d heard. Rather sentimental of you for a ‘headache’, is it not?” he purred, referencing your earlier words.

“I’m plenty sentimental, Rogue, and you know it well.”

“Of course, my dear. I only kid,” he intoned, softening his smile as you lifted your face.

He watched as your embarrassment faded and you returned his smile, something hopeful hidden in the depths of your eyes.

I’ve got you right where I want you, darling.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 17 days

Text

chapter 4: a reflection in another's eyes

Find the masterlist here!

CW: Unintentional and nonconsensual voyeurism

W/C: 2,579

A/N: Have another simply because I've been writing so prolifically!

Astarion spent the better part of the day curled up in his tent with all of his belongings. He figured that if anyone else were to come looking for him, it’d be best if he didn’t have any obvious indications of his whereabouts on display. For as much as he wanted to bask in the sunshine like a lazy cat, it seemed safer to stay huddled in the cramped shadows of his tent, surrounded by all of the pilfered trinkets he associated with his freedom. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything to call his own, and each item, no matter its usefulness or lack thereof, had earned a sentimental place in his undead heart.

As the light shifted toward dusk, his mind grew restless and he felt suffocated by the heat and darkness of the small space. He crawled to the mouth of the tent and hesitantly lifted one of the flaps to peer out. His eyes quickly found Karlach and Shadowheart preparing the fire, but saw no sign of the morning’s adventuring party. He exhaled slowly through his nose and stood, gathering his things and tenderly placing them outside once more.

He caught the curious eyes of Shadowheart watching him enter and exit repeatedly and scowled menacingly at her, fighting the urge to giggle as he watched her face scrunch up in distaste. Karlach only smiled at him, nothing but kindness in her eyes, so he obliged her with his own in return.

The last rays of twilight streaked the sky by the time he finished re-orienting his belongings, and there was still no sign of the rest of the group. He became fidgety with distress at the thought of you injured or dead somewhere far from his reach, and chose not to analyze the feeling further. Surely, you were fine. Surely the other three had kept you safe, so that you might come back and provide him with security in turn.

He stared absently at the book in his lap, poring over the same paragraph far too many times as his agonized thoughts ran away with him. With a frustrated growl, he snapped the book shut and tossed it none too gently into his tent, snagging his toiletries off the little table next to him and stalking away from camp to the riverbank nearby. He hoped bathing would prove a more helpful distraction.

He shucked his clothes and swiftly waded waist-deep into the water, unaffected by the frigid temperature. He allowed his body to sink beneath the rippled surface, soaking himself from head to toe for a good wash. He worked his rosemary soap into a rich lather and scrubbed the layers of road dust from his silver hair and ivory skin until he glowed in the pale light of the moon. Deeming himself thoroughly cleansed, he dipped below the water one more time to rinse all of the suds away before making a hasty retreat to its edge. He donned his smalls in a rush, pulling his breeches on shortly after and lacing them shut.

Stepping into his camp shoes, he rubbed a spicy and citrusy oil through his curls and across the planes of his chest absentmindedly, his thoughts wandering once more. As he sucked in a breath for a heavy sigh, he caught your scent on the breeze and heard the tinkling sound of your laughter. He scrambled for his things and made a mad dash back to camp, pulling his worn, ruffled chemise over his head as he went.

Once he caught sight of you, the chilly tendrils of fear that had been slowly constricting his chest all day receded in an instant, replaced rapidly by the fuzzy warmth he’d come to associate with you - until he noticed the person opposite you.

Gale.

He watched in abject fury as the wizard laughed at your clumsy hand gestures and repeated his motions for you, his praise at your correction driving a breathy giggle from you. Something hot and green took over him as the Weave sparkled around the two of you, the look of wondrous fascination in your eyes too much for him to bear. This was another unfamiliar feeling, one that left a vile churning in his gut and a rancid taste in his mouth. A feeling he decidedly did not like one bit, and he skulked away to his tent to avoid feeding it further.

Little good it did, for the seed of doubt had been sown.

Well enough is certainly not good enough.

He placed his toiletries back on the table outside his tent and took up the ornate silver hand mirror in their stead, ducking into the bleak darkness of his sleeping quarters. ______________________________________________________________

He heard the padding of your bare feet and the telltale swish of his tent opening before he saw you, delicate face reflected in the many fractured facets of the hand mirror.

“Looking at something?” he drawled in greeting, smirking at the surprise marring your fine features.

“How did you…?”

“The only benefit to a mirror when you have my condition,” he answered without turning to look at you, afraid of what his expression might betray. “It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of a reflection, mind you.”

“I came looking for you when we got back, but I couldn’t find you anywhere,” you began, letting the flap of his tent fall shut.

“I had gone for a bath,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you come get me when you were done?”

He scrutinized your face in the cracked mirror, eyes round with sadness and lips drawn in a slight frown. You wrung your hands in the muslin material of your sleep dress.

“I had every intention of inviting you for dinner when I returned, but you seemed… otherwise engaged,” he sneered, grateful you could not see his face in the reflection of the mirror.

“Ah, that. Gale was showing me how to harness the Weave without my lyre. He said I had a natural talent for the arcane arts,” you responded with a flush, arms drawn tight around your middle in defensive bashfulness.

“I think I rather prefer the magic of your music, darling,” he snarked before he could stop himself. The silence that followed was awkward at best.

Clearing your throat, you nodded at the mirror in his hand.

“Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss what?” he snapped, mood foul and patience running thin.

“Seeing your own face,” you answered in a small voice.

He swiveled to face you, jeering, “Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity? Of course I miss it.”

You remained standing just in the threshold of his tent, looking down at his no doubt disdainful expression.

“I’ve never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.” He could feel his lip curl in contempt.

“What color were they before?” you asked quietly.

He was taken aback, unable to recall the answer.

“I…I don’t know. I can’t remember,” he replied, voice now solemn, “My face is just some dark shape in my past.”

He was quickly overcome with white hot rage at the reminder of everything Cazador had taken from him, the memory of himself included.

“Another thing I’ve lost,” he snarled, hurling the hand mirror across the tent with unnecessary ferocity. The already-fractured surface shattered on impact, spraying shards of glass haphazardly in all directions.

You jumped back with a gasp, hand flying to grasp at your chest. He could hear the rapid, unsteady rhythm of your heart and felt a pang of remorse for startling you. He hung his head and buried his face in his hands with a groan, trembling with the rage and loathing that coursed through him.

