Chapter 1
Summary:
This chapter is more-or-less a prologue and as close as this story gets to the actual events of the game.
Notes:
Edited 2/15/24: I got a lot of questions throughout this about Lae’zel. I started this only a couple weeks after the game came out and she sadly died in my first (Coop) playthrough, so I didn’t feel comfortable writing her at the time and it felt too late to add her by Chapter 14 or so when I finally did a run with her in the group.
Chapter Text
Maybe, Emerie thinks, I should start asking more questions.
She is fairly sure that somehow it’s her fault that she has a vampire trying to bite her in her sleep- she had sensed that her companions all had more going on than they were sharing, but she hadn’t pried much. She was hardly sharing her entire life story with a bunch of virtual strangers herself. This whole situation was so surreal anyway that it had taken her days after the tadpole incident to realize she wasn’t dreaming it all up.
And now she’s woken up to Astarion with his fangs inches from her.
Emerie sits up so fast that her forehead nearly hits his nose. It would have, had he not scrambled backwards at precisely the same moment.
“Shit.” He says under his breath, nearly startling a laugh out of Emerie. It’s the shock, she thinks.
He looks nearly as shocked as she feels.
His eyes are wide, and he puts his hands up- in defense or a plea, Emerie isn’t sure. She struggles out of her bedroll and to her feet, ready to defend herself. If he’s going to make a meal out of her, she’s going to at least go down swinging.
“No no… It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he pants.
That startles an actual laugh out of Emerie. “Oh? It wasn’t?”
“Well… I wasn’t going to hurt you. I just wanted a bit of blood.” He says apologetically.
His barely controlled panic is enough of a departure from his normal polished demeanor that Emerie can’t help but be intrigued. She relaxes into a more neutral stance. If he wanted to kill her, he’s had days and better opportunities to do so.
And really, with the way he almost seems to be able to disappear and reappear in plain sight, she’s sure that she would be dead ten times over if he wanted her to be.
She glances behind her at the others resting nearby and comes to a quick decision. She steps carefully away from the fire, keeping a wary eye on the vampire. “Come on, let’s not wake the others.”
If he looked shocked before, he looks gobsmacked now. “What? Really?” He straightens up. “No yelling for help? Are you insane?”
“It seems likely at this point,” Emerie says ruefully. She tries to keep her footsteps light as she walks past Astarion toward the edge of camp. Part of her is screaming at her for turning her back to the vampire, but she continues past him anyway, listening intently to see if he follows.
After several moments, she hears a faint huff of breath as Astarion decides to follow her. She takes an almost unnoticeable game trail into the woods. The world fades to shades of grey as she passes out of the range of the firelight. She keeps walking for a few minutes, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder until they come to a well-grazed grassy clearing. Astarion’s white hair practically glows in the moonlight from where he follows, a good fifteen feet behind her. Emerie spies a large fallen log on one side of the clearing and makes her way to it and sits. Her heart is racing now. She can see Astarion in her peripheral vision hesitate, and then he slowly comes to sit on the log, only a couple of feet away from her. He is silent, seemingly not knowing what to do or say.
Emerie stares up at the moon and the stars for a few moments, gathering her thoughts. “So,” she says, hesitantly, “you’re a vampire.”
A deep breath from beside her. “Vampire spawn, actually. Not a full vampire.”
Emerie glances over her shoulder at him, but he is looking at the trees on the other side of the clearing, carefully avoiding eye contact.
“And you wanted blood?”
“Yes.”
“From me?”
“I…” he trails off. For several minutes, he says nothing. Emerie realizes that he is gathering his thoughts and waits. Her heartbeat, racing before, slows to something approaching normal as she calms down. He may very well be dangerous, but the fact that he hasn’t hurt her and is trying to explain himself seems to mean he doesn’t intend to harm her.
Probably.
“I’ve never actually tasted blood from another person before. I usually eat animals. Boars, deer, and the like. But I feel weak, and with all the fighting…” he trails off. Then he turns his head to meet Emerie’s eyes. “I wondered what it would be like. If it would make me stronger. And I wasn’t going to hurt you, I swear.”
Emerie raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never bitten a person?”
“No. It was one of the rules my master had. ‘Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures’.” He laughs bitterly, “The bastard didn’t want competition.”
Emerie tilts her head, pondering this new information. It fits with what she knows of vampires. They have absolute control over their spawn. Perhaps she and Astarion are more alike than she had previously thought.
Some things still don’t add up, though. “But you’ve been fine in the sun.”
He chuckles darkly, “The tadpoles seem to have solved that little problem, as well as running water and going into buildings uninvited. This has all been quite the novel experience for me.”
“That’s… actually very interesting. I wonder why it’s doing that.” Emerie laughs softly. “I guess it isn’t all bad, then.”
She turns, swinging her leg over the log to straddle it so she can face him fully. “So you want blood to feel stronger.”
“Well, yes.”
She considers him for a moment. He looks tired, in the way that she feels tired. She wonders, then, what it’s taken for him to even ask. Her own situation isn’t quite as objectionable as being a vampire spawn, and she’s hardly about to open up to a stranger to ask for help. “Okay then.”
He looks thoroughly nonplussed. He sputters, “O… okay then?! What?!”
Emerie shrugs. “Let’s try it.”
“Are you actually? Nevermind. Okay. Right.” He shakes his head a little, then pulls himself together. He swings his leg over the log, mirroring Emerie. “Come here then.”
Emerie tilts her head, considering, and then turns herself around on the log so her back is to him. She scoots backward until her back is to his chest. He exhales raggedly into her hair and suddenly she is hyper aware of all of him pressed against her. Goosebumps erupt along her arms and down her back as she shivers involuntarily.
“Please try not to kill me. I would be a little upset about it.” Emerie jokes halfheartedly.
Astarion huffs an unamused laugh into her hair, making Emerie’s head spin in strange ways. “Right.” One of his arms comes around her stomach and pulls her tighter against him. She feels his other hand in her hair, gently moving it to the side to expose her neck. He tugs lightly on her hair to tilt her head, which is surprisingly pleasant. Then she feels his head dip, his mouth trailing down her neck, and then his ragged exhale against her skin.
It's almost seductive. Until the bite.
At first it is a sharp pain, then pure ice. Then there is a pleasant numbness. Then she feels a light suction. And it is pure bliss.
Emerie goes boneless in his arms. Her head lolls back against his shoulder and she leans heavily into his chest. His arm tightens around her. After a moment, Astarion tugs her hard against his chest and he growls, sucking greedily at the bite in her neck.
The growl does something to Emerie. Her stomach flips. Warmth flows through her body and she gasps. She thinks hazily that this may be the first time anyone has held her like this. It’s… nice, in a strange way.
Dizziness starts to creep up on her, causing alarm to override the more pleasant sensations. “Astarion?”
She feels him stiffen, and there is a beat, then two, before his mouth is gone from her neck. He lets go of her slowly and leans back, inhaling deeply. “That was… incredible.” He says.
Emerie privately agrees.
She braces a hand on his thigh behind her and swings her leg back over the log so she’s no longer flush against his body. A wave of dizziness crashes over her and she holds on tight, one hand gripping the log and the other still on his thigh.
The dizziness passes slowly, but Astarion is still speaking. “I feel… stronger. My mind is clear.” Emerie turns her head to look at him. He is smiling. He almost looks relieved. “I feel… happy.”
He sounds surprised. Almost like it had been so long since he had felt happiness that he barely knew the word for it.
“Are you all right?” He asks, smile gone, concern creasing his hauntingly beautiful face.
Emerie almost thinks she misses the smile.
What a strange thought.
“I… yeah. I think so. Just a little dizzy.” She says, letting go of his leg. She starts to stand, struggling more than she anticipated. Before she can blink, he is already there, pulling her to her feet.
“Let’s get you back. You will need your rest if we’re going to find that healer tomorrow.” He lets go of her carefully, staying within arm’s reach.
Less than a half hour later, they are back at camp. He hesitates at the edge.
“I need to go hunt. As delicious as you are, I need something more filling. Something I won’t feel bad for killing.” He says in his usual irreverent tone. He turns and begins to walk away and Emerie watches him go. He hesitates after a few steps and then says, earnestly, “this is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”
She blinks and he’s gone.
She stumbles a bit on her way back to her bedroll, climbing in and luxuriating in the warmth of the fire. For the first time in years, Emerie feels a little less alone. How strange, she thinks, and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.
---------
Astarion marvels at the difference he feels from just a little half-elf blood, even two days later.
The world is clearer; His mind feels sharper. He actually feels a little hopeful for the first time in…
He actually doesn’t remember ever having this feeling. He must have, at some point, because he knows the name of it. Hope. But to truly feel it...
It’s a terrifying thing.
Because when it goes away, he knows he will remember. Hope. Happiness. Wonder.
And it truly is wonderful, to feel sated for the first time he can remember. To be able to make his own choices, to go where he wants when he wants, to feel the sun on his skin…
He might enjoy keeping the tadpole if it wouldn’t turn him into a hideous thing with tentacles all over his face.
He almost shudders, but he has more self-control than that.
He’s been observing the girl closely for the last two days.
Not obviously, or course. Astarion has had nearly 200 years to perfect the ability to go undetected when he wishes, not that that skill is altogether necessary, in this case. Merely being around Emerie has been enough to learn quite a bit about her.
She’s a half-elf, going by her stature and figure. A Druid, likely, given how she had lectured Kagha on Druidic principles and how she stops to greet every animal they meet. He finds this generally annoying, except when she stopped to let the wolf sniff her and Shadowheart had practically climbed the walls trying to get away.
She said something about living in a city in the desert. Calimport, maybe? What a half-elf was doing down there, he has no idea.
He watches her now, sketching by the fire in a journal she liberated from the Druid healer. Her morality is utterly incomprehensible. She’s willing to help people- even insistent on helping children- but has no qualms about stealing from people she doesn’t like.
And she seemed to revel in the slaughter of the people hunting the flaming tiefling, Karlach.
It’s nearly incomprehensible to him how Emerie has collected this unlikely group of tadpole-infected beings and convinced them all to stick together. He is almost suspicious that she’s using some mind-flayer power to control them all.
Astarion is fairly certain she’s a little insane. Or stupid. Perhaps both. Taking a vampire out into the woods, alone, unarmed, and inviting it to bite you… inconceivably idiotic. The girl should have her brain studied.
If he wasn’t sure that he had a better chance of surviving with the group than he would by himself, he would leave them for dead. Such blatant stupidity is alarming in a companion.
He wonders if he could convince her to let him drink her blood again.
She seems gullible enough. He could easily manipulate her into letting him have a nibble here and there.
And perhaps, if he does it right, he can convince her to do anything he wants. He might even be able to convince her to help him destroy Cazador. People do incomprehensible things in the name of love every day, and naive people often conflate sex with love.
All he has to do is seduce her. Easy.
Chapter Text
They all agree after the gnoll incident to take a day to recover.
They make camp near a bend in the river, where the water coming down from the mountains forms a small cascade of gentle falls. The falls have carved out a small pool at the base of the rocky incline, where the water swirls and calms before continuing gently on through the forest.
Emerie is crouched by the pool, washing the blood off her face, when she sees him approaching in her peripheral vision. He’s as blood-soaked as she is, having also been in the thick of the fighting with his knives. The spellcasters in their party had come out of the fight significantly cleaner, and Karlach burned so hot the blood didn’t have the chance to stick to her. Emerie and Astarion, however, were practically drenched in the stuff. His white hair is stained coppery with dried blood, and his face is flecked with the stuff. She imagines that she doesn’t look much better.
Looking down at her ruined white shirt with a sigh, Emerie is glad she had the foresight to acquire more clothing before they left the grove.
“What? Bloodstains not your color?” Astarion quips, crouching down next to her and cupping his hands in the stream. He splashes the water over his face, causing rivulets of pinkish water to run down his neck onto his black shirt.
“Well, now that you mention it, I was thinking that I should have gone with black. This will never wash out,” she sighs. “There’s almost no point in cleaning it.”
He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “In my admittedly extensive experience, they will start to smell. Either wash them or burn them.” He shakes his head, his face screwing up even more, “This gnoll blood is particularly foul. I got some in my mouth and nearly retched.”
Emerie laughs, standing up and shooting him an amused glance. “I felt the same way, but I am admittedly not an expert on blood flavors.”
“Well, take it from me, it’s horrid. I’d rather eat worms.”
Emerie considers this, and she feels her face scrunch up in revulsion. “That is disgusting.”
She watches him scrub his face with more water, curiosity getting the best of her. “So what does taste best?” she asks casually, tugging off her boots.
A pause, and then he sits back, head tilted to study her thoughtfully for a moment. “I… um. I don’t actually know,” he says seriously. “You, I suppose. I don’t have much to compare to, unfortunately.”
She flushes, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh.”
Emerie busies herself inspecting the ends of her hair. There is blood crusted into the curls, and she mutters a curse. She’s going to have to wash it. She would give just about anything for a warm bath right now. She looks mournfully at the chilly pool, then takes a deep breath before wading in. She hisses as the water laps around her ankles. It’s icy cold, leeching the heat from her body instantly.
She takes another step, then two, the water now waist high. She takes a deep breath before kneeling, a small yelp escaping her as the cold water covers her chest. She dips her head back into the water, working her fingers through her hair to try to wash the blood out.
A quiet curse from the shore has her turning to see that the vampire has removed his boots and is entering the water. His face is pained, but his eyes are locked on her.
She feels a little like prey.
She notices, with some relief, that he has chosen to remain clothed as well.
He stops a foot from her, the water lapping around his waist. Still on her knees, she is uncomfortably aware of the suggestiveness of their position.
“I can help,” he says quietly, almost uncertain.
She meets his eyes for a moment, the deep red a stark reminder of exactly what he is. Predator, she thinks, unbidden. But his eyes are gentle, guileless.
She wonders, briefly, if that’s how he lures people in.
She lets out an uncertain breath. “Okay.” And she turns on her knees, putting her back to him. After a moment, she feels his hands at the end of her hair, carding through the strands where they float in the water. A gentle tug has her eyes closing and her head leaning back so that the top of it is submerged.
The gentle scrape of his fingers against her scalp is bliss.
Emerie barely stops herself from whimpering.
Suddenly, she needs to make conversation. “So, you said before that you’ve only had animal blood before… is it different?”
His fingers slow slightly as they work their way through a part of her hair. “It certainly tastes different.”
She opens her eyes to peer up at him. He’s focused entirely on what he is doing with his hands, not meeting her eyes. His guard is up, but she’s curious enough not to care. “I should hope so. But you said you felt different, after you bit me. Happy. So, is that different? And then you went hunting after. Why?”
“So many questions,” He chuckles. His eyes glaze over or a moment, and she can tell he is thinking, so closes her eyes again and waits.
“The animals take the edge off. It’s better than nothing, but not truly satisfying. Drinking your blood… it’s the first time I have felt alive in nearly two centuries. Like I was a shadow of a person before and now I’m not.” He says, quietly. And then, darkly amused, “It’s a miracle I didn’t drain you dry. You should be more careful.”
After a few more moments of him carding his fingers through the wet strands of her hair, working out the tangles and blood, she feels him gather all of her hair into a bunch. He gently lifts her head from the water, then he’s squeezing the extra water out of her hair before letting go.
She stands, her wet shirt clinging to her. It’s impossibly colder now that she is half out of the water, wet hair and clothes plastered to her. She shivers hard.
When she turns around to offer him the same courtesy, “I could…” the offer dies on her lips as he ducks under the water, fingers carding through his own hair. He stands, runs his hand down his perfect face, and flicks the water away.
It’s unfair how beautiful he is, she thinks.
His eyes sparkle in amusement, “it’s alright, darling. I don’t have nearly as much hair as you do.” He turns and walks away, grabbing his boots from the shore. “Now let’s get back and change before we turn to ice.”
She follows him, grabbing her own boots from where she left them on the shore and follows him back to camp.
They’re nearly there when she catches up to him. “Astarion?” She wants to ask him if he’s hungry. He’s looked tired today, and she wonders if real blood will help.
He pauses, looking over his shoulder at her. “Yes?”
“Do you…” she trails off, unsure of how to ask.
“Do I what, darling?” His voice is pitched low, quiet enough to not be heard by anyone else. It sends a pleasant shiver down her spine.
Suddenly, the question she wants to ask feels dangerous in a way she hadn’t anticipated. I want him, she thinks, dazed. But she blinks the feeling away and asks anyway. “Do you need more blood?”
A pause. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly. And then, surprised, “Are you offering?”
“I… well… yes.” She fights to keep her breathing even as he turns to search her gaze with his own.
“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” he breathes, his eyebrow raised. “I’ll see you later, then.”
And then he’s striding away from her, towards the voices they can hear from camp.
——-----
It’s late when he appears, ducking under the flap of her tent. He’s wearing his sleep clothes, the white shirt they found him in and soft black pants. His white curls are dry now and his eyes are dark as they take her in.
She’s sitting cross legged on a blanket on the opposite side of her small tent, leaned against a crate, finishing the sketch of a cat she started working on a few days before. Emerie has felt adrift, the last few days, and drawing is familiar and soothing. It was the one leisure activity she was able to indulge in during her years of slavery in Calimport, and after a few days of freedom after the events on the mind-flayer ship, she found herself itching to put pen to paper.
“May I come in?” he says, hesitating briefly. She nods, scooting over a little and patting the blanket next to her. He lets the tent flap fall closed and comes to sit against the crate next to her, stretching out one leg. Their arms touch, shoulder to elbow. He’s surprisingly warm, probably from sitting next to the fire.
“Just give me a second,” she says, carefully using up the ink in the tip of the pen. She sets the pen in the crease of the book and turns to set it out of the way, still open to dry.
That’s when she realizes that she has no idea what to do.
She is fairly certain it’s madness that has taken over when she blurts, “How do you want me?”
Her cheeks flush in embarrassment, but he just laughs. “However you will feel most comfortable, darling. I’m not picky.”
Well, then.
She eyes him dubiously, biting her lip. She could lay down, but she doesn’t think she trusts herself enough to have him laying over her. “Let’s do it like last time.” She says, sitting up on her knees. He spreads his legs to make room for her, and she moves to sit between them with her back to his chest. Her heart pounds nervously.
He smooths his hands down her arms, firm and soothing. “Are you sure about this, pet?” He asks, voice low and quiet.
It does something to her, that particular tone of that particular voice.
She gathers her hair over one shoulder and leans back against his shoulder, tilting her head to bare her neck to him. “Yes, I’m sure.” she whispers.
“Alright then.” One of his hands comes up, holding her around her throat loosely. His other hand tugs her loose shirt down over her shoulder. She feels his nose and lips against her shoulder, trailing up to the crook of her neck. Goosebumps erupt down her arms, and she shudders lightly.
A pause, then his hands tighten, one under her chin and the other on her arm, holding her still. She feels him exhale against her skin, then a sharp pain that is gone quickly.
Light suction at the crook of her neck has her eyes drifting closed, a quiet moan escaping her. Her hand clenches around his knee; Warmth rushes through her, unbidden, and she feels her heartbeat stutter.
He stills for a moment, and then he murmurs against her skin, “Like that, do you? You utter deviant.” He licks a broad path over the bite, then whispers in her ear, “Tell me, darling, did you lure me here hoping for something more?”
He feels so good against her, his body warm and solid against her back, his lips firm against her neck, tugging against her flesh where he sucks.
A ragged exhale escapes her, a flush of both pleasure and embarrassment spreading over her body. “I.. no. That’s not why I…” He licks at the bite in her neck and her vision goes white, her head lolling back against his shoulder as she whimpers. Holy fuck, she thinks, her head swimming. What have I gotten myself into?
He chuckles darkly against her neck. His hand smooths down her throat, palm coming to rest over her heart. “Are you sure, pet?” he whispers into her hair, inhaling deeply. “I can feel your heartbeat… I can smell your arousal. Tell me what you want from me. You’ve been generous with me, perhaps I can be… generous with you as well.” He nips the tip of her ear with his teeth, and it feels so impossibly good.
“Astarion,” she gasps, back arching indecently, pressing her shoulders into his chest as her hand flies up to fist in his hair.
He nudges her head to the other side, nipping at the unbitten side of her neck and sucking gently. Her breaths come in shallow pants and she tightens her hand in his hair to try to hold him there.
He pulls back slightly with a groan. “Tell me, Emerie. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”
Her name on his lips is a sinful thing.
I want you to devour me, she thinks, but, “Please… I want you. I just want you.” is what she whispers into the night.
“Hmm…” he hums into her neck. The hand on her chest moves to the side, palming her breast. His other hand is at her stomach, creeping below the waistband of her leggings until his palm presses hard against the apex of her thighs. “Is this where you want me, little pet?”
She whimpers her agreement. One long finger parts her, pressing firmly into the little bundle of nerves and sending pleasure coursing through her body. His other hand comes back up around her throat, tipping her head back to the other side. He bites back down into the marks he made earlier, drawing a strangled groan from her. At the same time, he rubs firm circles into her clit. She shudders against him.
The firm tug of his mouth against her neck and the sinful feel of his hand down below has her gasping and whimpering, her hips thrusting shallowly, trying to chase the pleasure he so easily coaxes from her body. Just when she thinks it can’t get any better, his fingers slide lower, swirling inside her. She spirals further into bliss and her whimpers turn to moans, and the hand at her throat sneaks up to cover her mouth firmly.
A wild urge breaks through the pleasure and she licks it.
His hand stills, and his mouth breaks free from her neck. “Did you just…?” He laughs, sounding genuinely delighted. “Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
His hands leave her. Frustrated, her hips rise to chase after them. “Get up,” he demands, “and take off your clothes.”
Uncertainly, Emerie rises to her knees and looks over her shoulder at him. His gaze is dark, his eyes hooded.
“Go on,” he encourages, eyes sparkling with hunger and devilish amusement.
She stands, turning fully to face him. Heart pounding, she tugs her shirt over her head and lets it drop to the ground. His eyes never leave hers, and her hands reach down to tug down her leggings and underthings. She steps out of them, now bare to his gaze.
“Now lie down.”
She hesitates, but she’s still impossibly aroused, so she lays down onto her bedroll, waiting.
His eyes rove over her slowly as he rises to his knees, stripping off his shirt as he goes. In a moment, he’s over her, pale chest and shoulders bare to her gaze as one of his knees presses up between her legs, the delicious friction making her moan again. She reaches a hand up to cup his cheek.
Something in his gaze flickers as he looks down at her, his forearms bracketing her head. He looks strangely vulnerable for a moment, but then his head dips and he’s kissing her.
His lips caress hers expertly, sinfully, artfully. She brings her free hand to the back of his head, tangling into his hair. Her back arches, hips grinding against his knee and she makes a helpless noise into his mouth.
He breaks away from her mouth and puts his mouth against her ear to whisper, “Gods, you’re beautiful. All laid out for me like a pretty. Little. Feast.”
She arches hard against him with a gasp, pressing her chest into his. He kisses her again, licking into her mouth sinfully and then he’s gone.
He sits up again, tugging at the laces of his pants to free himself. Her mouth goes dry at the sight of him stroking his length once, twice, and then he’s fitting himself between her thighs.
His eyes are shuttered as he watches himself press barely into her. Her breath stutters as he lifts her thighs, pushing her knees up. Then he slams inside.
And oh, the stretch of him inside her is divine.
He pauses for a moment, letting her get used to him, and then he pulls out a little and rams back in.
He fucks her into the ground hard, relentless. She spirals into white-hot pleasure, gasping and canting her hips up into his.
When he presses a firm finger into her clit, she comes apart around him with a strangled gasp.
He doesn’t stop, bending over her as he fucks her through her climax and bites into her neck again, sending another pulse of pleasure through her and sending her spiraling again.
He groans as her blood fills his mouth, his hips stuttering. Then he presses into her hard and stays there, muscles tensing and releasing as he comes inside her.
They both lay there panting for a moment, and then he licks her neck clean and sits up, pulling out of her. He tucks himself back into his pants, giving her a roguish grin. “Delicious.” He grabs his shirt and tugs it over his head, leaving her feeling more than a little exposed.
But then he grabs the blanket off the floor and covers her with it before he goes to duck out of her tent. “See you tomorrow, darling.” he tosses back at her, lifting the flap.
She feels oddly bereft. “Astarion?” He pauses, looking over his shoulder to meet her eyes. “Thank you.” she says, vulnerably.
His eyes flicker with an unnamed emotion as they search hers for a moment. “My pleasure, darling.” He says, quietly, before ducking fully out of her tent and walking away.
Emerie stares up at the ceiling of her tent for a long time. Silent, relieved tears leak from her eyes, and she rubs her hands over her face roughly to wipe them away.
When she finally sleeps, for once she doesn’t dream.
Notes:
I know the tags say *eventual* smut, but it just kind of happened.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Slight trigger warning, for those of us with trauma histories- this does start to deal a *little* more with different ways people deal/react to trauma.
Chapter Text
They hear the goblins before they reach the crumbling walls of the village. Emerie and Shadowheart are wary. Astarion wants to avoid the situation entirely. Gale, Wyll, and Karlach decide to walk in and attempt to talk to the brutes. This has the unfortunate result of the six of them being grouped up when the goblins decide to start shooting from the rooftops.
“Let’s try to be friendly. How could that go wrong?” Astarion mocks under his breath before their party splits into pairs, Karlach and Wyll going one direction, Emerie and Astarion the other, and Gale and Shadowheart casting protective spells from just inside the gate.
Astarion is a blur ahead of Emerie, climbing up a ladder and onto a roof before she’s even made it a few steps. She follows him, looking up just in time to see him toss one of the goblins off the roof. The goblin lands with a sickening thud and is still. She sees Karlach climbing a ladder across from her, Wyll close behind. The wall under her own ladder trembles as Shadowheart and Gale throw spells at another goblin inside the building.
Then she’s on the roof, where the other goblin on top of their building is blocking Astarion’s knife clumsily with its bow. The goblin doesn’t stand a chance when Emerie swings her sword at it, knocking it down. Astarion finishes it with a flourishing cut to the throat. He bows at Emerie, almost mocking, before they both turn to assess the situation below.
Karlach and Wyll have the two goblins on the other roof on the run. They won’t make it far, she knows. Shadowheart and Gale are hurling fireballs at three goblins closing in on them on the ground, but they miss several times, just barely keeping the goblins back. One raises a crossbow to shoot, but Astarion is faster, already shooting an arrow through its skull.
Emerie raises her crossbow, shooting a bolt at one of the remaining goblins. Astarion, Shadowheart, and Gale fell another goblin while she reloads, and she finishes her own goblin with her second shot.
Karlach waves and gives a thumbs up from the other roof, and Emerie breathes a sigh of relief. She turns to look at her companion, who is already kneeling to search the body on the roof for valuables.
“Looks like they ransacked the place,” he declares, searching a pouch of coins he’s produced from the dead goblin’s belt. He shows her the small pile of gold and jewelry inside the pouch. It’s definitely not goblin jewelry, given the amount of gold and gems and lack of bones.
He stands and ties the pouch shut, then turns and gracefully drops through the hole in the roof into the building below. Emerie sheathes her sword and sits to scoot over the edge of the hole and drops into the room with him.
Astarion’s face is scrunched up in disgust as he contemplates the burned goblin corpse in the window, still smoking. The smell is horrendous. “I think we will skip searching that one,” he says disdainfully.
“I think that’s reasonable,” Emerie laughs lightly. She looks around for an exit, finding a door that leads to a ruined room with the remains of a staircase. She picks her way down, Astarion following, and pushes her way through the rubble blocking the door to emerge in the courtyard.
The others are congregated in what’s left of the building across the way. “It’s a book about alchemical solutions,” Gale can be heard saying, “Could be useful, if we had the time and equipment to make any of these potions, anyway.”
Astarion and Emerie make their way across the courtyard together to join the others in the alchemy shop. Ingredients and pages lie scattered across the room and surfaces, as well as broken bottles and a few intact signs.
Picking through the wreckage, Shadowheart finds a few healing potions still intact, and Karlach steps on what appears to be a hatch to the cellar that creaks alarmingly.
“HOOZ ‘ERE?!” They hear from the back of the building.
“Well, shit.” Karlach mutters.
“Housekeeping!” Gale calls out. Everyone else turns to him incredulously. “What?” he says quieter, shrugging.
Emerie closes her eyes and breathes deeply, praying to any god listening for strength. Shadowheart, closest to her, is shaking her head while pinching the bridge of her nose.
“What?” They hear from outside, closer now. They all draw their weapons at the same time.
The two goblins barely make it into the room before they’re dead. A flourish of a great sword from Karlach and an eldritch blast from Wyll leave the goblins in smoldering pieces.
“Well, that wasn’t any fun,” Astarion complains, sheathing his knives.
Emerie meets Shadowheart’s gaze and they both roll their eyes. “Men.” Shadowheart mutters, before going to the cellar entrance. “Shall we?”
——-
After an unfortunate incident with reanimated skeletons, the group comes to a magic mirror. When Emerie steps up to it, she can feel Astarion next to her, but he isn’t in the mirror at all. The hair on her arms raises, despite her already knowing that he’s a vampire- of course he won’t be in the mirror.