He couldn’t hear your tentative footsteps or the soft sounds of your breath over the ringing in his ears, but he could smell you coming closer. He felt the gentle swoosh of your skirt and the impression in his bedroll as you knelt in front of him, and had to suppress a shudder when the warmth of your small hands encircled his wrists, drawing his own away from his face. Even still, he did not raise it to look at you.

You gave a little tut of disapproval, and he soon felt your calloused fingertips skate along his jawline, soft palms guiding him to meet your eyes. He watched intently as your eyes flitted over his features, drinking in the sight of him.

“What?” he rumbled.

He felt the pads of your thumbs trace gently over his cheekbones, and he closed his eyes at the feathery sensation. The warmth he associated with your presence morphed into a blazing inferno in the hollow of his chest, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I see you,” you breathed.

He opened his eyes to find yours heavy lidded, soft features rosy in the warm glow of the oil lamp. He could count the freckles across the bridge of your nose with your proximity, your intoxicating scent drawing him ever closer.

“And what do you see, exactly?”

“Strong, piercing eyes,” you whispered, your own flitting from one to the other of his.

“Go on…” he exhaled.

“That dangerous smile,” you replied, lips quirking up as if in example.

All I’d have to do is lean in.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a tempest of disgust and bitter hatred whirled through him, sullying the fragile moment. It was too much. Too gentle.

More kindness than he deserved.

He reached up and grasped your wrists, not missing your shiver at his touch, though whether it was borne of the chill of his skin or the heat of your desire, he couldn’t say. All it did was fuel the maelstrom of his self-loathing. He deftly, albeit cautiously, removed your hands from his face and leaned away.

“Very good,” he purred, slipping back into the comfortable familiarity of his persona and taking control of the conversation again, “Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we can call it a day.”

The dramatic change in your expression would have been funny if it didn’t also hurt, snuffing out the fire and the warmth in one fell swoop and leaving an ache of regret in its place.

“Is that all you want? Shallow praise?” you gritted out, mouth set in a hard line.

“Hardly! There’s also gold, sex, revenge - quite the list really,” he laughed, though it sounded false even to his ears. “But failing any of those, I will always settle for shallow praise.”

“I can’t believe you,” you snapped, yanking your wrists from his grip. “Would it kill you to be vulnerable?”

You sat back, swinging your legs around and pushing yourself up to stand.

“It very well could, darling,” he sniffed, turning his head in profile to regard you haughtily.

“Go find your own dinner, Astarion,” you muttered, expression thunderous and limbs rigid with hurt and fury.

He watched as you stormed away, mind working overtime to catch up with how quickly the situation had turned south, and found himself staring at the swinging flaps of his tent for longer than he cared to admit.

For the first time in two centuries, it was not fear that kept him awake. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion surfaced from his fitful trance with a groan, blinking in the diffused glow of the oil lamp. He rolled over and pushed his tent open, surprised to find the blanket of night still stretched across the sky. He couldn’t remember how long it took to slip into his meditation, nor when it had happened, but it had been restless and plagued with the spindly remnants of memories best left forgotten.

He stretched and took a deep breath, an unnecessary but still calming practice, and weighed the benefit of slipping back into his trance against going out to hunt. He stared at the fabric ceiling swaying in the breeze for a few moments before deciding to get up. It had been a day or more since he’d last fed, and he supposed a full belly might help ease the pain of emptiness in his chest.

He slipped from his tent in silence, prowling in the direction of the forest, when he heard humming coming from the direction of the riverbank. He diverged from his original path and crept toward the sound, the haunting melody piquing his curiosity.

He smelled you before he saw you, and halted his approach in the shadow of a great oak tree close by. His skin prickled with the wariness of unanticipated voyeurism, but he could not draw himself away from the sight of you.

There you were, waist deep in the river, moonlight glistening off your bare, sudsy skin. Water ran in enticing rivulets from the ends of your hair, cutting trails through the lather in the valley of your breasts and over their soft mounds, droplets falling from the full curvature of their undersides into the rippling current swirling around you. You continued to hum your melancholy tune as you worked the fragrant floral soap through your hair.

Astarion was grateful for his lack of a pulse and need to breathe; had he been a mortal man, his regular bodily functions would have been sure to give him up.

He watched with rapt fascination as you propped your foot up on an invisible platform, no doubt a stone beneath the water’s surface, and ran the soap up your leg in a tantalizing display, the other following suit some time after. You took your time cleansing yourself despite the obvious chill of the water, skin dimpled with gooseflesh. His darkvision allowed him to pick out the finer details of your form, finding the silvery flash of old scars in the most unlikely of places.

The pleasant warmth your beauty incited warred with the cold discomfort of his abhorrent behavior. You were sure to skin him alive if you ever found him out, but you remained blissfully unaware of his presence for the moment, content to take pleasure in the act of washing yourself. He heard you suck in a great lungful of air and the telltale plunk of you sinking beneath the water’s surface to rinse yourself. He should have used the opportunity to slink away, but he was curiously rooted to the spot.

You resurfaced with heavy, panting breaths, hands slicking your hair back from your face and wringing the excess water from it. You undulated with the current as you waded back to the bank.

The pale light of the moon glinting off your wet skin as you hummed your poignant melody gave you a siren-like quality that stoked the embers of that tingly warmth into a burning need that sat low in his belly. He was familiar with lust, knew the look of it in others and the inevitable feeling of it in himself when forced to perform. Never, before now, had it been a welcome sensation.

I wonder how she’d look, bare in the glow of candlelight.

Just as quickly as the feeling came, it left in a rush of confused disturbance. He was knowingly violating your privacy, and taking enjoyment in it. He felt the overwhelming burden of shame consume him. With one last glance at your lithe form perched on a rock as your skin dried in the warm breeze, he fled into the hush of the darkened forest and far from the conflicted thoughts of an excitement long assumed dead.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 21 days

Text

chapter 3: a desperate revelation

Find the masterlist here!

CW: Astarion talks about his abuse.

W/C: 2,795

A/N: My dog had heart surgery last week... please send all the good vibes for her recovery!

After the arduous fight with the Hag, Astarion wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bedroll. Shadowheart had mended the worst of their wounds with a healing prayer, and your quiet songs of rest had bolstered their energy for the trek back to camp. Once out of the bog, the fading rays of the sun’s light were visible once more.