She glances at him just to be sure he’s there, and his face is stony as he stares into the talking glass.
The glass warps and a face appears in it. “Who are you?” It asks, voice ageless and genderless.
She hesitates, uncertain. “I’m Emerie.”
“I do not know that name.”
Astarion huffs next to her and then growls, “Let us through, or I’ll smash you to pieces.”
The face in the mirror-door shifts several times, looking for the face it can’t see, and then melts away, the latch clicking as the door opens.
“After you, my dear.” Astarion bows theatrically, waving her through.
Emerie shakes her head at him, but ducks into the passage past the door. “Show off.”
“If I had a voice like that, I’m sure every door would just open for me, too.” Karlach calls from the back of the group.
Emerie chokes on a laugh.
Astarion laughs, delighted. “Doors, people… what can I say? I’m irresistible.”
“Irresistibly exasperating, maybe.” Gale mutters, following them all into the large, dimly-lit cavern that is more-or-less in ruins.
A locked gate stands on the other side of the room, and Emerie strides towards it. She is almost close enough to touch it when Astarion grabs her by the arm. “It’s trapped. Watch your step.” He points to the long stone plate in front of the door, slightly raised from the surrounding stone.
“Well, that could have been unpleasant.” She says, stepping to the side as he kneels down to run his hands over the stone plate. He pries it up gently and carefully removes the trigger underneath.
He then sets his attention to the lock. Emerie peers through the bars as he works. “Looks like… a book. On an altar.”
“Creepy.” Wyll says from next to her. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Emerie just nods, but steps forward to open the gate when the lock clicks open.
“Careful, there may be more traps.” Astarion says, standing up and dusting off his knees. He looks suspiciously at the gargoyles on either side. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure there are more traps. Don’t go in there.”
Wyll makes a gesture, and a floating hand appears in front of him. “No need to go in at all.” And with a flick of his wrist, the hand goes into the small alcove and grabs the book from the altar. As soon as the book is in the air, both gargoyles start spewing fire.
Wyll carefully maneuvers the mage hand carrying the book over the spouting flames and back through the bars, dropping the book on the floor. Emerie and Astarion kneel to inspect it and Gale inches close, peering at the cover.
“That thing looks horrifying.” He observes, sounding anything but horrified.
Emerie’s skin crawls as she sees the twisted flesh that makes up the cover of the book and the agonized face at its center, frozen in a silent scream. Everything about this book screams evil.
“We should destroy it.” Wyll says, grimacing. Shadowheart nods, stepping away.
“No!” Gale says, seriously. “Give it to me, I’ll take care of it.”
“What?! And eat it?” Astarion sounds absolutely appalled. “Absolutely not. What if there’s something useful in it? We should keep it and try to figure out how to open it.”
“I can’t recommend that. Any knowledge in this book is bound to be cursed. It’s not worth it.” Gale protests grimly.
Emerie hesitates, looking between them. “We can destroy it later- if we need to. If you want to take it, Astarion, you can carry it. Just keep it in your bag.” She rubs her hands over her arms, trying to get rid of the crawling feeling. “Let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”
—-
Searching the basement of the building across the way nets them some blueprints and infernal iron from an old forge, to Karlach’s delight. Another unfortunate incident has them blowing open a wall in the forge to reveal a cave- and several giant spiders within it.
The fight with the spiders leaves them all panting, but they come out of it with a glowing gem that looks suspiciously similar to the hole in the necromancy book, to Astarion’s delight. Emerie, who got slammed to the ground by the giant spider when it leapt on her, winces several times as they trek back to the woods to make camp.
Soon enough, they have a fire going and water boiling to wash up with, and they all lounge around, exhausted. Shadowheart makes quick work of healing everyone, offering a glowing hand to Emerie that Emerie refuses with a shake of her head, knowing it won’t do any good. “Suit yourself,” the other woman says, turning to cast a healing spell on Karlach, who sighs gratefully.
The group slowly breaks up to pitch tents, wash up, and change out of their armor. The sun is starting to set when they reconvene to eat, Astarion conspicuously absent.
Emerie stretches her bare feet towards the fire, warming her toes as she chews on some stale bread. Her leggings ride up, exposing her calves and the metal cuff around her right ankle.
“What’s that?” Shadowheart asks, eyebrow raised, pointing at the cuff glinting in the firelight.
Emerie stiffens, skin flashing hot and then cold, uncomfortable. She hesitates, staring at the exposed cuff.
“It’s…” she hesitates, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “It’s an anti-magic cuff. To keep me from using magic.”
The crackling of the fire is loud in the long silence that follows.
She opens her eyes, meeting Shadowheart’s pitying stare from across the fire. That look is like poison winding through her.
But it’s Karlach whose voice almost breaks her. “A slave cuff,” Karlach says, voice low and hard.
A glance at her shows that she’s looking at Emerie with understanding. Too fucking much understanding.
“Mmmhmm.” Emerie agrees, pushing herself up to stand. “I’ll … um. I’ll see you all later.”
She has to get away. She starts to walk to her tent, but she can still hear the crackling fire and it just isn’t far enough. She veers into the forest, looking for a quiet spot to be alone.
—-
It doesn’t take him long to find her. She’s lounging under a tree, one leg bent and her head tipped back, eyes closed. She’s beautiful, even in shades of grey under the moonlight. He can’t help but admire her as he slowly moves closer. He leans against a tree trunk nearby, just watching her breathe for several minutes.
If he was a predator, she would be dead.
“I came back to camp and Gale asked if I’d seen you. Said you took off an hour ago.” She jumps, hard, at the unexpected voice.
He’s right next to her, after all.
“I’m going to put a fucking bell on you,” she grumbles viciously, standing.
He laughs at her, delighted by her surprise. “Far be it from me to question the urge to be alone, but these woods are hardly the safest place in the world. Something might try to eat you.” He taunts, licking his lips.
Interest flares in her eyes, and he watches her predatorily as she takes a step closer.
He steps into her, lowering his voice. “Or is that what you wanted?”
Heat flares in her eyes and she reaches for him, one hand trailing down his bicep as she exhales raggedly.
“Only you.” She says, quietly.
Sweet, naive thing.
He fists his hand into her hair and tugs lightly, tilting her head back as he kisses her, deep and slow.
She fucking whimpers.
He hates the way it makes him twitch.
Guilt flows through him as he thinks of the hundreds of others who fucking whimpered when he kissed them exactly. Like. This.
He tilts her head and nips at her ear, making her gasp.
He whispers, “What now, darling?” into her ear, the same way he’s whispered it a thousand times to a thousand lovers before.
Then she’s kissing him and it’s slow and sweet and a little desperate and it makes something deep in his chest ache. He can practically smell her heartbeat, she’s so worked up. He can feel the warmth he craves radiating off her skin, making him shudder with the sheer pleasure of experiencing something so alive.
It disgusts him, how he genuinely loves the feeling of being held by someone so warm.
That warmth is always his downfall. It always made the horror so visceral. Feeling the warmth of his victims under his hands, his lips, and knowing that soon it would be gone forever… and he still enjoyed feeling it, however briefly.
He hates that about himself.
Her warm palm cups his cheek and he gasps, a genuine shock of pleasure running through him.
But why shouldn’t he enjoy her? She’s not a victim. He’s only here for himself, not for Cazador.
Her hands trail down his chest and fist in his shirt as he cups her face and deepens the kiss, her small sighs of pleasure stirring some strange emotion in him.
And then she’s pulling back a little. She pushes him lightly and he blinks a little, but he steps backward. She has a mischievous glint in her eye that has him curious, so he lets her guide him until his back hits the tree.
She smiles up at him, presses a kiss to his throat, and reaches down to undo his laces.
Oh
She pauses for a moment, glancing up at him, nearly innocently. “May I?” She asks, and it’s surreal and wonderful and he really isn’t sure if he wants this at all.
But what he says is, “Of course, darling.” And then her hand is wrapped around him and he inhales sharply at the sudden warmth.
And then she’s kneeling and he can’t help the way his brain stutters for a second. She looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, her pupils blown wide with pure want and gods, but he thinks he wants, too.
Her mouth wraps around him, warm and wet and heavenly. His stomach muscles clench tight and he twitches in her mouth, groaning obscenely. “Oh, fuck.” And his hands are lightly carding through her hair, resisting the selfish urge to hold her tighter and fuck into her mouth until he cums down her pretty little throat.
The slow tug of her mouth as she pulls back is like being drunk.
And the bob of her head back down is like falling.
"You look so pretty with your mouth around my cock, darling." He manages to say, but just barely.
She sets a rhythm with her hand and her mouth that is so fucking good and oh gods he’s a gasping mess, fingers spasming in her hair as she sucks on him and moans once like he’s the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted.
“Darling… fuck… ” Astarion groans, “you’re going to have to…” he trails off as she licks around his tip and suckles at it lightly, “ stop, if you want to do anything else.”
Emerie removes her mouth from him, tilting her head as she looks up at him from beneath her lashes, a mischievous grin on her face. “But I’m enjoying this.” She takes him back in her mouth and into her throat and swallows.
Gods.
His head tips back against the tree, his eyes falling shut. He thrusts shallowly against her mouth and she moans, soft and sweet and altogether too willing to please him.
His whole body feels warm. His hands grasp her head lightly as he thrusts a little harder into her mouth, but she doesn’t pull back at all and he lets himself go.
One, two, three hard thrusts into her throat and he moans long and low as he cums in spurts. She swallows around him and his vision goes white behind his eyelids.
When he remembers himself, he lets go of her head, digging his fingers into the tree trunk behind him as she carefully licks him clean.
She carefully tucks him back into his pants and he feels her stand. Her face nuzzles into his chest and she curls her hands into his shirt, and the warm weight of her against him is as soothing as it is unsettling. He looks down at the top of her head and wraps his arms around her lightly. “That was wonderful, darling. Perhaps I could return the favor?”
A pause. Then, softly, “Maybe another time, my love. This was just for you.” She nuzzles into his chest one final time before pulling back. He lets her go, reeling a little.
He can’t remember the last time he took pleasure just for himself.
He’s not entirely sure he ever has.
“I… thank you.” He manages, reaching down to lace himself back up. He glances at her, and she has a small smile on her face.
Emerie rests her hand on his shoulder and stands on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for coming to find me.”
And then she’s turning, walking away, and he’s struck by the sudden realization that he has no idea what he’s doing at all.
It’s terrifying.
He sinks down, sitting against the tree and closes his eyes.
He stays there for a long time.
—-
Whispers seem to carry among the rustling in the leaves of the trees as Emerie heads back to camp. She feels better, somehow, after what she did with Astarion. The freedom to do as she pleases with who she pleases is still new and sweet, and she revels in it.
When she heads into camp, she sees Karlach and Wyll around the fire, presumably keeping watch. It looks like Gale and Shadowheart have turned in for the night.
Emerie feels a slight touch of shame, meeting Karlach’s eyes, but she shakes it off and goes to sit next to her, lounging against one of the logs they’ve found to use as seats.
“Hey, soldier.” Karlach greets, leaning back on her hands. “Feeling a little better?”
Emerie nods, turning her head to meet the fiery tiefling’s gaze. “Yeah. I just…” she trails off for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I’m free of them, but I still have the cuff, you know? And it can’t just be removed.” She glances down at her leggings, which cover the hated piece of metal. The ones they used for druids to prevent them from using wild shape were welded shut around the ankle with magic and then engraved with anti-magic runes while the wearer slept- usually drugged or knocked out. The only way to remove them is to cut off the limb or to heat the cuff enough to melt it. Both sound incredibly painful. Emerie shudders, considering it.
“I know what you mean,” Karlach says, softly.
From across the fire, Wyll chimes in. “My situation isn’t quite the same, but I also understand.” His eyes are warm and kind when they meet hers. “We do what we must with the cards we are dealt.”
Something bittersweet takes its place in Emerie’s chest. As much as she was a victim of being controlled and used by others, so too are Wyll, Karlach, and Astarion. Tears well up in her eyes, unbidden.
She almost prefers feeling alone. It aches, thinking they’ve felt the same rage and shame and despair she has felt.
“Gods, I wish I could hug you.” Karlach offers, smiling a little sadly. “It’s gonna be alright, you know. We have each other now.”
Emerie laughs lightly, and it’s a wet sound through her tears, but she smiles at Karlach nonetheless. “We do have each other. And we aren’t a group to be messed with.”
“Here, here.” Wyll says, raising an imaginary glass in a mock toast.
Emerie feels a small spark of real joy in her, for the first time in a very long time.
Chapter Text
A stray thought has her ripping a page out of her “sketchbook” and scrawling a quick note on it to leave in Astarion’s tent. “Come find me if you’re hungry -Emerie.” She leaves the note on top of his bedroll, then goes to her own tent to sleep.
She’s pilfered an extra bedroll and blanket for cushioning, her bruising from the spiders making it difficult to find a comfortable position on the hard ground. Mercifully, she’s too tired for it to matter much and she drifts into a deep sleep.
She’s still in a sleepy haze when she wakes up to a sharp pinch in her neck and a solid weight against her back. She reaches over her shoulder a little clumsily to tangle in Astarion’s curls, whispering a sleepy, “Hi.”
The bite eases to cold numbness, but she can still feel him hum a wordless greeting into her skin. She lets go of him, settling back into a more comfortable position and drifting back to sleep.
She’s not sure how long it’s been when she feels him move to get up, waking her. She shifts, rolling onto her back to look up at him in the dark. He freezes on one knee, poised to get up. “You can stay, you know.” She offers, sleepily. “Sleep here, I mean. If you wanted to.”
His eyes rake over her in surprise before his expression settles into something a little more typical for him- slightly debauched and performative. He raises a pale eyebrow at her. “I hardly think sleeping is what we would be doing if I stayed. Goodnight, darling.”
He’s gone in a moment and she drifts back to sleep.
—-
The day dawns overcast, and Emerie is stiff and still a little tired when she emerges from her tent to Gale cooking some kind of meat on the fire. He greets her with a jovial, “Good morning!” prompting an eye roll from Shadowheart, who is lounging against the log by the fire with half-lidded eyes.
Not a morning person, Shadowheart.
Nonetheless, the other woman holds up a small bottle of red liquid to Emerie. “Here. It’s not as effective as healing spell, but it should at least help. Took a while to find in all the other supplies, but we managed.”
Emerie takes the bottle from her carefully and sinks to the ground next to her. It glitters a little in the early morning light, a deep red that has Emerie suddenly thinking about the eyes of a certain vampire.