He paused a moment to marvel at the way they painted the sky in various hues of pinks and oranges, a sight he had long since given up hope of ever seeing again. He tried to convince himself that any day spent in the sun was a day worth having, no matter how fleeting a retreat it might be.

A plaintive sigh escaped him at the prospect of returning to the shadows after being blessed by the warmth of the light.

“Copper for your thoughts?” you intoned from behind him, startling him out of his quiet reverie.

“For nearly two centuries, I’ve known nothing but darkness and pain. To stand in the sun, after so much tragedy and despair, is nothing short of a miracle,” he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder, it would shatter the beautiful illusion he’d come to know and he’d instead find himself a psychotic wreck, locked in a mausoleum somewhere at Cazador’s behest again.

He tracked your approach in his peripheral vision, mentally preparing himself to broach the topic of his past, of his Master’s cruelty. You stopped at his side and gazed out into the encroaching darkness with him, listening along as the song of birds gave way to the chirp of crickets. The stars began their winking, and the ambiance of rural night crept over them in a subdued melody.

“Without darkness, there would be no light,” you said quietly.

He peered over at you, watching as the moon started its trek across the indigo sky just above your head. You glanced at him, and your eyes met his for a moment. He did not expect the sorrow that he found in their depths. He opened his mouth, but no sound left his lips, the icy fingers of fear choking him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, preparing to spill his darkest secrets upon reopening them.

“Come, friend,” your hushed voice met his ears. “We are not far from camp. We may speak there.”

With that, the moment was broken. Astarion opened his eyes to see your retreating form, and silently thanked whatever gods still were for the extra time to gather his strength. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion sat alone in his tent, lost in his thoughts. He could hear the chatter and laughter of his companions just beyond its thin walls, but he didn’t even have the heart to observe from afar tonight. He waited in trepidation for you to come find him, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the closed cover of the book in his lap. Even reading had proven to be an unhelpful distraction.

“Astarion?”

He recognized the lilt of your soft voice and cleared his throat.

“In here, darling,” he called, unwilling to move, lest his legs were to carry him far from this conversation, far from camp in cowardice.

You parted the flaps of his tent with a small smile, a question in your eyes. He waved at the space in front of him, a silent go ahead to enter and sit. You nodded imperceptibly and sat down, crossing your legs and setting your lyre in your lap.

Astarion raised a brow at the instrument.

“Do you ever go anywhere without that?” he asked, curiosity coloring his voice.

“Never,” you grinned. “It’s the source of my connection to the Weave.”

He scoffed, “A lyre?”

“Well, not the lyre specifically,” you blushed, “but the music it creates. Any instrument will do, but this is my instrument of choice.”

“I see,” he said, though he really didn’t.

“Would you like me to give you an example?” you asked kindly.

“Please, be my guest.”

He watched as your delicate fingers plucked a soft melody on the instrument, caressing the tune from them with practiced ease and fondness. The mellifluous sound of your voice began its harmony, and a sense of peace like he had never known washed over him. He was enchanted by your performance, finding it a strangely intimate experience with no one else to accompany the two of you.

All too soon, the final chord resonated in the cavern of his chest with a quiet hum.

Astarion opened his eyes - not remembering having closed them - and gazed at you. The warm feeling from earlier had returned at the start of the song, and had slowly spread its way through his limbs with each progression until he felt light and fuzzy, an unusual and somewhat dizzying sensation. A slight flush had spread across your cheeks and into the bodice of your nightclothes as he regarded you with a soft expression.

“That was lovely,” he murmured, loath to break the tranquil quiet of the moment.

“A Song of Calm for my tense, toothsome friend,” you smiled, voice lowered to match his own.

“Ah! Well that explains the sudden silence in my mind.”

He cracked a wry smile and delighted in your answering giggle. Stillness enveloped the tent once more, and your expression morphed into one of concerned sincerity.

Here we go.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“I don’t want to say a damned thing,” he bit out, rage and fear laced in his voice. You recoiled at his tone, and it took conscious effort for him to soften it. “But that won’t do anyone any good.”

You remained silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. He heaved a great, mournful sigh, and began.

“Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power - I mean power over people,” he said with carefully construed apathy, “The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn and he became my tormentor.”

His eyes had fallen to the space separating him from you, avoiding the questions he knew he was sure to find in yours.

“How were you turned?” you asked in a whisper. “Did he attack you?”

Astarion sighed again.

“Not him, no. A gang of thugs, the Gur,” he sneered, “attacked me, angry about a ruling that I’d handed down as a magistrate.”

“I see. Is that why you were on edge with the hunter today?”

“Indeed. They’d beaten me to death’s door when Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were ‘eternal life’ or ‘bleed to death on the street’, I took him up on the offer.”

He repressed a violent shudder at the memory and ploughed ahead, “It was only afterward that I realized just how long ‘eternity’ could be.”

“I take it he was rather lacking as a master,” you intoned gravely.

“He had me go out into Baldur’s Gate and fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find by whatever means necessary. It was a fun little ritual of his - I’d bring them back and he’d ask me if I wanted to dine with him. And if I said yes, he’d serve me a dead, putrid rat.”

He could still taste it even now, the fetid blood of overripe rodent corpses. He wanted to gag and retch at the thought.

“Of course, if I said no, he’d have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse,” he shrugged matter-of-factly.

“Astarion, that’s terrible. I’m so bloody sorry,” you sniffled.

He looked up at the sound to see the glistening tracks of tears running down your face in the glow of the oil lamp, more yet unshed making your eyes glassy. He didn’t know what he expected your reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Thank you, but this isn’t about the sympathy,” he continued uncomfortably, “it’s about knowing what we might be up against. The Gur hunter won’t be the only one looking for me, what with his favorite plaything being misplaced.”

“Plaything?” you nearly choked.

“Yes, he always did say that my screams sounded sweetest,” he intoned bitterly.

He did not raise his eyes at the sound of your sharp gasp, fearful of what your face would betray.

“Vampire spawn are less than slaves - we’re puppets. All he need do is speak and our bodies obey. The things I’ve done, seen… felt. Well, there are some things better left unsaid,” he finished, voice hollow.

He looked up again to find tears streaming freely down your cheeks, eyes puffy and nose running with your sorrow, the whimpers and sniffles of your sobs echoing in the silence. He was unsure of how to console you, so he simply looked away, giving you time to gather yourself.

“Fuck, m’sorry,” you garbled, and he looked back to see you dashing tears from your eyes. “How insensitive of me. You don’t need my tears to make this wretched retelling any worse.”

“It’s quite alright, dear. It isn’t called a sob story for nothing, after all,” he chuckled, trying for levity to lift the stifling gloom of the atmosphere. His attempt wrested a watery giggle from you, so he considered it a success.

Once your sniffling had died down, a comfortable silence settled over the tent. He had gone back to staring at the empty space of his bedroll between you and him, and a new plan slowly began to unfurl in his mind. You seemed to like him well enough, but was well enough going to keep him safe in the dire straits ahead?

He was broken from his musing by the gentle strings of your lyre, a different melody this time but with a similar effect. The dulcet tones of your harmony flooded him with that strange, tingly warmth again, and he made up his mind in that moment. You were an unalienable ally with your charisma and quiet authority, and he needed to do whatever necessary to stay in your good graces.

Resolute in his decision, he listened intently to your music, laying back on his hands and closing his eyes to bask in the beauty of it. Your songs transitioned smoothly from one into the next, and he soon found himself drifting into his nightly meditation with unprecedented ease. He didn’t even register when the music had stopped, only noticing when your hushed voice temporarily disrupted the blissfully quiet calm of his mind.

“Goodnight, Astarion.” ______________________________________________________________

He rose early the next morning and was pleased to find you already awake. You were breaking your fast with some sludgy gruel the wizard was stirring while Wyll regaled you with animated tales of his heroics. He rolled his eyes at the warlock’s prideful display, but noticed you listening intently, gasping and asking questions at all the perfect intervals. The warlock regarded you with a smile far too fond for his liking, and he found himself calling out to you before he was even sure of what he was going to say.

“Darling, a moment, if you please?”

You gave Wyll a sheepish grin and excused yourself, setting the bowl of lumpy porridge on your stool and sauntering over to him. Astarion snickered to himself at the way the warlock’s face twisted.

“Good morning, Astarion,” you said brightly, smile more radiant than the morning sun.

“Good morning, my sweet. How did you sleep?” he asked, laying the charm on thick.

“Alright, I s’pose. You?”

“Vampires don’t sleep, dear, though I’ll say that last night was the closest I’ve come to it in two centuries,” he replied, trying for his most disarming smile.

“I’m glad to hear it,” you responded softly. “If you’d like to dine with me tonight, I’d be happy to lend my neck.”

Astarion could swear he felt his undead heart give a flutter of a beat before going dormant again.

“Why, there’s nothing I’d love more darling! But, are you sure you’re feeling up to it so soon after the first time?” he asked, his portrayal of concern surprisingly effortless.

He watched as you pulled a pendant out of your decolletage, holding it up so that it glinted in the light. He could feel the faint thrum of the Weave surrounding it.

“I went hunting through my things last night when I remembered I had this. It’s an amulet of restoration. Shadowheart confirmed for me that it will counteract the effects of blood loss,” you beamed.

“My, my. Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, as you noticeably retreated into yourself.

“I only wanted to help,” you mumbled, eyes downcast.

In a desperate attempt to salvage the conversation, Astarion shifted the subject back to the amulet.

“And wherever did you find such a pretty bauble?”

Your answering grimace and accompanying flush was an unexpected reaction.

Oh, this must be good.

“I nicked it from the druid grove,” you said sheepishly.

“Aren’t you full of surprises, my dear,” he responded with a hearty laugh.

“Shut it, Rogue,” you grumbled at him good-naturedly.

“Never! And in answer to your earlier question, I would be more than delighted to dine with you.” He bowed dramatically, earning him a few bright peals of laughter.

“Your tent, or mine?” he purred. He made a show of watching the way your flush deepened and crept its way down into the plunging neckline of your nightclothes.

“Erm, I’d assume you’d be most comfortable in your tent,” you responded, wringing your hands with eyes downcast once more.

Well, that won’t do.

He reached forward slowly so as not to spook you and tucked a finger under your chin, gently raising your face so he could catch your eyes.

“I can make myself comfortable anywhere for you, dear,” he breathed, watching closely as your lips parted in a silent gasp and pupils dilated infinitesimally wider.

Just as he was about to celebrate this small victory, your eyes cinched shut and a pained expression flitted across your face. He dropped his hand instantly, taken aback by the dramatic shift in your reaction.

“S’not you,” you gritted out, confusing him further. You opened your eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Just a bad memory,” you clarified, standing tall in a display of faux confidence.

It was a tactic he knew all too well, and he could see right through it to the rigid way you held yourself. He felt his face fall with a doleful kind of understanding.

She, too, has endured much torment.

“Ah yes, those I am quite familiar with. We all have skeletons in the closet. An unfortunate side effect of living…” he paused, “and unliving, I suppose.”

You chuckled, easing up again.

“I’m taking Lae’zel, Wyll and Gale with me today to look for the missing druid. We’ll let you know what we find,” you changed the subject, meeting his gaze.

He felt a pang of disappointment with the chill of fear quick on its heels and fought to keep his face neutral, but was ultimately unsuccessful. You caught a glimpse of something, however fleeting, in his eyes that turned your countenance steely.

“He won’t have you, Astarion. You don’t need to go back to him,” you said, suddenly vehement in your determination. It only increased his panic.

“You don’t know Cazador,” he relented in a whisper, “He could have spies anywhere. I could be gone long before you make it back. If he finds me, I will have no choice but to return.”

“He won’t find you. You’re safe with me,” you murmured back, reaching out to take his hands. It was an odd sensation, being held, made odder still by your initiation of the contact.

“Then take me with you,” he begged, just shy of desperate.

He could feel your thumbs sweeping over the backs of his hands, no doubt a placating gesture to ease the burn of your next words.

“Not today. You need to rest after yesterday’s events.”

“How rich, coming from you,” he snapped, withdrawing his hands from your grasp abruptly.

He caught the hurt that flashed across your delicate features before you managed to school your expression, straightening your spine and squaring your shoulders.

He sighed in defeat, “I suppose I will see you tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” you nodded and turned to leave.

You took a few steps away from him and paused, turning halfway back toward him.

“And I mean it, Astarion. You are safe with me. I will watch your back, so long as you watch mine.”

With nothing but your parting words for reassurance, Astarion returned to his tent, succumbing to the biting cold of dread’s barbed claws.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 28 days

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The symbolism of flowers

Flowers have a long history of symbolism that you can incorporate into your writing to give subtext.