“Thank you. I didn’t even think about it, but this is such a good idea.” She uncorks the bottle and downs it in a gulp. She instantly feels a little more alert and her aches are definitely lessened. She sighs appreciatively, leaning back harder against the log.
“I have nothing but good ideas, thank you.” Shadowheart says, primly. The effect is a little ruined by her subsequent groan. “I need coffee. When I get back to Baldur’s Gate, I’m going to drink a vat of it just to make up for the lack.”
Emerie giggles at the dramatic declaration. “We could go take a dip in the stream. I hear cold water is good for energy levels.” She offers, teasingly.
Shadowheart cuts a regal and unimpressed look in her direction. “Absolutely not.” she says, scathingly. “And to think, I was even being nice to you this morning.”
Emerie laughs again, and the other woman rewards her with a small smile.
Gale removes the pan he’s cooking on from the fire and sets it on a stone. “It’s hardly coffee, but we do have breakfast. Chicken, and I even managed to find some seasonings in those dilapidated ruins yesterday.”
He spoons some of the meat onto plates that already have some old bread on them. “Enjoy!”
Emerie is almost done with her food when she hears muttering coming from the general direction of Astarion’s tent behind her. Gale looks past her with both eyebrows raised, and Shadowheart turns her head to look over her shoulder before shrugging, a decidedly unconcerned look settling on her face.
The muttering gets louder, and is decidedly Astarion’s voice. Emerie sets down her plate, glancing over his shoulder. She can see a strange glow from inside his tent. “I’m gonna…”
“Go see what that is? Good idea. Scream if you need help.” Gale says, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
Emerie gets up and brushes off her clothes before walking to Astarion’s tent. When she’s close, she can make out the words, “No! I’m not going to kill them. Ugh!” and the slam of a book. The light emanating from the tent disappears at the same time as the slam.She hesitates for a moment, debating the merits of turning around and walking away, then steels herself and ducks inside the tent.
Astarion is sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The necromancy book sits closed in his lap.
“Hello.” Astarion offers with a huff, eyes opening to fix her with a baleful stare.
“Good morning.” Emerie says carefully, studying him. He looks fine, if a little drawn. “Who aren’t we killing?”
He glares down at the book. “Nobody. It’s the book. It… talks. Sort of. In your head.”
Emerie raises an eyebrow. “And it tells you to kill people?”
“More or less. Among other things. It seems to read you as much as you read it.”
“And it read that you want to kill people?”
Astarion huffs a long-suffering breath and mutters something that she’s sure is unflattering to someone, but she can’t hear it. He settles his glare on her. “Are you truly surprised that I have murderous urges, dear? Are you really that naive?” He rolls his eyes. “Besides, if you were listening, I said I wouldn’t be killing anyone, thank you. At least, not anyone here. I’m definitely up for more killing in general, I suppose.”
Emerie blinks a few times, then huffs a surprised laugh. “I can’t tell if that’s comforting or concerning or what.”
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Take it as you will, darling. It hardly matters to me.”
Emerie shakes her head at him. “Maybe don’t try to read the book again. Or at least… don’t read it alone.”
“What, are you going to tackle me if I decide to go on a killing spree?” He looks her up and down with a scoff.
Emerie rolls her eyes. “No, but I can scream really loudly and at least warn the others.”
“I’m insulted that you think you would even have the chance.”
Emerie takes a chance, going for sincerity. “Honestly, I just doubt you would kill me. You’ve had too many chances to. So if anyone is going to try to calm whatever murderous urges you’re suppressing, it should probably be me.
He rolls his eyes at her, putting the book to the side and standing up, waving her out of his tent. “You have abysmal survival instincts, dear. It’s honestly disturbing. Now go, so I can dress for whatever horrors the world has in store for us today.”
—-
It rains most of the day.
They give up on making any actual progress after a while, finding a somewhat dry cave to make camp in, pitching tents near each other within the shelter of the roof. Gale manages a smokeless fire for a while, which they use to dry their clothes and warm up.
Emerie spends a few hours drawing inside her tent, listening to her companions chat outside. She arranges her blankets and cloak around her to keep her warm and eventually opts to sleep, hoping it will at least be dryer when she wakes.
—-
He is disgustingly cold- underground dungeon in winter cold. The brief fire the wizard managed helped, but the little body heat he had managed to maintain with feeding and sunshine has depleted. It isn’t actually a problem. Cold, to a vampire, is generally normal. Vampires can freeze, but it has to be much colder than this. Unfortunately, Astarion has spent so much time being warm over the last few weeks that he’s gotten used to the feeling.
He listens to the rain dripping into puddles outside the cave and sniffs. He’s certainly not hunting in this weather, even if the blood would warm him. And he’s not going to stoop to begging the wizard to make another fire.
Flipping a page in the novel he… acquired… in the grove, Astarion idly wonders if Emerie’s offer of blood from the night before is still good.
He ignores the urge to go find out for a while.
Eventually, he decides to sleep, but it’s fitful and full of memories of cold and hunger, and he wakes in the dark of night. He can hear the rain pouring outside, harder than it was when he fell asleep. He blinks up at the roof of his tent and scrubs his hands over his face.
He’s hardly had the thought to go to her when he’s already halfway there. He ducks into her tent silently, spying her curled on her side in a nest of blankets on the ground.
He tilts his head, considering the logistics. He’s fairly quiet, but even he knows she’s going to wake when he shifts those blankets.
But he can hear her heartbeat from here and he knows how warm she is, intimately. It’s like a siren’s call to his cold blood.
He kneels down behind her, lifting the blankets to slide in along her back. She murmurs sleepily.
“Shhhh.” He whispers into her hair.
She shifts against him with a sigh as he settles his head on the blanket she’s rolled up into a pillow. He tucks himself around her, reveling in the warmth that seeps into him from every point of contact with her body.
“I was hoping you’d come.” She confesses into the night, and it’s so ridiculous that he just huffs a laugh.
“Go back to sleep.” He pulls her hair away from her neck, contemplating the bite marks already there. It sends a small thrill through him to think that he’s marked her as his in this small way, no matter that he doesn’t particularly plan to keep her.
He bites into her neck and she flinches for a second and then relaxes against him. Warm blood pools into his mouth and it does as much to warm him as her body heat does, heat flowing through him in waves as he gently sucks to keep it flowing.
He lets her blood fill his mouth a few times and then swallows, but stops himself at that. He licks the wound clean and then settles down behind her to at least soak up as much of her heat as he can, if not sleep.
He stiffens when he feels her reach behind her to grasp his hand. She pulls it over her stomach with a sigh and threads her fingers through his.
It’s… almost… nice.
Chapter Text
The blood loss may be a problem
Two nights in a row of Astarion feeding on her has Emerie fighting the periodic spinning in her head. She can feel her heart beating hard in her chest. It seems to be working double-time to make up for the missing blood.
It’s a shame, really, because she had slept so well.
Of course, she reflects dizzily while trying to hide exactly how much she is struggling, that may also have been the blood loss.
She rather suspects it has more to do with how problematically comforting she finds a certain pale elf.
Vampire.
She’s like a mouse that has bonded with the barn cat.
And, like that mouse, she’s safe as long as she amuses him.
She can’t find it in her to care.
If he does destroy her, at least it’s a destruction she has chosen.
—-
“Here. I had to dig through the bag of holding for this, but you look like you need it.”
Emerie is sitting cross-legged with her forehead pressed into her hands and elbows resting on her knees. She blearily looks up at Wyll, who is holding out a healing potion. She takes it, embarrassed. “Thank you.”
He cracks a smile. “Of course. You’d do the same for me.” He bends to sprawl out next to her, leaning back on his hands with a leg extended.
Emerie downs the potion, then drops her head back into her hands as it takes effect. She feels a marginal amount of improvement already.
“The food should help, too. Whenever it’s finished,” Wyll says.
“Mmhmm.” Emerie agrees, dropping her left hand so she can turn to look at him. “Thank goodness Gale can cook. We’d be in trouble if I had to do it.”
Wyll laughs heartily. “I can cook enough to keep myself fed, but I admit I am also terrible at it.”
She cracks a smile. “I used to be able to make a good stew. It’s been a long time, though. I’m not sure I even remember how to start.”
“Well I certainly can’t cook, but I admittedly like my meals a little raw.” Astarion’s drawling voice comes from behind them. Emerie sees Wyll jump and she can’t help how her smile broadens.
“Hells. You startled me.” Wyll says, looking over his shoulder. Astarion picks his way between the two of them and plops down, mirroring Wyll’s posture.
His gaze rakes over Emerie and he arches an eyebrow at the empty potion bottle. “Are you okay?”
“Just a little dizzy. I probably just need to eat.”
He gives her a wickedly amused look. “I would swoon too if it would get the Blade of Frontiers to dote on me.”
Emerie feels herself flush as Wyll lets out a deep chuckle and says, “You could always ask, my friend, if you’re feeling left out.”
Astarion flutters his eyelashes at Wyll. “Oh, really?” He leans back further on his hands and wiggles his shoulders a little, suggestively. “I’m flattered. Who knew you had such taste.”
Wyll laughs warmly. “Given the sounds I heard a few nights ago, I think I may not be your type.” He winks at Emerie, who feels her face flame.
She groans and buried her face in her hands, beyond embarrassed.
“Everyone is my type, darling. But you’re right, I wouldn’t want to make anyone jealous.”
It’s fairly clear by his tone that he would love nothing more than making everyone jealous.
Emerie drops her hands to glare at him playfully. “You have an inflated opinion of yourself, if you think I care enough to be jealous.” She glances between them and raises a suggestive eyebrow. “And I would hate to get in the way of your dreams, darling.”
Astarion smirks at her. “Definitely jealous.”
Wyll reaches over to clap Astarion on the shoulder. “You play a dangerous game.”
“Oh, I think my friend the Blade of Frontiers can protect me from a little half-elf, don’t you?” Astarion says, wickedly amused.
Emerie chucks the empty potion bottle at him and it bounces off his arm.
Astarion tuts. “Such violence, my dear. It’s unbecoming.” He cuts his eyes to Wyll with a long-suffering sigh. “Do you see what I have to deal with?”
The sudden appearance of a man between them and the fire has them all scrambling to stand.
—-
The revelation that they have a devil paying attention to them has a dampening effect on the spirits of the group. When Raphael returns them from the House of Hope, they eat lunch and get on the road. It suddenly feels even more urgent to find this druid Halsin and try to enlist his help to sort out the parasite situation.
It doesn’t bode well, in Astarion’s opinion, that a powerful devil has implied that their search for assistance will be in vain.
Of course, that could just be a manipulation tactic on Raphael’s part.
He isn’t sure if it’s the situation, the tadpole, or the lingering smell of sulfur, but something is giving him a headache.
The smell, that is not quite sulfur gets more powerful with every step. His instincts kick in, and Astarion slows down enough to let Emerie catch up to him so he can discreetly grab her wrist. She shoots him a questioning look, but slows a little while the rest of the group continues ahead.
“Something is off,” Astarion says quietly. “I don’t know what it is, but something smells wrong.”
She searches his eyes, then glances ahead at the group getting further away. “I don’t smell anything.”
“I’m telling you, something is wrong.” For some reason, it’s vital that she believes him.
She searches his face again, then pulls her arm out of his grip gently before nodding. “Okay. Let’s catch up to the others.”
They’re drawing even with the group when the gur steps into the path, greeting them with a “Hello, there!”
“Hello! What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Gale asks from up ahead.
Astarion can pick out the individual smells now- garlic and iron-vine. The ache in his head deepens, and his stomach sinks. A monster-hunter.
“Well-met! Apologies for the smell- it’s an old hunter’s trick. Powdered iron-vine, to repel monsters. I’m hunting one, at the moment. A vampire spawn.”
“A vampire spawn?!" Karlach says loudly, her feigned shock sounding close to genuine. Enough to fool the gur, at least.
“Yes, a dangerous one. He goes by the name Astarion. You’re safe for now, in the sun, but be careful come nightfall. My sources say he’s near this area.”
Of course they do.
If his heart could beat, Astarion is sure it would be racing. How anyone would know he’s here, of all places, is beyond him.
Wyll laughs, “Well, we will keep that in mind. Maybe we will find a house to spend the night in, for safety.”
The Hunter nods seriously. “A wise choice.”
Emerie, beside him, breaks in. “This spawn- what will you do when you find him? Will you kill him?”
Astarion fights to keep his face neutral. What in the hells is she doing?
The gur meets her gaze. “My orders are to capture him and take him back to Baldur’s Gate.”
Astarion wants to retch.
Cazador.
Of course.
The irony of the monster-Hunter hunting him on behalf of the biggest monster Astarion has ever known isn’t lost on him.
Emerie looks the Hunter up and down skeptically. “All by yourself? If he’s as powerful as you say, surely you can’t expect to take him alive by yourself.” Oh, clever girl.
The Hunter laughs. “I have experience with his kind. I’m hoping to enlist some help from a witch who lives nearby. She may have some helpful tricks I can use to gain the upper hand.”
“Oh, of course. Forgive me,” Emerie says, so sincerely that Astarion is impressed. “I was just worried that you might be overcome on your own.”
Shadowheart interrupts then. “Can we go? My feet are tired, and if we are going to get anywhere by nightfall, we should get moving. I, for one, do not want to spend the evening in the mud.”
“Oh, of course.” The man bows a little and waves them on. He continues down the road in the other direction.
The smell is finally gone when Gale says, “Well, that was nerve-wracking. What did you do?”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Nothing. Except get kidnapped by mindflayers. Cazador must have sent him to fetch me back.” And what a terrifying thought that is. He repressed the urge to shudder.
“Well, at least he has no idea what he’s looking for.” Karlach muses, “He had you right under his nose and didn’t even blink.”
“Yes, how fortunate,” Astarion drawls. “He won’t be the only one, however. Cazador has an endless supply of lackeys and slaves to do his bidding.” Including him, if it weren’t for the parasite.
Hells, how could he have been so stupid as to think Cazador wouldn’t find a way to track him down. Cazador is a possessive bastard. The last time he tried running had ended with a year locked up.
“Let’s find somewhere to camp. There’s got to be somewhere out of the way we can find.” Emerie chimes in.
They move on, looking for a suitable spot. Astarion lags slightly behind the rest, brooding. He is unsettled by how quickly the entire group decided to lie for him. It should be satisfying that they seem to value him enough to do so, but he isn’t sure why they bothered. He’s hardly the most valuable asset they have.
It’s a little while before it really registers that Emerie has stayed within a hands-breadth of him.
It’s annoying, really, how she seems to think he needs her near. Like she can protect him.
Her hand brushes against his lightly, and it nearly sets him off.
Naive thing. What good would she do, if Cazador finds them. He would snap her neck in two in an instant.
If she was lucky.