Symbolism varies between cultures and customs, and these particular examples come from Victorian Era Britain. You'll find examples of this symbolism in many well-known novels of the era!

Amaryllis: Pride

Black-eyed Susan: Justice

Bluebell: Humility

Calla Lily: Beauty

Pink Camellia: Longing

Carnations: Female love

Yellow Carnation: Rejection

Clematis: Mental beauty

Columbine: Foolishness

Cyclamen: Resignation

Daffodil: Unrivalled love

Daisy: Innocence, loyalty

Forget-me-not: True love

Gardenia: Secret love

Geranium: Folly, stupidity

Gladiolus: Integrity, strength

Hibiscus: Delicate beauty

Honeysuckle: Bonds of love

Blue Hyacinth: Constancy

Hydrangea: Frigid, heartless

Iris: Faith, trust, wisdom

White Jasmine: Amiability

Lavender: Distrust

Lilac: Joy of youth

White Lily: Purity

Orange Lily: Hatred

Tiger Lily: Wealth, pride

Lily-of-the-valley: Sweetness, humility

Lotus: Enlightenment, rebirth

Magnolia: Nobility

Marigold: Grief, jealousy

Morning Glory: Affection

Nasturtium: Patriotism, conquest

Pansy: Thoughtfulness

Peony: Bashfulness, shame

Poppy: Consolation

Red Rose: Love

Yellow Rose: Jealously, infidelity

Snapdragon: Deception, grace

Sunflower: Adoration

Sweet Willian: Gallantry

Red Tulip: Passion

Violet: Watchfulness, modesty

Yarrow: Everlasting love

Zinnia: Absent, affection

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 28 days

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Bless me, kudos crab

🦀 Kudos Crab 🦀

If you are scrolling and see Kudos Crab, your fics will be blessed!

You will get good comments and kudos!

You will beat your writers block!

GO AND WRITE!

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 28 days

Text

chapter 2: the hunted

Find the masterlist here!

W/C: 2,327

A/N: Have a chapter in honor of my new computer!

Astarion spent the next morning as he always did, sitting just outside his tent with a book in hand. Most of the camp was up and milling about, starting their days by breaking their fasts and groggily wishing each other ‘good morning’s. He made sure to stay away from it all, as usual, but watched the proceedings with a keen eye and a great sense of unease. His attention kept flitting back and forth between the ever growing gaggle of his awakened traveling companions and your darkened tent.

He felt a sense of dread inch its fingers up his spine, cold and unyielding, the more time passed without your lively and authoritative presence to command the group of companions. The sun’s reach expanded well over the horizon now, and it was so very unlike you to have a lie in, no matter the circumstances.

Oh gods, did I go too far last night? What if I killed her?!

Just as he prepared himself to go check on you, lest he find you dead at his hand, you popped your head out of your tent. You raised an arm against the onslaught of daylight and blinked blearily, running a hand down your face to dash the sleep from your eyes. Astarion sighed audibly in relief, until your now-focused gaze found him. Dread’s icy grip once again clutched at him, stealing his breath anew.

This is it. This is where I’ll be tossed.

You made a beeline for him, taking care to avoid drawing the attention of the other companions. Astarion slipped into his familiar guise of nonchalance, preparing himself for his inevitable departure. He made to stand when you stopped a few feet from him.

“Good morning,” he began with a coy smile, “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine, if a bit woozy,” you waved noncommittally. “And you? How do you feel?”

Astarion’s false confidence crumbled in an instant, blanching at your question.

“How… how do I feel? My dear, I’m not the one that had a leech to their throat last night!”

“That’s rather beside the point, leech,” you giggled. “Now, do you plan on answering me? Or are you simply going to stand there agape like a dead fish?”

“I suppose I feel… well. Superb, even!” he giggled back.

“Wonderful! Any idea how long this will last?” you pointed to your head, no doubt referencing the foggy sensation clouding your thoughts.

“It’ll pass,” he flicked his hand dismissively. “Just be grateful I’m not a ‘true’ vampire. A bite from them and you might wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self,” he leaned forward, voice hushed, “All of a vampire’s hunger, but few of their powers.”

He heaved a dejected sigh at the reminder.

You crossed your arms over your chest, a smile toying at your lips, “Oh? Any other drawbacks I should be aware of?”

“That’s the odd thing: standing in the sun, wading through rivers, wandering into homes without an invitation - they’re all perfectly mundane activities now, things I never could have done before the tadpole. Seems someone, or something, has changed the rules. If only Cazador were here so I might laugh in his face before I rip it off,” he laughed heartily - then abruptly cut himself short, a shard of terror lancing through his thoughts at having revealed too much.

You raised an inquisitive eyebrow, studying him, but did not press.

“Nonetheless, it’s a stroke of good fortune to have a vampire on our side. I meant what I said, I am excited to see you fight,” you intoned softly, dropping your arms.

“Oh yes, and now I can fight with all my weapons,” he responded with a devious smirk, fangs glinting in the bright morning sun. “If I drain a bandit dry every now and again, it isn’t as if they weren’t destined to meet their maker anyway.”

You laughed, loud and full, at his witty remark. He was surprised to find that it stirred a delightful warmth in his chest, a feeling unfamiliar to him.

“I’m just glad you’re being sensible about these… revelations. I was worried people might turn up with torches and pitchforks,” he began with a smile, though it was rapidly erased as he noticed the other companions wandering into earshot with a mixed array of expressions.

“Although, there’s still time,” he nodded over your shoulder gravely. He watched intently as your expression hardened and you turned to face the horde.

“A vampire among us? So be it. But should I wake with so much as a drop of blood on my neck, I will end him,” Lae’zel snarled.

“I’d just better not wake in the night to find fangs at my throat,” Shadowheart scoffed with disdain.

“Of course we’re traveling with a vampire,” Gale threw his hands up in exasperation, then pointed at him menacingly, “A word of warning, Astarion: I taste absolutely awful!”

You looked at him over your shoulder, and whatever you saw on his face steeled your resolve.

“I trust him,” you said, voice hardened and posture defensive. “Besides, like it or not, we need him. And there’s no need to worry about the safety of your necks. He’s got mine.”

You turned your head and bared his bite mark to your companions. A round of hushed murmurs and surprised faces met your bold confession to his feeding. If he could blush, he would be red from the tips of his ears to his toes in mortification at what your words implied.

“Well, now that’s settled, we should be getting on our way. Karlach, Astarion, Shadowheart, you’re with me. We’re to find the witch, Ethel, today,” you finished with a nod, effectively dismissing the group.

Astarion continued to stare at the back of your head in shock, and you turned to face him again, an inquisitive look adorning the fine features of your face once more.

“I…” he began, but petered out, unsure of what to say.

You snorted and turned to stride back towards your tent, presumably to stock your bag for the day.

He reached out to stop you instinctively and grabbed at your shoulder. You flinched uncharacteristically and froze on the spot, and he ripped his hand away as though scalded.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” he mumbled as you turned toward him again. The look you regarded him with was far icier than before, the lingering warning of a threat still causing your pulse to flutter.

“S’fine,” you mutter. “Out with it.”

“I… just wanted to thank you. Again,” he finished lamely, waving his hands awkwardly at his sides.

“Don’t mention it,” you said gruffly, then finally strode away to your tent and began donning your armor.

Puzzled by your reaction, he watched you pack for a few moments too long. ______________________________________________________________

“It’s so unpleasantly muggy in these parts, and there are so many bloody bugs,” he whined, swatting at the air around him.

“Does the big, bad, bitey monster fear a taste of his own medicine?” Shadowheart mocked, deepening his scowl.

“Don’t worry, Astarion. They won’t bite you; you’re dead, remember?” you quipped with a cheeky grin.

Just as a retort reached his lips, you stopped dead in your tracks and raised an arm - a signal to await your command.

“What is it?” he whispered apprehensively.

You hushed him, scanning the sunny fields of wildflowers surrounding the group.

“Illusion magic. This isn’t real,” you murmured. As if triggered by your words, the grassy knolls give way to reveal a bog, fetid with the stench of death and decay.

“Oh lovely!” he chirped sarcastically, “I always did want to rot in a bog!”

You shot a glare at him and signaled the group to continue onward. The change in landscape was drastic; where once there were flowers, now fungi resided, drawing sustenance from the mossy trunks of felled trees. The sunlight had vanished into humid gloom, and the sheep that had been quietly grazing were revealed as redcaps, feasting on the corpses of their victims.

Karlach’s eyes almost bugged out of her skull, raising her greataxe in preparation for a fight.

“Ignore them,” you waved at her. “They think we still see sheep.”

She nodded gravely.

The group continued through the putrid haze of the bog, avoiding the redcaps and picking through half-rotted remains for loot, when they happened upon a man fletching crossbow bolts. Astarion smelled him before he saw him, and a flare of panic shot through him.

The Gur.

He watched you wrinkle your nose as you called out in greeting.

“Ah, stranger!” the man called back, noticing your sour expression. “Forgive the aroma. Powdered iron-vine, an old hunter’s trick. Most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me.”

Against his better judgment, Astarion piped up, “You’re a monster hunter? I’m surprised - I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats.”

He sneered at the man in front of him, no doubt an errand boy for Cazador, meant to drag him back for judgment at his master’s mercy. What were the odds, a lone Gur hunter this far from Baldur’s Gate? It was surely a message meant for him alone.

“Pardon, but who - or what - is a Gur?” you interjected, posture defensive and coiled to spring.

“A mystical and dangerous people who travel the land, never settling in one place,” the man flourished with a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “We steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters… your friend here has heard it all, I’m sure,” he gestured at Astarion.

Astarion fought the urge to bare his fangs.

“I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess. Alas, I am a simple wanderer,” the man dismissed, “A simple wanderer and monster hunter. But I am no witch doctor or cutthroat.”

“So what monster are you hunting, then?” you bit back.

It was as though Astarion couldn’t help but draw the attention back to himself despite all of the warning bells ringing in his ears, his nerves causing him to prattle on.

“Something terrifying, no doubt! Dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” the man scoffed, “I’m hunting for a vampire spawn.”

Astarion felt his face fall in panic and caught your subtle glance in his peripheral vision.

I knew it! Just when things were beginning to look up…

“His name is Astarion, but I think he’s gone to ground. I was hoping the hag of these lands could help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price.”

“And when you find this ‘Astarion’? You’ll, what, kill him?” you asked, subtly lowering your stance in preparation for a fight.

“Not this time. My orders are to capture him,” the man replied, eyeing you more warily by the moment.

“Oh, and bring him where, exactly?” Astarion questioned, trying his best to keep the fear from lacing into his words.

“Baldur’s Gate. My people wait for me there.”

“A vampire spawn doesn’t seem worth the hunt. It’s not like he’s a real vampire,” you added, trying to wheedle more information from the Gur hunter.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip out your throat if he felt like it,” Astarion snarled, unable to help himself at the slight.

Shut up! You’re going to give yourself away!

Astarion’s fingers twitched, longing to feel the familiar weight of his dagger in hand. His mind was racing, addled with the lingering sensations of dread and rage like so many unwanted hands clawing at him, his skin crawled with it.

The man, taking no apparent notice, continued talking to you.

“He is right, unfortunately. They are only weak when compared to their masters. During the day, we have the advantage! But at night, when they hunt? You will not find a more deadly quarry,” he finished, expression carrying a grave countenance.

Astarion caught your gaze, clearly calculating your next move. Whatever you saw in his face - fear, loathing, fury, he knew not what - made your mind up.

“Interesting, indeed,” you said, holding his eye. “Astarion, what do you think?”

“What? No, it isn’t possible! It’s daylight!” the man exclaimed, looking between you and Astarion.

Astarion ignored the bewildered hunter, a vicious, fanged smile contorting his face as he pulled his dagger.

“I think the hunter has become the hunted,” he growled, and then lunged at the Gur, plunging his dagger hard into the man’s throat.

Karlach gave a great shout of indignation, and Shadowheart gasped in surprise. You, however, did nothing more than cross your arms over your chest, mouth set in a grim line.

With no reaction time to reach for his crossbow, the man stumbled back, pawing weakly at the blade protruding from his neck. A bright scarlet stain spread across the front of his worn doublet, and with a final anguished gurgle, he collapsed into the muck.

“What in the Nine Hells did you do that for!” Karlach screeched at him.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the words that came were not his.

“He was a threat to our own. He had to be neutralized.”

Astarion looked up at you shrewdly, scrutinizing you for any deception, but found none. Neither did he find any betrayal of disgust or fear in your expression, only wry determination to protect your companions above all else.