If she wasn’t, well…
He shudders.
She is delicious. And she’s only the second of Astarion’s lovers to not be a meal for Cazador. Cazador would relish in destroying her.
Maybe it would be worth making a deal with the devil in order to destroy Cazador. What use is his soul if Cazador controls him, anyway?
—-
Emerie is drawing by candlelight when he stumbles into her tent.
He stops himself from falling- barely- and… giggles?
“Are you drunk?” she asks, bemused.
“Not drunk. I have drunk. A bear.” He plops down ungracefully next to her. “I feel drunk, though. A whole bear may be a little too much blood.”
She blinks at him stupidly, processing. She opens her mouth to ask him a question, but he continues- “It’s more than enough to sustain me, though. And it’s a marked improvement over the flies and rats Cazador would feed me.” His face wrinkles in disgust. Her mind goes blank and she stares at him with horror.
He’s not paying attention, though. “So I won’t need to feed on you, at least as long as I can hunt.” He glances sideways at her.
She blinks. “Flies…? What?”
“Are you really surprised? That’s what people with power do. They use it, and they abuse it.”
She grimly thinks of the slavers’ cuff around her ankle. “You have a point.”
He leans back on his elbows and tilts his head back to stare up at her. He’s incredibly pretty, with the candlelight flickering across his face and reflecting off the deep red of his eyes. He has a cut on his cheek.
Emerie sets the book aside and turns towards him. She cups his cheek and carefully runs her thumb over the dried blood on his face. “What happened?”
He blinks up at her. “The bear.”
She leans down and kisses the cut. “A dangerous meal.”
His eyes are hypnotic as they flick between hers, and she sees him glance down at her lips, but he doesn’t move.
She leans over to ghost her lips over his, softly, a question.
One of his hands comes up to curl around her neck lightly, encouraging her to lean over him.
His lips are the softest thing she’s ever known.
She plants a hand on the other side of his head and her hair falls over them like a curtain as she presses another soft kiss into his lips. He exhales softly, and she pulls back slightly to look at him. His eyes track her movements drowsily, but his hand stays lightly on her neck and she takes that as an invitation.
She kisses his nose, his cheek, the skin under his ears, and he sighs softly. She trails her lips down his pale neck, where she lightly nips him, then back to his mouth.
He kisses her back languidly, and it’s a sweet, drugging feeling that has her melting into him.
After long moments, she breaks the kiss to set her forehead against his with a sigh. The tips of their noses touch, and she can feel his breath against her lips when he asks, roughly, “What do you want?”
She considers for a moment, pulling back to meet his eyes. He looks… tired. Impassive.
So she crinkles her nose at him. “Sleep, mostly.” She sits up the rest of the way. “You can stay, if you want to.” Then, mischievously, “I’ll protect you from the big scary vampire spawn in the woods.”
Astarion snorts, sitting up. “If you wanted a cuddle, you could just ask for it. No need to be insulting.”
Emerie feigns innocence. “I would never. I’m sure any vampires in these woods are very… scary.”
“Ha. Ha.” He cuts her an unamused look. “I’ll stay, but only because someone in this tent needs to have survival instincts.”
Notes:
The proverbial calm before the storm.
The summary and tags are updated as of right now. <3
Chapter Text
They’re drinking and laughing and swapping stories around the campfire when it all starts to go wrong.
Karlach and Wyll are particularly amusing storytellers. Karlach has them all in stitches over an unfortunate tale of her accidentally burning down a bunch of tents due to her nocturnal activities when Astarion turns to her.
“So, since we’re all sharing, how does a half-elf end up in Calimport? What did you do there?”
Emerie’s smile vanishes, and the overall mood shifts quickly. She realizes suddenly that Astarion, who she has shared herself with in the most intimate way, had missed the revelation of her history as a slave.
She hadn’t exactly volunteered the information either.
Mouth dry, she takes a swig of wine from her bottle. “Well, I grew up in Waterdeep with my mother. I was a teen when I felt the Lady of the Forest calling me, so I left. I ended up in a Druid circle for several years.” She stares into the fire grimly. “I went back to Waterdeep to see my mother, but I stumbled across some slavers catching ‘exotics’ on the way. Elves and half-elves are incredibly rare in the desert, since we tend to love trees and water.
“They must have used an airship or something because it didn’t take long at all to get to Calimport. I was sold, and that was more or less that.”
Silence reigns for long enough that Emerie shifts uncomfortably.
“To think we grew up in the same place but never met,” Gale muses. “If we had known each other, perhaps my goddess might have stepped in.”
Emerie looks up to see Shadowheart with her eyes closed, looking pained. She giggles at the sight. “Gale, that’s sweet, but how old do you think I am?”
He blinks, looking flustered. “One must never guess a lady’s age. It’s hardly good manners.”
Amused, Emerie leans in. “Well, I might not look it, but I’m a half-elf Druid. Suffice to say, I’m a little older than you are.” Karlach and Wyll chuckle at this.
Gale blushes, making Emerie laugh as well.
Shadowheart yawns and stretches dramatically, showing off her lithe figure. “Well, that’s the mood ruined for me,” she says loftily. “I’m going to turn in.” She stands and makes her way to her tent with a little wave.
Emerie, slightly tipsy, decides that the other woman has the right idea. She stands with a groan. “I think I’m going to hit the hay as well. Goodnight!”
Inside her tent, she throws herself back onto her bedroll and lets out a heavy breath. She stares up at the roof of her tent, unseeing.
She’s never actually had to tell her story before.
She’s never really had anyone to tell it to, either.
Which, honestly, may be for the best.
It was painful to recount just the barest details of her descent into slavery. The rest of the story, the gory details and misfortunes… she’s not sure she will ever be able to share those.
Not that she thinks the others will judge. They’ve been incredibly accepting of each other, all things considered. They all have a past, and she doesn’t think that they would hold hers against her.
She doesn’t particularly want to relive it, however. Thankfully, it’s unlikely that anyone will ask her about the specifics of the exotic slave trade.
It could have been minutes or hours later when Astarion ducks into her tent. She watches him take up a seat against the crate that serves as her table, but she doesn’t greet him. She waits, silently, for him to say something.
“I’m sorry for putting you on the spot. I had no idea.” His voice is quiet.
Emerie sighs. “It’s not a secret. It’s fine.”
He tilts his head, considering her for long moments. “I just don’t understand. All the power that druids channel, shape-shifting and the like, and they managed to keep you anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Slavers have their ways.” She tugs her leggings up, exposing her ankle and the cuff on it. “Anti-magic.”
“Ah.” He leans forward to inspect the seamless band of metal. “That’s genius, really. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Emerie hums noncommittally and lets her eyes close. Genius isn’t the word she would choose. Cruel, maybe, but not genius.
“So how long were you a slave?”
“I’m not sure of the exact number, but at least fifteen years.” Then, mischievously, “I may have exaggerated my age a bit to Gale.”
He doesn’t laugh.
A pause, and then- “So you could have, in theory, escaped, maybe cut off your foot to remove the cuff, and then had someone heal it.”
Her eyes pop open and she sits up, staring at him incredulously. “Sure, in theory. It’s not like it was the only way they kept people captive, though. It was a layer of security.”
He looks her over, face tight and eyes sharp. “I’m just saying, I would have gnawed my own leg off. I would have spent every moment trying to escape. A little lack of magic wouldn’t have stopped me.”
She feels her face heat, rage curling in her gut. He can’t possibly be serious. “Do you really think I never tried to escape…?” she says, voice dripping with disdain. “Slaves are such a huge part of Calimshan, there are slave catchers everywhere. And elves and half-elves stand out.”
He casts an unimpressed glance over her. “Fifteen years, and you never managed it?” He makes a derisive noise, and she sees red.
Un-fucking-believable.
“Well, the first time I tried, they caught me in an hour, whipped me, and locked me in the stocks for three days.”
He straightens, glaring at her. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? The first time I ran, Cazador sent dozens of spawn after me. When they caught me, he locked me up in a tomb, alone, starving, for an entire year. A year of silence, scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out- wishing for death.”
Horror wars with the rage simmering in her, but she has no idea what he wants from her. “I’m sorry that happened to you, but why are you angry with me?”
He laughs, and it’s a cold and humorless thing that does nothing to soften the rage in his eyes. “I realized something, after you left. Exotic slave. A pretty face with only one skill.” Irreverent and cruel, his eyes trace her form. “I’ve been wondering for days now how incredibly naive you could be to offer yourself up to me as a snack. To let me in your bed.
“But then, you were so genuine-“ the drawled word drips with disdain, “I thought that maybe you, misguided thing that you are, actually cared. I should have realized it was an act.”
Her heart is pounding, rage and humiliation burning in her gut. She can’t even blink. Her brain can’t make heads or tails of this pure hatred on the same face she went to bed with last night.
He continues, “That was my plan after all. Seduce you, make you think that I cared, get you on my side, just in case. You seemed like the easiest target. It should have occurred to me that you might be doing the same.”
Her mouth drops open. “Get. Out.” She hisses, glaring daggers at him.
He stands and brushes himself off nonchalantly. “Struck a nerve, did I?” He ducks out of the tent as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
She’s furious, confused, and horrified in equal measure. She flops back into her bedroll, humiliated tears leaking from her eyes unbidden.
The worst part, she thinks, is that he’s giving her far more credit than she deserves. There was no plan, no manipulation, no grand deception in her. She was naive.
Notes:
I can't lie, this hurt to write and I do not feel good about it at all. T.T But this was the plan from the beginning and I'm hoping to make it worth it.
Chapter 7
Notes:
This one stressed me out for some reason, but here we go
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His anger is a cold thing that carries him through a sleepless night. The thought that he’s been manipulated- and so easily- is a humiliation he hadn’t been prepared for.
She’d played his game, and played it better than him.
He is an expert at flirtation and seduction. It’s an art form. But what she had done was masterful. She wove seduction with kindness so effortlessly that he’d actually started to think that it was genuine.
Kindness is something he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know how to fake it, hardly knows how to recognize it. Craves it.
Like warmth.
And he hates her for the way she so obviously knows kindness. The way she must know intrinsically how it feels in order to utilize it so effectively as a weapon. He hates the way she found a weakness he didn’t even know he had and she went for the throat.
If Astarion knows anything, he knows seduction. He knows how to pitch his voice to draw people in- how to say pretty nothings and how to tailor his words to his victim. He knows how to use his body to maximum effectiveness. He’s just a pretty thing, good for only one sinister purpose.
What Emerie had done to him was a different level of cruelty.
Even in his fury, he still craved her.
—-
It’s the owlbear cub that makes him start to question everything all over again.
The goblins have captured an owlbear cub- are using it for cruel amusement. And Emerie and Karlach share a look and he knows that whatever they’re thinking, they’re thinking it together.
Then Emerie, all business, buys the damned thing.
And instead of searching for the druid, for a solution for the tadpoles, she’s carrying the little monster outside the camp like it’s some kind of enormous puppy, whispering to it the whole way while Karlach gushes about how cute it is.
He feels it, then. A shift. The damned thing- a monster, by every metric- can’t do anything for her, and yet she’s soothing it. Something in him aches a little at the realization.
—-
The day turns into an absolute bloodbath.
Emerie knew, on some level, that freeing the prisoners would set them on the path of having to fight their way out, but gods. It’s endless. Body after body of attacking goblins falls, to the bear- druid’s- claws, to spells, to swords and knives and arrows.
Her adrenaline is so high that she barely feels the slice through her leathers into the meat of her upper arm.
—-
Halsin, the huge elf-druid, doesn’t stick around for long after they relay the state of the grove to him. He wild-shapes into some kind of large bird and flies off, promising to speak with them when they return to the grove. Astarion has more than a slight suspicion that the druid doesn’t have a way to remove the parasites from their brains.
The six of them who remain find an empty wing of the ruined temple that hasn’t been touched by the carnage they’ve inflicted on the Absolute cultists. They set traps on the door, just to be sure they can rest safely. They’re all absolutely exhausted, but they set about making a fire in the hearth of the largest room and heating water to use to wash up. None of them want to sleep in the armor and clothes covered in gore. There is a hallway and some smaller rooms off the large room, presumably once the living place of some priests or priestesses of days long past.
It’s dusty, but better than sleeping outdoors.
Their packs are removed from the magical bag of holding, supplies passed around, and tentative plans made for the evening. Astarion breaks away from the group to lay claim to the farthest room, taking his things and a bucket of water with him.
The blood-stained leathers are removed and laid on the stone to be cleaned later, and he uses a rag to scrub the blood off his face and hair. Soft voices, female, filter in from nearby. He washes the rest of himself mechanically, exhausted. His old clothes, the ones he was wearing when the nautiloid snatched him up, are still the most comfortable clothing he owns for sleeping. He changes into them, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness left over from the exertions of the day.
Stepping out into the hall, he can hear Shadowheart from the open door next to his- “It’s clean, but it’s deep. It… I think it needs stitches, but I don’t know how. We were taught to heal, but non-magical methods were considered barbaric.”
Emerie’s voice has a complicated feeling settling somewhere in his stomach. “It’s fine. If we bandage it, it should hold together enough to heal, right?”
He steps into the doorway, taking in the scene quickly. Emerie is shirtless on a stool, back to the door.The Sharran cleric stands behind Emerie, bent over a bucket of water where she squeezes out a bloodied rag.
What gives him pause, creeps into his throat and stalls his voice, are the scars that crisscross Emerie’s back.
Whipping, as a term, encompasses a wide range of practices from pleasurable to brutal. He’s not quite sure what he thought she’d meant- really hadn’t considered it at all, in his fury, but the reality is laid bare for him now.
The scars mark nearly every inch of her skin, lines of raised flesh going in every direction. What’s worse, is they look layered. One will stretch the length of her back, only to be interrupted by another that crosses over it. They can’t be from a single incident. From the looks of it, these are the result of many incidents over a long time. Fifteen years, he thinks, numbly.
He clears his throat. “I know how to stitch wounds. I can do it.”
Emerie stiffens and doesn’t turn, but Shadowheart casts him a grateful look. “Thank the Lady for that. Leaving this open seems like a recipe for disaster.” She indicates the large, deep slice running most of the length of Emerie’s left upper arm.
“I’ll go find a needle and supplies.” He offers, turning away. He hears the cleric murmur something to Emerie and then her footsteps behind him.
“I’m going to see if we have anything left that might help. A potion, maybe. Or at least some alcohol.” She’s caught up to him and he can see that aside from her hands and forearms, she’s still an absolute mess.
He’s not sure where the urge come from, but some part of him has the thought that if he were her, he would like the chance to go get clean. “If you find anything, I’ll take it to her. You should change.”