“The deed’s done,” you said with an air of finality, looking down at Astarion crouched by the body of the fallen hunter wiping his dagger clean. “On we get to find Ethel, no doubt the hag the hunter spoke of.”

The rest of the group grumbled their assent and started moving, but Astarion was held firmly in place by the look in your eyes. A new kind of anxiety gnawed in the pit of his stomach.

He could read the many questions held in that one look, and he knew the time had come for further explanation once you regrouped at camp later that night.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 1 month

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chapter 1: this is a gift

Find the masterlist here!

W/C: 2,700

Over the course of his unnaturally long life, Astarion had experienced many things. However, he couldn’t recall ever having had the displeasure of acting with such altruistic compassion before now. It was almost as if Cazador himself had thought up an entertaining new way to torture him, forcing him to don a mask of tight-lipped humility to maintain his facade of belonging.

One thing was made abundantly clear from the start of this journey: Astarion did not belong among this group of would-be heroes. His first taste of freedom in two hundred years, consistently squandered by the incessantly self-sacrificing actions of his traveling companions. He found himself in a constant state of exasperation these days, an eye-roll or a scoff away from striking out on his own, for better or worse.

No matter how uncomfortable a role it was to play, far be it from him to turn down the objective safety in numbers that his companions provided him with, however unwittingly. It wasn’t as though he was a stranger to playing uncomfortable roles for the sake of his survival. Were they ever to find out just what it was they were traveling with, they’d surely turn him out in an instant, if not stake him outright. Neither being vulnerable to recapture by Cazador nor the finality of death quite tickled Astarion’s fancy, so he kept his head down and the worst of his sarcastic quips to himself in hopes that he would remain relatively safe from prying eyes - or more accurately, prying thoughts.

And it worked - for the most part. The gith and the cleric were too busy quarreling amongst each other to pay him any heed, and the warlock was all too consumed by his loathing of his contracted owner. The wizard, while clearly educated and well-read, didn’t seem to have a perceptive bone in his body if the way he carried on was anything to go off of. Astarion could swear that listening to him speak was the closest he’d come to truly sleeping since he’d been turned. The tiefling woman, bless her infernal engine, had heart and brawn to spare, but had been less than fortunate in the intelligence department.

You, however, were far harder to read, and therefore far harder to trust. Not to say that he trusted his other companions, but he could at least trust that they remained steadfastly oblivious as to his true nature. He was never sure with you, occasionally catching a glimmer of something deeper in the warmth of your gaze when you exchanged pleasantries, or looking up from his book to find you staring at him from across the campfire, your pleasant voice lilting the harmonic accompaniment to the lyre in your arms. Your eyes held far too much keen interest for him to be comfortable, so he kept an especially safe distance from you.

At least, he tried to.

As the days wore on and the fights became more grueling, he found himself growing weary and bone-tired beyond what his typical nightly hunt could satiate. He felt sluggish and weak; stringing together rational and coherent thought had become burdensome. He could scarcely breathe in the company of his companions without feeling overwhelmed by the sheer might of his bloodlust. Luckily, he’d mostly learned to ignore his bottomless hunger over the span of his enslavement, and whatever wasn’t held in the firm grip of his self-control was allayed by the fear of Cazador’s retribution.

The longer he spent away from Cazador, though, the more that fear shrunk alongside his waning self-control. The fact that he’d left his most recent kill, mangled and exsanguinated, in the middle of the path for his traveling party to stumble across was testament to his current lack of presence. Under different circumstances, its discovery could have been his death sentence. As it were, he only had to listen to the shocked and horrified exclamations of his companions, none of them the wiser that the beast in question capable of such a grisly and disturbing kill resided in their camp. For his part, Astarion remained steadfastly silent, watchful gaze leveled on the back of your head and fingers twitching toward his dagger.

After a quiet “hmm” and a shrug, you stood from the corpse of the boar and brushed your hands off.

“Nothing to be done for it now. Best be on our way,” you said gravely. Astarion’s fingers stopped their twitching, and he released a silent breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.

Later that night, as his companions sang and danced and made merry around the campfire, Astarion began to hatch a plan. An ill advised plan, mind, and not one that he was proud to have conjured up, but he was so hungry and could no longer ignore the mouth watering smell of the sentient life around him. All that was left was to pick his target and wait for the right opportunity to strike.

As he pretended to eat his bowl of stew that the wizard had prepared, he sorted through the list of his companions in his mind, weighing his options. Both the gith and the warlock were sure to kill him if they caught him in the act, so they were immediately discarded. The tiefling would melt his face right off if he got too close to her, which made her an impractical option. Something about the wizard smelled off, so naturally he was struck from the list. That left the cleric… and you.

Just as he was preparing to puzzle out the best option between the two, you waltzed past him with your gentle instrumental and sultry lilt, and he made the mistake of inhaling. His mouth practically watered at the smell of you: jasmine blossoms and orange peel and heady musk. Without any further thought, he had his vict- target.

He shook his head warily, attempting to clear his disquieted thoughts like so many cobwebs from his mind, just as you turned to send a soft smile his direction.

His insides twisted with the sharp discomfort of shame and he smiled back, taking care to keep from baring his fangs. He couldn’t tell if the vise grip of unease was of his own or his master’s making, but it was almost strong enough to make him reconsider. Almost. Then, his hunger returned to him full-force and all at once, and his resolve was strengthened. Once everyone else had reached the land of dreams, Astarion would have his first true taste of freedom: ‘the blood of a thinking creature’. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion volunteered to take first watch, so, mercifully, he was the only one awake. If he were capable of nervous sweats, the back and underarms of his shirt would be soaked through, his palms clammy and the curls at his forehead damp. One would think that being abducted by mindflayers would make the prospect of drinking his companions’ blood pale in comparison, but he found himself more terrified now than those handful of nights ago when he’d been snatched up and imprisoned on the Nautiloid. Perhaps it was the fear of Cazador’s wrath, when he inevitably found out Astarion wilfully disobeyed his cardinal order; perhaps it was the fear of losing control and hurting you, and then paying the price with his life.

Whatever the case, Astarion made a concerted effort to steel himself before proceeding with his plan. He crept from his post, silent as the grave with the practiced ease of a night stalker and crossed the camp to your tent, its flaps open to dispel some of the muggy summer air trapped within. The closer he got to his prize, to you, the further his wits were flung from him until he knelt at your side, salivating at the thrum of the pulse in your neck. He licked his lips and leaned in, intoxicated by the smell of you, fangs poised to puncture your carotid artery -

“You could ask, you know,” he felt more than heard you say. “It’s impolite to touch people without first gaining their consent.”

Astarion reeled back as if he’d been struck, a muffled curse escaping him as he hastily tried to retreat.

“Move any further and I’ll scream. I’d fancy a guess that you don’t want the whole camp to find you unwelcome in my tent, so I suggest you quit squirming away and explain yourself,” you grumbled, and though your voice painted a perfect picture of disenchantment, Astarion could see the way your body had drawn taut with adrenaline; you were prepared to fight your way out of this if necessary.

“No, no! It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he pleaded, voice just shy of frantic and hands held aloft in placation. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed - well, blood.”

The shame returned to him at a near dizzying magnitude, his last words falling flat in defeat on a final exhale, sure to be his last.

You sat up, body still tense and prepared to strike if the need arose, and scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. To his surprise and immense relief, you only questioned him further.

“How long since you last killed someone? Days? Hours?”

Though your voice held the edge of cold steel, it could not conceal the glint of curiosity in your gaze. Despite his better judgment, Astarion decided to tell you the truth, hoping to appeal to the bleeding heart of your empathy.

“I’ve never killed anyone! Well, not for food,” he sneered, then schooled his expression back into something non-threatening after remembering that he did not want to make his predicament worse.

“I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds - whatever I can get. But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

“Ah, so that was your dinner we found so carelessly discarded this morning,” you bit back.

He weighed his next words carefully after examining your body language, still finding you tense but sensing no fear.

To Hells with it, he thought.

“If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please,” he begged, eyes wide and round with desperation.

He watched in relative discomfiture as the tension drained from your posture, expression morphing to regard him with no small amount of pity as your tadpoles connected and you were granted a fleeting glimpse into his centuries of abuse and torment. It took all of his courage to not shut you out; he felt painfully flayed open and on display with what little you were able to glean from the brief brush of your minds.

To your credit, you didn’t ask about what you’d seen.

“Why didn't you tell me, Astarion?” you whispered.

“At best, I was sure you’d say no,” he scoffed, then sighed, “More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

He held his breath again, daring to hope that you might actually be amenable to helping him.

“Hells. I do trust you, Astarion. Believe it or not, I do. Would have preferred you to just ask instead of having this uncomfortable confrontation in the wee hours, though,” you chuckled.

He almost couldn’t believe his luck, or perhaps it was your stupidity, and he waved a hand noncommittally in front of him.

“Does this mean…” he breathed, his nerves alight with something akin to elation.

“Yes, you may make a meal of me,” you sighed.

“Wonderful! Thank you, truly-” he began, abruptly cut off by the hand raised wordlessly to silence him.

“But you’d better not take a drop more than you need, or there won’t be a next time,” you finished with a resolute nod.

Astarion nearly balked at your words, simultaneously blessing and cursing whatever gods would listen for leaving something so preciously stupid as you alone in his company.

“Of course, darling. Not one drop more, on my honor,” he said, placing a hand over his undead heart.

You snorted inelegantly, “Right, honor. As if you have any of that, Rogue. How do you want me?”

“You wound me, my sweet. More to the point, how don’t I want you?” he drawled, playing up the flirty charm in an attempt to ease the stiffness of anxiety that had once again overcome you.

However, it seemed to have opposite the desired effect, and he watched in disconcerted fascination as your hands balled into tight fists at your sides. You rhythmically unclenched and clenched your fists a few times before releasing a shaky exhale.

“Do you plan to bite me sometime before the sun rises or not? If you’ve changed your mind, I’d very much like to get some sleep before we have to spend another day meandering through this blasted forest, hunting down an impossible cure for our stowaways,” you huffed out.

“My apologies, do get comfortable,” Astarion mumbled as he scrambled to kneel at the edge of your bedroll once more. He brushed the wisps of your hair away from your neck, fingers trailing down the delicate column of your throat almost reverently. He wanted to savor this moment, this first.

“Will it hurt much?” he felt the rumble of your words through his fingertips.

“Not terribly, but it will be uncomfortable for a moment. I will try to be gentle,” he murmured back, steady gaze leveled with your apprehensive one.

“Get on with it, then,” you gritted out, turning your head to expose more of the tender flesh of your neck.

Astarion leaned in, once again overwhelmed by the smell of you in this close proximity, but no longer dogged by the feeling of malaise at what he was about to do. He gently dragged his fangs up the column of your throat, searching for your pulse point. He heard your quiet gasp and felt the slight shudder that ran through you, one of your hands flying up to nestle in the silvery curls at the nape of his neck and the other twisting in the furs of your bedroll. It was then that he struck.

The first splash of blood across his tongue was like the finest wine he’d ever tasted. He vaguely registered the sound of a groan, but whether it was yours or his, he wasn’t sure. Everything beyond your lifeblood spilling from the puncture wounds in your neck and his tongue lapping at it was hazy with his euphoria. He could taste the salty musk of your sweat coupled with the ferrous tang of your blood, the fleeting sweetness of your desire giving way to a deeper, more buttery contentment.

He quickly lost himself in the act of drinking from you, gulping down great mouthfuls of your blood like a man having stumbled across an oasis after spending too many long nights parched in the desert. He drank deeply and greedily, rational thought all but gone as he slaked his bloodlust.

Eventually, he registered the bitter taste of your fear and felt the fingers buried in his curls tighten and pull.

“Astarion,” you garbled in warning, “that’s enough.”

Reluctantly, and with no small amount of effort, he pulled back.

“That - that was amazing,” he mumbled in awe, tongue darting out to clean the blood from his lips and wiping up the droplets that spilled down his chin, only to lick his fingers.

“And strangely intimate,” you laughed breathily.

“Indeed. My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel… happy!” he breathed, voice full of wonderment.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you fight,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

“Shouldn’t take long,” he smirked back, “So many people need killing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

He stood and turned to exit, then thought better of it and paused at the mouth of your tent. He looked over his shoulder to find you seated upright, looking at him expectantly.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

He didn’t miss the way your face fell as he turned to continue out into the waiting darkness. This time, it was guilt that made his gut churn unpleasantly. As to why, though, he couldn’t say.

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