He can see her cast him a lingering glance from his peripheral vision as they approach the pile of supplies that have already been extracted from the bag of holding. “Thank you.” She says, and it’s strange and uncomfortable, so he just nods.
They’re able to find sewing supplies and several bottles of wine and other questionable spirits, the least objectionable of which appears to be some kind of bourbon. Astarion gathers that bottle and the sewing supplies and heads back to Emerie’s room.
She’s still sitting on the stool, back to the door. He finds another stool in the corner and pulls it up behind her, then sets his supplies down on the table to the right that already holds an assortment of rags and some bandages.
“Hello.” It’s awkward and it’s his fault. He grabs the bottle and holds it out. She takes it without glancing back, uncorking it and sniffing. “Bourbon, or something similar. We think.”
She hums her agreement and takes a large swig, grimacing. He thinks it’s probably for the best that she’s got some liquid courage in her for the next part.
He clears his throat. “Alright. I’ll try to make this quick.” He runs his finger along the length of the slice on her upper arm, deep at the top and tapering to a scratch near her elbow. He uses his knife to cut a suitable length of thread for the needle, which is curved for exactly this purpose, and threads it. He takes a deep breath. “Alright, deep breaths.”
He has stitched his own flesh together before, a few times. He’s never sewn up another person’s wounds. He stops himself from gritting his teeth for the first jab of the needle, but where he expects at least a flinch, there is nothing.
She doesn’t move at all throughout the process, except to drink another gulp of the alcohol, whatever it is.
He knows, intimately, how much this hurts.
It’s disturbingly telling that she doesn’t so much as exhale too hard.
—-
He suggests offhandedly to the other women when he returns the supplies to the pack that maybe they should go to Emerie- and take some wine. Karlach raises a brow, but goes to collect a few bottles of wine and heads for the hallway. Shadowheart gathers up bread and cheese and follows, raising an eyebrow at Astarion but saying nothing.
He spends an hour or two by the hearth, reading and warming up, before retiring for the night. Emerie’s door is closed, but he can hear their voices from his own room.
A deep groan- Karlach- “Gods, but I miss sex.”
Giggles, and then he hears Emerie’s mischievous voice. “Maybe we could find a fire resistance potion and give it to someone. Wyll, maybe?”
A thud and laughter. “Shut up! He might be able to hear you!”
He hears Shadowheart’s amused drawl next. “Or that smith. Dammon? He’s gorgeous, and he definitely seemed interested.”
Giggles follow.
No small part of him is jealous of the effortless camaraderie between the women. His book is a cold companion compared to the periodic laughter coming from the next room.
—-
It takes them two days to get back to the grove on foot.
Emerie doesn’t speak to Astarion at all- hasn’t said a word to him since that night in her tent.
She wants to hate him. She does. But she’s tired.
Her rage at him has calmed to something icy and bitter. In the days since he had verbally eviscerated her, she’s had ample time to think.
It doesn’t add up.
Taken at face value, what he said to her was cruel. Given how things had happened between them, however, she doesn’t understand. He had initiated everything between them that went beyond feeding and friendliness. He had seduced her. He had even admitted to that being his plan.
She should be angry that she fell for it.
As it is, she’s merely angry that he thinks she would do the same.
She’s spent countless hours replaying it all in her head, trying to see what he sees. All she’s come up with is that she’s ten kinds of idiot.
She had truly cared about him, at least a little. She thought he felt the same, on some level. His hands, his lips, his body on hers had told a very different story to the accusations he’d spat at her.
A pretty face with only one skill.
She wonders if letting yourself be used is actually a skill.
—-
Halsin and the tieflings are so full of gratitude over the rescue of Halsin and the extermination of the goblin problem, they decide to throw a huge party at the campsite.
There’s food, though not particularly fancy, booze, though not particularly fine, and music, though not particularly refined. It is, all-in-all, a boisterous and unsophisticated affair that has the unfortunate result of a slew of tieflings feeling the urge to come up and thank Astarion for “saving them.” The worst are the ones who touch him, clapping him on the shoulder, shaking his hand, or even hugging him.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he didn’t give a single damn about them. He’d gone to save the druid purely for his selfish need for help with the tadpole situation. He knows, deep down, that if the situation had been reversed and the goblins had offered a solution to the tadpole problem, he would very likely have slaughtered every last one of these tieflings.
He accepts their thanks gracelessly, knowing he doesn’t deserve it.
He hates every second of it.
He exiles himself to the fringe of the party and tries to get himself drunk, though it’s difficult with wine that tastes like whoever made it didn’t quite know what they were doing.
Which, given their distance from actual civilization, makes sense.
His companions don’t seem to share his distaste for the celebration. Wyll and Karlach are in the thick of the dancing, looking like they are having a grand time. Gale is putting on a show with illusions that have people ooing and ahhing at him, the show-off. Shadowheart is in the middle of a conversation with a pretty tiefling, sipping wine and looking pleased.
Emerie, who he has been avoiding, is close to the river in a circle of children and teaching them some sort of game. He has no idea what they’re doing, but they’re clapping and jumping and dancing in tandem and breaking out into raucous laughter every time someone messes up.
He’s watching her with the children when Shadowheart approaches him. She sees where his gaze is and tilts her head. “She’s sweet,” she says, offhandedly.
She certainly tastes sweet, he thinks. “She’s a menace,” he says, with feeling. He takes a deep drink of his wine.
The cleric raises an impertinent eyebrow at him. “Oh, yes. So menacing,” she mocks. “Whatever happened there? You two seemed… close. Now you haven’t spoken a word in days.”
He arches a sardonic brow at her. “Perhaps she’s not as sweet as you seem to think she is.”
Shadowheart laughs at him and casts him a knowing look. “I think she’s exactly that sweet. Maybe if you’re done with her, I’ll try. I could use a little sweetness in my life.”
He rolls his eyes at her, annoyed. She’s trying to get a rise out of him, and it irks him that she thinks Emerie is the way to do it. “By all means, darling, have at her. It has nothing to do with me.”
Shadowheart hums, as if she knows she’s got him riled up. “Well, I’ll leave you to your lonely brooding. I fully intend to enjoy tonight.” And she heads off to join Emerie and the children. Emerie welcomes her with a broad smile, and the cleric smiles more genuinely than he thought the she was capable of.
Maybe she was serious about Emerie.
Well, good for her. He drains the rest of his bottle of wine.
He’s not jealous.
—-
Emerie’s skin is crawling.
She has the overwhelming urge to rip her skin off, to scratch it to ribbons. Or maybe go wash it with boiling water. Anything to make it stop.
Everyone keeps touching her.
It’s innocent, at least. Hugs, handshakes, shoulder clasps- the worst was a man who threw his arm over her shoulder while regaling them all with some fantastic tale of life on the road.
She shudders.
It’s hell on earth. She tried gritting her teeth to get through it, knowing that it really was well-meaning. Nobody is here to hurt her. Probably. Maybe. But the reaction is so visceral that she ends up retreating to the riverbank where a few children are playing some game that involves hopping in squares etched in the dirt. They look bored.
She decides to teach them one of her own childhood games: ‘The lady says.’
They listen raptly to the rules and are raucous in their laughter when someone follows a command the lady didn’t say. Emerie relaxes a little with the children, soaking up their uninhibited joy. Her skin still crawls, but it’s a manageable feeling now.
More children join them periodically and it turns into all out chaos and laughter as the evening winds down.
——
Astarion can’t have been asleep for long when a rustle of cloth has him stirring a little. He comes to full alertness when a weight presses into his abdomen and he feels cold steel at his throat.
His eyes pop open. “What the hells?” He freezes when he sees Emerie on top of him, straddling his waist and holding a knife to his throat.
Notes:
I’m hurting my own feeling with these two, I swear.
The next bit is mostly written, but it needed the chapter break in my opinion. I appreciate you all for reading <3
Chapter Text
Emerie may be a little tipsy.
After the children had been ushered off to bed by the adults, there had been quite a bit more drinking. She hadn’t meant to get drunk, but she thought maybe it would help her relax.
Instead, it made her spiral into a well of anxiety and self pity.
Gods, her skin wouldn’t stop crawling.
She gives her best fake smiles to the drunken tieflings who hugged her or clasped her shoulders as they headed off to their beds- or others’ beds. She wishes they would just. Stop. Touching. Her.
She goes to her tent alone.
The weight of her bedroll feels like phantom hands running along her skin. She shudders and tosses them off, staring sightlessly at the roof of her tent.
In another lifetime, she had loved these kids of gatherings. Some of her favorite memories were of drinking and dancing with her friends and strangers under the trees.
Now, though, it’s simply a reminder that she’s not that girl anymore.
Now, a stranger’s touch is an unspoken threat, no matter how innocent.
Except…
Astarion.
She’d been fine when he bit her the first time. Fine when he’d washed her hair. Even fine when he’d taken her to bed.
But he’d asked, first.
He hadn’t asked the next time he’d kissed her, though.
But she had wanted it. Knew, by then, that he would only take as much as she gave.
She snorts, furious with herself. That hadn’t exactly turned out well, had it. It was manipulation on his part, expert and calculated. It was naïveté on hers.
But it had felt incredible. It was the only thing she’d been sure of since being taken by the mindflayer ship.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that it was all a lie.
But it does matter that he’d lashed out at her. She had opened up, and he had ripped her to shreds.
Asshole.
She can’t believe the audacity.
They were effectively in the same situation. Slaves who found themselves free and stuck on this quest due to an accident of fate. But where she had genuinely cared, his part in their friendship had all been a manipulation.
Or so he said.
Emerie may not know much, but she did know that his hunger had been genuine. She knew that he had, on some level, also enjoyed what they’d done together.
Knew that you didn’t crawl into bed to just sleep with someone you’re just using. That level of vulnerability means something. Or, it meant something to her.
Every moment they’ve spent together runs through her mind in a dizzying loop.
She’s never going to sleep.
The thought of his hands on her, his mouth on her, her mouth on him, nearly erases the crawling feeling in her skin.
“A pretty face with only one skill.”
She’d rather feel his hatred than the memories of a hundred other hands on her skin.
Naive.
If she could still wildshape, she’d turn into something large just to rip his face off for saying it.
She wishes she could.
Drunkenly, she remembers that while she might not have claws, she does have steel.
—-
She’s probably not as quiet as she could be.
Not that it matters.
It’s the work of a second to kneel down next to him and throw her leg over his waist.
His eyes open as soon as she presses the knife to his throat. “What the hells?” He breathes, and then freezes.
Good.
“I’m going to talk this time, and you’re going to listen.” Her voice is hushed but firm. Her heart races, adrenaline sharpening her drunken senses.
He visibly relaxes, but his eyes are still wary. “This is hardly the most civilized way to have a conversation.”
She presses harder with the knife. “Shut up.” He opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to think better of it. She takes some of the pressure off.
“Good.” She considers him, tilting her head and running the flat side of the blade down his throat in a mockery of a caress. “I’m glad we can agree on something.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the last time we talked.” Emerie focuses her gaze on his chest, tracing an aimless pattern into his shirt with her free hand. “You seem to have come to a lot of mistaken conclusions about me.”
He is preternaturally still. Sometimes she forgets that he’s not technically alive, but now she is all too aware of his lack of a heartbeat. Her own heart trips and stutters in her chest, despite her attempts to appear calm and collected. She’s sure he can feel it giving her away, the traitorous thing.
She meets his eyes to try to read him, but they are also inscrutable. Beautiful, but hardly a window to the soul.
She continues, “I don’t know why you think it has anything to do with you, but I was chained and beaten and locked away and starved and forced to do all kinds of things that I never want to think about again. Of course I tried to escape.” She wonders if he resents the fact that while she is effectively free, he’s still the slave of his sire as long as his sire lives.
She wonders if she cares.
“It hardly mattered, though. Like I said, I couldn’t get far, at least on my own.”
And she’d tried. Oh, had she tried. And paid the price. Every. Time.
She runs the tip of the knife down the center of his chest. “And then we have the matter of us.” She glared at him. “Whatever you may think happened, I would like to remind you that you started it. All of it. The only thing I ever initiated was offering to let you feed on me.” She idly runs the tip of the knife across his collarbone, peeking out of his shirt. “And whatever you may think I did that for, it was because I’ve been hungry and I couldn’t bear to let someone else be hungry if I could do something about it.”
You never forget true, deep hunger. The kind of gnawing ache that sinks into your bones until all you can think of is getting anything, no matter how disgusting, into your stomach just to make it stop.
“Everything beyond that- the closeness, the kissing, the sex… that was all you.” She hisses, hate coiling in her stomach. Because how dare he decide to seduce her, manipulate her, and then accuse her of the same.
“And I fell for it. I cared.” She watches only the knife now, not daring to look in his eyes. She can’t bear to see them mocking her again.
Or worse, pity.
She feels a tear trail down her cheek. Shudders.
Emerie confesses, “I cared. I cared too much. And I enjoyed it.” It’s barely a whisper.
She meets his eyes.
It’s not pity she sees. Or mockery.
She thinks it’s sadness.
—-
He watches the tear trail down her cheek, an ache settling somewhere deep in his chest. He feels more than sees her drop the knife beside them, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his face.
“I won’t let you ruin this for me. You don’t get to be another horrible thing that happened to me.” She whispers, and it breaks his heart.
And then she leans over and kisses him.
It’s violence.
There’s nothing sweet or kind in this kiss. It’s a punishment. It’s fire. It’s pure hatred.
He finds himself moaning under the violent onslaught of her lips, arching his hips up into her as he comes to such sudden, aching hardness that he nearly sees stars. He grabs at her hips. Emerie growls, sitting up with flashing eyes. She grabs his wrists, fingers digging in, and slams them down on either side of his head.
“No.” And she kisses him again, fierce and cruel, lips bruising in their quest to destroy him.
Nearly 200 years and he’s never been kissed with such violence.
He wonders, dazed, if the rules about him speaking still apply since she’s removed the knife.
She trails kisses down his chest, shifting so her hips line up with his and grinds into him with a gasp. His eyes flutter shut and he inhales sharply, unable to help himself. He may not need to breathe, but fuck.
Her fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, her hips rolling against him in a languid rhythm.
“Emerie, please.” He whispers into the darkness.
She sits up fully, staring into his soul. Blinks, as if in a daze. “Please, what?”
Forgive me, please.
“Let me help,” he says, reaching for her again. This time she allows it.
He sits up, running a hand over her hip as his other hand comes up to caress her neck. He kisses her, slow and deep, pouring a thousand apologies into her lips.
She shudders under his touch, hands fisting in the front of his shirt. Her breaths come fast and shallow, and her hips continue to roll against his, soft sounds escaping her with every rocking motion.
He breaks the kiss to tug her shirt up and off, then kisses her again, hungrily. She tugs at the bottom of his shirt insistently, and he breaks off long enough to strip the offending garment and toss it into the corner.
He uses his weight to turn them, laying her down and pressing her back into his pillows. He kisses her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, her stomach, and then he kneels between her legs to tug her pants off.
He runs firm hands up her bare ankles to her thighs, spreads her legs, and shifts down so that he can press a questioning kiss at the apex of her thighs.
She doesn’t object.
He draws her legs over his shoulders, tugging her into his mouth.
She whimpers.
He runs his tongue up her slit, savoring her sweetness.
Of course she’s sweet.
He presses his tongue firmly into her clit and she gasps, a hand flying into his hair. He makes slow, firm circles with his tongue until her hips start to buck, and then he presses two fingers inside her.
She moans.
Good.
When her hips start to buck, he picks up the pace a bit, letting her needy movements guide his own.
It’s not long before she comes apart, wetness flooding his mouth. He laps it up.
It’s the polite thing to do, after all.
He wipes his face on his arm for lack of anything better, and crawls over her.
“Tell me what else I can do for you, darling,” he whispers into her ear. She turns her head and cards her fingers through his hair, forcing him into a drugging kiss.
“Fuck me like you care.”
Hells.
His eyes shut and he presses his forehead into hers. Considers it.
She’s dangerous.
But he isn’t scared.
He thinks he should be.
He sits up to tug down his pants, then leans forward and kicks them off. He lines his body up with hers and draws her into another, slower, sensual kiss.
He rolls them over so she’s on top.
She rises up on her knees and then sinks down on him.
Gods, the warmth.
She’s moist and warm and perfect around him.
He grips her hips and helps her settle into a steady rhythm, fucking up into her as much as she fucks him. He can’t help the panting gasps drawn from him as much as she can’t seem to help the needy moans slipping from her every time she comes back down and rocks back over him, dragging her clit along the base of his cock with every thrust.
He lets her milk the apology from his body, luxuriating in the subtle flutters of her around him as she gets close.
He groans when she comes around his cock, her gasps a balm to his guilty conscience.
He rolls them back over and fucks her slowly through her climax, kissing her languidly as her legs wrap around him.
He waits until she’s panting and moaning again and then lets himself go.
He pours every bit of rage and shame into it and fucks her hard and fast, his face buried into her shoulder.
She buries her fingers in his hair and tips her head to the side. “Bite me.”
He shudders.
His hips falter.
He bites her and the sweetness of her blood floods his mouth.
It’s like a drug.
His eyes roll back in his head as he sucks the blood from her body and comes inside her all at once.
Notes:
Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments and encouragement! Your words mean more than you know <3
Chapter Text
He isn’t sure what to expect after the events of the previous night, but it isn’t the awkward dance that ensues.
He and Emerie orbit each other throughout the morning without interacting, like the opposite ends of a compass needle. She won’t meet his eyes, but he can tell that she’s aware of his every move by the way she determinedly avoids even a casual glance in his direction. For his part, he watches her stealthily throughout the morning, trying to gauge where they stand with each other.
It’s a different kind of tension to the last few days, at least.
And she’s wearing his shirt.
Somehow, he doesn’t think that that was accidental.
A predatory possessiveness stirs in him when he sees her in his shirt, with obvious bite marks on her neck. Shadowheart certainly notices, raising an eyebrow at him when she joins the group for breakfast.
Thankfully, she keeps her commentary to herself.
The shirt seems to be some kind of public declaration on Emerie’s part, but he’s not sure of what.
He’s hardly going to ask her while she’s armed, the menace.
He is relieved, however, that she seems to be doing okay. He was careful to take less blood when he bit her last night, and it seems to have paid off.
It comes out over the course of the morning and the others’ conversations that his suspicions about Halsin were correct. The Druid, powerful as he is, doesn’t have a way to remove the brain parasites.
Because of course not.
Astarion could never be so lucky.
He won’t admit to anyone else the undercurrent of relief he feels that his days in the sun aren’t numbered just yet.
Until the mentions of the Underdark and the Shadow Curse.
“Shadow Curse? That seems unpleasantly ominous.” Gale says, and Astarion privately agrees.
“It is. It is a blight upon the land and an affront to nature and it must be cleansed. I spent years researching the curse to try to put an end to it, but nothing has worked yet,” Halsin explains. “I am hoping that I can join you, get close to Moonrise Towers and these Absolute cultists, and perhaps find a solution along the way.”
“So we go to this cursed land, walk right up to a bunch of people under mind control, and ask them how to get the worms out of our heads?” asks Wyll, skeptically.
Halsin tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Not… exactly. But if we hope to get more information, that seems to be the best place to find it. It is a risk, I’ll grant you.”
“A big risk. Count me in,” says Karlach, leaning on her axe. Emerie and Astarion shoot her a dubious look. Karlach shrugs at them. “What? It’s not like we have answers falling from the sky.”
Emerie sighs. “I’m in. What’s the worst that could happen?”
What’s the worst that could happen, indeed.
“Horrible, painful death?” Shadowheart offers, sarcastically.
Karlach grins. “That’s the spirit!”
Astarion can’t help but think he might have been safer with the mindflayers.
—-
They spend the day acquiring supplies and reorganizing the supplies they already have. The Underdark is famously unforgiving, and the Shadow Cursed Lands sound even worse. The tieflings have very little to spare, preparing for their own journey to Baldur’s Gate. They are able to at least obtain a modest amount of healing supplies, food, and clothing from the druids.
Emerie decides to take advantage of the warmth and wash her clothes while she still can.
She finds Astarion in the grass by the stream, shirtless, laying in the sun.
She isn’t sure how to interact with him after holding him at knifepoint and drunkenly pouring out her frustrations with him.
She’s still wearing his shirt.
It was impulsive to take it in the first place, but she had wanted to take something of him with her when she went back to her own tent. His scent permeates the shirt, brandy and rosemary and something bright and citrusy. It’s a comforting scent, despite her complicated relationship with its owner.
His words may hurt sometimes, but his hands don’t.
Unleashing her rage on him had been freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. She almost understands why he’d done the same to her. Almost.
Because when she had kissed him, she hadn’t just been pouring out her fury with him, but also her rage at the world. And it had felt incredible.
She considers the pale elf, his skin nearly as white as his hair, reflecting every bit of sunlight that falls upon his body. It’s unbelievably tragic to relegate something so beautiful to the shadows.
And he is beautiful, uncannily so. His face and body are pretty by themselves, but the expressiveness of his face and the soul behind his eyes give him a supernatural beauty that is magnetic.
He cracks open an eye. “Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you here for a reason?”
Emerie starts, surprised, but pulls herself together quickly. “Just enjoying the view,” she jokes, walking to the stream and dropping her pile of clothes next to her. He laughs softly. She pushes up her —his— sleeves and kneels down to start washing a shirt.
This seems fine. Familiar. Not too awkward.
They’re quiet for a while. The trees rustle with long forgotten secrets in a language Emerie is just beginning to remember. It soothes her soul to sit among the trees, in the sunshine, with just the sound of the leaves and the gurgle of the stream for company.
After a long while, Astarion breaks the silence. “You stole my shirt.”
Her face flushes, but her voice is deceptively even when she says, “I thought you looked better without it.”
He lets out a low chuckle, and a rustle behind her tells her he’s moved. She glances over her shoulder to see him propped up on his elbows, watching her. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t carve it off of me.”
She flushes a little more and returns to her washing. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I knew you had some delightfully depraved tendencies, but you truly outdid yourself,” he says, wickedly amused. “Maybe I’ll return the favor one of these nights.”
She pictures it- him caressing her skin with a knife- and suddenly she is flushed for an entirely different reason. She huffs, banishing the image, but doesn’t deign to respond.
She finishes her washing and squeezes the extra water out of the clothes before laying them all out on a boulder. Astarion has returned to laying back with his eyes closed. She traces the lines of his body and his bare chest with her eyes, enjoying the privilege of looking while unobserved. “Did you want your shirt back?” she asks, suddenly feeling a little guilty about stealing it in the first place.
He turns his head and opens his eyes, a predatory gaze raking over her. “No. I quite like the idea of you walking around in my clothes.”
Oh.
Well.
She’s rescued from having to come up with a response by Gale and Shadowheart, who seem to have had the same idea about washing clothes. Leaves and gravel crunch under their feet as they approach. “How’s the water?” Gale asks, slowing as he approaches the stream.
“Not too cold, actually,” Emerie says with a smile.
Shadowheart sniffs. “Why do I get the feeling that that doesn’t mean pleasantly warm?”
Emerie laughs, eyes crinkling. “I think you might be expecting a little too much from the great outdoors.”
Shadowheart drops her clothes by the water, sighing dramatically. “I miss civilization.”
“Are you not enjoying the rugged stimulation of the outdoors? The anticipation of danger? The liberation from the trappings of city life?” Gale asks, somewhat wistfully, carefully placing his own pile of clothes near a rock at the water’s edge.
Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “Absolutely not.” She dips her fingertips into the stream and hisses, withdrawing them quickly. “Not too cold? Did you mean barely warmer than ice?”
Emerie shrugs. “It felt fine to me.”
“You could always have Karlach sit a little upstream. You run the risk of the water boiling away, but at least it won’t be cold,” drawls Astarion.
Shadowheart looks like she’s seriously considering it. Emerie smothers a laugh and walks over to the other woman. “Here. I’ll help, so it’ll go faster.”
—
Emerie spends the evening drawing Astarion sprawled out in the grass, soaking up the sun.
She wishes she could do more than sketch it in ink. It’s a shame that she can’t capture the minutiae of the colors and the way the light caresses his skin.
Eventually, she sets the drawing aside to dry and tucks herself into her blankets to sleep.
Somehow, she isn’t surprised when Astarion appears in her tent sometime later. She’s in that dreamy space between being awake and asleep when he comes into her tent. She scoots back a little to make room for him. “Hi.”
He hesitates, but then kicks off his boots and stretches out under the blankets next to her, laying on his back and tucking one hand under his head.
His new shirt is black, and the contrast between his skin and the shirt is lovely. She reaches out to trace the collar of the shirt, but his hand comes up and covers hers, holding it still.
His hand is cool against hers, his long fingers easily engulfing her own. His thumb runs over the back of her hand, and she watches the movement of the muscles in his forearm with fascination.
“I’m sorry.” It’s low and quiet, and he says it to the ceiling, but her heart stutters anyway. She squeezes her fingertips around his, and he huffs out a low breath, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never been with someone like this before. I mean… I’ve seduced hundreds of people, for Cazador.” He spits the name out like he can’t bear for it to be in his mouth too long.
He turns his head to meet her eyes, his own turning wistful. “I’ve never just slept with someone. Or even kissed someone for anything other than to lure them back to my master. It’s… nice. But strange.”
Emerie’s heart aches at the soft sadness in his eyes. She pulls her hand out of his and runs her fingers along his cheek.
He shudders, his eyes falling shut. He grabs her hand and nuzzles into it like a cat, holding it to his cheek. “You’re so warm,” he murmurs.
“Is that a good thing?” Emerie asks, not sure of a vampire’s heat tolerance.
He sighs. “It’s good. It’s very good.” He opens his eyes and reaches out to run his fingers along her cheek and down her neck. “I was trying to manipulate your feelings, but I also… started to care. And… well. I didn’t react well when I realized we had a similar… background, because I thought you must have been doing the same thing I was.”
Emerie raises an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t react well is a bit of an understatement.”
“Don’t be dramatic, it’s unbecoming.”
She smirks. “I’ll leave the dramatics to you. It would be a shame to waste your talents.”
He rolls back onto his back with a huff. “I was trying to be sincere and you’re ruining it.”
Emerie nods, mock-serious. “It’s okay, love. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” he says, exasperated.
Emerie laughs. They drift into silence for a while, and she closes her eyes, eventually starting to drift off to sleep.
“Astarion?”
“Yes?”
“I do care, you know. About you,” she whispers into the darkness.
“I… care about you, too.”
She falls asleep with her hand curled in his sleeve.
—-
The uneasy truce they had reached in the aftermath of the tiefling party settles into something tentatively comfortable. The next night, Astarion doesn’t bother pitching his own tent.
Emerie doesn’t seem surprised when he helps her with her tent or when he adds his bedroll, cushions, and blankets to her own stash. As a matter of fact, if he’s reading her correctly, she seems pleased.
He isn’t quite sure what she gets out of their sleeping arrangements. He is getting the benefit of her body heat, and sometimes a meal. Why she would be pleased is a mystery to him.
Whatever they are, it’s ill-defined and shaky. He is adrift in a sea of uncertainty, unsure of the rules, and unsure how to navigate it. It can’t just be about sex- they’ve had less sex than nights together, after all- but Astarion doesn’t know what else it is.
Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to mess it up.
Again.
They’re sitting on opposite ends of the tent. She is drawing, but he can’t see much from where he is sitting. He’s reading- or at least pretending to read- while considering her.
She’s exactly the kind of lover he would privately fantasize about- soft and affectionate, even outside of sex. It’s addictive. On the other hand, she’s exactly the kind of lover he tries to avoid. The selfish ones were always the easiest, because he could distance himself from them and it made it easier to lead them to their doom.
The sweet ones, the nervous ones, the generous ones- those were difficult. They were the ones who would make an effort to please him. He would have to force himself to be present and feel, all while suppressing the horror of knowing that he was going to destroy them in the end. On some level, he did truly enjoy them.
He hated himself for that.
Emerie, though, he could enjoy. He didn’t have to destroy her, so long as he remained out of Cazador’s control. He was free to enjoy her, to indulge in whatever warmth and affection she offered without guilt.
Almost as if she senses the turn of his thoughts, she looks up and meets his eyes. She raises an eyebrow at him.
He raises his back, mockingly.
Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting back a smile. She sets her book aside and crawls over to him before reaching out to take his book from his hands. She closes it, sets it aside, and straddles his lap. Her arms wrap loosely around his neck, and he settles his own hands on her hips.
He smirks at her. “Hello, there.”
“You were staring.”
“Was I?” he asks, playfully. If this is the result of being caught staring, he doesn’t think he minds.
“Mmhmm,” she hums, leaning in and brushing a teasing kiss across his lips.
She pulls back, but he brings a hand up to tangle in her hair and pulls her back in for a deeper kiss, savoring the warmth of her, the soft breath ghosting across his face, the sigh she releases as she relaxes into him.
Sweet, drugging kisses slowly give way to something more suggestive, her hands tangling in his shirt as she moans into his mouth, his hand tightening on her hips as she rocks slowly against him.
Suddenly, she could be anyone, and he struggles to focus on the sounds she’s making as he pulls back, nips at her neck, her throat, pulls up her shirt and helps her out of it.
From there it’s the familiar dance of shedding clothing, coming back together, tangling limbs and heavy breaths, kisses and licks and firm touches. He’s on autopilot, drawing sweet sounds from her that fail to penetrate the fog of practiced movements he’s performed countless times before.
She makes the same sounds they all did, and he plays her body like a familiar instrument because he’s done it before, used his body to tease and please and ultimately destroy everyone he’s ever touched like this.
And yet it feels so good when he pushes inside her with a groan, her sighs a sweet and damning song that he hates himself for enjoying.
When it’s over, when they curl up together to sleep, it’s okay again. She will still be there, alive, come morning.
Notes:
I appreciate you all so much for being here! <3
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion is gone when she wakes to the premature trills of songbirds in the pre-dawn glow. His boots and shirt remain, neatly placed by his pack, a testament that he hasn’t gone far.
Emerie stretches, working out the kinks from too many nights spent sleeping on the ground. It’s silly to miss any of the trappings of her enslavement, but at least she had had a bed.
She snorts at herself. She can forego the bed and everything that came with it. She can wear what she wants, go where she pleases, eat what she wants when she feels like it- life is good right now.
Aside from the potential for turning into a mindless mind flayer drone, that is.
Emerie stands and locates her underthings, also carefully folded, presumably by Astarion. The shirt she had stolen from him is folded underneath. She runs her fingers over its collar, clearly worn but carefully mended. She knows, somehow, that it’s his careful stitching holding it together.
Her heart clenches at the mental image of him carefully mending this shirt over and over. She wonders if he did it out of necessity or for sentimental reasons. Guilt, fuzzy and ill-defined, washes over her. She smoothes the shirt out and then puts it on, wondering if he meant it when he said he liked seeing her in his clothes. She finishes dressing but forgoes her boots, assuming that if he isn’t wearing his, she won’t need hers.
She finds Astarion alone on the outskirts of camp, sitting on the edge of a bluff overlooking the river. His back is to her, but she knows he can hear her approaching.
Her footsteps falter as she gets close and can make out marks on his back.
Scars, thick and deep, cover the expanse of his back. She vaguely recognizes infernal runes among the concentric circles of raised flesh. Her hair stands on end at the realization that this was carefully and deliberately carved into his flesh.
Emerie takes in this horror within the span of a few seconds, but only pauses momentarily before going to sit next to him, dangling her feet over the edge of the bluff as well. “Good morning,” she says quietly.
The sun, just peeking over the horizon, is broken into soft rays by the trees on the other side of the river. Astarion, leaning back on his hands, glances at her with hooded eyes. The little bits of sun make the red in his eyes nearly glow, which should be terrifying but is- almost disturbingly- pretty.
“Good morning.” It’s uttered softly, deeper than his usual flippant tone.
She likes it a little too much.
They watch the sun rise through the trees in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Emerie’s thoughts wander from one thing to another, aimless and lazy. The bird songs pick up into something relentless, greeting the dawn with joyful adoration.
At length, when the sunlight is strong and bright, Emerie looks over at Astarion and sees his head tipped back and his eyes closed. She’s strongly reminded of a cat, basking in a patch of sun.
She thinks, again, how cruel it is to subject such a being to a life without sun.
She wishes, wistfully, that she could give him this forever, without the threat of turning into a mind flayer.
Not wanting to be the one to ruin it for him, Emerie lays back in the grass, staring up into the clouds. His back is in full view from this position, and her eyes return to it periodically, obsessing over the cruel marks etched deep into his skin.
After some time, he stiffens, glancing over his shoulder at her. Caught in the act, she meets his eyes almost guiltily.
“Not pretty, is it,” he says bitterly. His eyes are cold and guarded.
She can’t lie. “No. Not pretty.” Her eyes search his uneasily. “What happened?”
He turns away, a cold laugh escaping him. “Cazador. He spent a long night carving poetry into my back.” He pauses, then continues bitterly, “He made a lot of revisions.”
She sits up, reaching out to touch his elbow with her fingertips. “Astarion…” she doesn’t know what to say, but she knows she has to say something as he stiffens further. She moves her hand down his arm, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “Astarion, I’m sorry.” It feels woefully inadequate, but it’s all she can think to say.
He huffs, exasperated. “Whatever for? You didn’t do it.” His posture relaxes slightly, but he still looks agitated.
She squeezes his hand again and lets go, scooting back a bit. She touches his shoulder, lightly, questioning. “May I?”
He tenses again, but nods. “Fine.”
Emerie bites her lip, noting his discomfort. Her eyes rove over his back again, tracing the ridges of ruined flesh. She runs her hand down his spine, trying for reassurance. “This is definitely not poetry. It looks like infernal, but it’s… odd.”
He glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “He said it was poetry, but I’ve never seen it. Odd how?”
Emerie traces her hand along the outer circle, her own brow furrowing. “I don’t know how to describe it. I could draw it for you, if you’d like.”
A pause, and then, “That would be… nice. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Emerie bites her lip again, and then scoots back further, sitting cross legged behind him. She brings her hands up to his shoulders, pressing firmly into the muscles on either side of his spine with her thumbs.
“What are you…” he trails off, exhaling raggedly when she digs her thumbs in a second time. His head falls forward, and she takes that as a sign that she can continue.
She works on his shoulders for a while, then massages up his neck and the base of his skull. He leans heavily back against his hands and his head tips back with a soft groan as she rubs behind his ears.
When she massages down his spine, his back arches slightly and a small noise escapes him, not quite a whimper or a moan, but something in between that tugs at Emerie’s heart. She doesn’t say anything, but she digs her thumbs into the muscles at the base of his spine and leans forward to press a kiss between his shoulder blades, just above the rune carved into the center of his back. She presses her forehead into his back and wraps her arms around him, closing her eyes.
She thinks of her own back, the flash of heat and searing pain as the whip tore through her flesh. She tries to imagine small, deliberate cuts with a knife instead. She shudders, her arms tightening around Astarion. “I wish I could destroy him for what he did to you.” She says it hatefully, with all the rage she feels at a world where all too often the monsters win.
He exhales, a deliberate movement of air from a creature that doesn’t need to breathe. His arm comes up to wrap around her own, his hand squeezing hers briefly. Then he pulls her arms off him. “We should head back.”
She scoots back, giving herself room to stand as he gracefully rises. His eyes are guarded, but he leans down and offers her a hand, which she takes. He pulls her up, and she hesitates for a moment before stepping into him, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her arms loosely around him.
He sighs, then wraps one arm firmly around her shoulders and brings his other hand up to hold the back of her head. He drops a kiss to her scalp, then tugs her head back so that she’s looking up at him.
His eyes search hers, a question in them. She doesn’t know the answer, but he seems to find something in her gaze that satisfies him. He presses a soft kiss into her forehead, then her lips.
It’s gentle. It’s sweet. It’s everything.
—-
Emerie has thoroughly unbalanced him in every way.
Astarion doesn’t know how to navigate whatever strange relationship they’ve embarked upon.
He does know that she’s destroying him.
She draws out carefully buried emotions from him as if it’s nothing at all. When was the last time anyone had offered him even a scrap of genuine kindness? When had anyone given a damn about his pain?
He can’t remember.
He almost hates her for coming into his life now. Where was she when he needed it most? How, when he is finally free, at least a little, has the universe seen fit to send this his way when he needs it the least.
He knows it’s selfish to wish they had met sooner. He knows what would have happened to her if he had met her at his worst.
He avoids her as much as he can throughout the day, going to hunt when they take breaks and staying up ahead of the group while they travel. Emerie, for her part, seems subdued, not interacting with the others as much as usual.
He realizes they’re close to the ruined temple where the goblins made camp as the late afternoon sun starts to inch below the treetops. A part of him dares to hope that there isn’t a hidden entrance to the Underdark below the ruins.
What he would give for just a few more days in the sun.
It isn’t long before the temple comes into view.
Emerie suggests that they wait for tomorrow to start searching for the rumored entrance to the Underdark. Everyone else seems to agree. They find their way to the same wing they had slept in before, setting a fire in the hearth and breaking off into different rooms down the hall.
He’s setting his pack down on the rickety table in the corner of his bare stone room at the end of the hall when Emerie places her pack inside the door. She stretches, groaning softly, then says, “Will you go outside with me? I want to watch the sun set.”
Gratitude, strange and uncomfortable, takes hold in his chest. He doesn’t express it, however. Instead, he sighs dramatically and quirks an eyebrow at her. “Feeling sentimental about our impending banishment to the dark?”
She rolls her eyes at him. “If I say yes, will you join me?”
Feeling playful, he says, “Say please and I’ll consider it.”
She cuts him an unimpressed glance, but bats her eyelashes at him. “Pretty please, Astarion, will you go with me to watch what may very well be our last sunset together?”
Well, that’s certainly one way to put it. “No need to be morose. Fine, since you put it like that.”
She laughs, but turns and walks out the door. He follows, keenly aware that his sunsets, at least, are numbered.
——
Later that evening, after they’ve eaten and washed up and changed out of their armor, they light candles around the room despite their ability to see in the dark. The tiny flames cast a warm glow about the small room, a tiny luxury in the barren space. Astarion sits slightly in front of Emerie, shirtless, while she lounges against the wall, sketching the scars on his back.
It doesn’t take her long, but she can tell he’s uncomfortable. As soon as she’s done, she pushes the sketchbook towards him along the floor with a soft warning. “Careful, the ink is still wet.”
He takes the book, staring at the page thoughtfully. Emerie, wanting to give him at least a semblance of privacy, busies herself with capping her ink and wiping off the tip of the pen, putting them away in the leather pouch she keeps them in. She stretches, then moves to the corner where they’ve spread out their cushions and blankets to sleep. She takes the space closer to the wall so that he has the freedom to come and go without disturbing her if he chooses.
She’s hardly laid down when she hears him set the book aside. “What did that bastard do to me?”
She turns her head to look at him, but he’s staring at the door, a thousand miles away.
Eventually, he looks over at her. “Thank you.” He’s still uncomfortable, but he’s trying to hide it. “Nearly 200 years and I can finally see it, at least. Even if I have no idea what it means.” He stands, going around to blow out the candles before coming to stretch out beside her on the blankets. He lays on his back, head on a cushion, and he props one arm behind his head.
“We could ask one of the others… maybe Karlach knows some infernal. Or Gale,” she says, considering that it’s at least possible that either of them could read infernal.
“No.” Astarion pauses for a moment, then continues, “Not until I know what it is. I don’t want anyone else to know.”
“Okay.” That’s reasonable enough. She reaches out and lays her hand on top of his hand, resting on his chest. She traces the veins in the back of his hand with her fingertips. “I love your hands,” she says softly.
He quirks an eyebrow, turning his body toward her. “Oh? Any particular reason?” His eyes dance with mischief, and she shakes her head a little.
“Not like that. They’re nice to look at.” Emerie glares at him playfully. “Remind me to never compliment you again.”
He smirks, reaching out to trail a finger across her collarbone. “I will do nothing of the sort. I adore flattery, particularly if it’s about me.”
“It’s a shame you’re so ugly, then,” she says, mock-serious.
He rolls on top of her and pins her arms over her head so fast he’s a blur. “Oh, really.” He whispers in her ear, darkly. Their position is a mirror of the position she’d held him in after she’d held him at knifepoint. Her heart thunders in her chest. He licks the outer shell of her ear, startling a gasp from her, and he pulls back with a grin. “I don’t think you think I’m ugly at all.”
His kiss is taunting. He presses into her heavily, keeping her under his thrall as he teases her relentlessly, pulling back when she’s panting, her heart stuttering in her chest. Her eyes feel heavy when they meet his.
“Do you?” He asks, not quite smiling.
She tries to move, but she can’t break his grip. She isn’t sure she wants to, either. She tilts her head, searching his eyes. “You know how gorgeous you are. You don’t need me to tell you.”
Something shifts in his gaze, and he ducks his head to kiss her again, slow and sweet, letting go of her arms. She brings her hands to his face, savoring it. When he pulls back, he rolls off her onto his side, but still pressed against her. She rolls onto her side, facing him.
She wonders, then, if maybe he does need her to tell him.
One of his hands comes up and traces the bite marks on her neck that mark her, in some way, as his. She tilts her head, an offer that he takes. When he bites her, she wraps an arm around his waist and wonders if somehow, he might be hers as well.
Notes:
I appreciate you all so much for being here! Your comments and kudos make my heart happy <3
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion reminded himself for the tenth time that day that he was fine. He was free. He wasn’t under Cazador’s control. He wasn’t relegated to the darkness, he was here by choice.
The first day in the Underdark hadn’t been too terrible. The second day was a little worse. By the third day, his less tangible anxieties turned into something cruel and cutting.
Ever since he had been taken by the mind flayer ship, Astarion had been thinking mostly in terms of surviving one day to the next. It had become clear over the last several weeks that this parasite situation wasn’t going to be a simple fix, and thankfully they also were not in imminent danger of ceremorphosis.
He shudders a little, thinking of the night he’d transformed into a vampire. If turning into a mind flayer is remotely similar- and to be honest, he expects it to be worse- he never wants to experience it. He remembers the ache of his final heartbeats, the burn of the final true breaths in his lungs, the fierce all-consuming pain as his body transitioned from alive to undead.
At least he won’t have to dig himself out of his own grave, this time.
Even if they prevent the eventual transformation into mind flayer an and get rid of the tadpoles in their brains, Astarion will be returning to being Cazador’s puppet. At best, he could run as far and as fast as possible- even Cazador’s reach has limits, after all. But in a world with magic and devils and gods, an eternity of running is a daunting prospect.
If any of this is going to be worth it, he’s going to have to kill Cazador.
It’s a daunting prospect. He’s been under Cazador’s thumb for nearly two centuries and he’s not even entirely sure what the bastard is capable of. The things he is sure of are terrifying enough.
He won’t be able to face him alone.
Finding allies- strong allies- is an even more daunting prospect.
He has nothing to offer them, aside from his body. Somehow, that hardly seems like temptation enough to face a centuries old true vampire in battle.
Perhaps he can convince them that Cazador is hiding mind flayer secrets somewhere in his castle.
Unlikely.
Across the camp, a little way away from the campfire Astarion is staring into, Karlach is trying to teach Wyll an… interesting… dance.
Wyll would probably go for it. He’s a monster hunter, after all. He didn’t get to be famous as the blade of frontiers for backing down from a challenge.
Karlach might delight in crushing Cazador as well, just for the chance to smash in some deserving heads. She’s got a soft heart for most people, but she’s also ruthless in battle when provoked. If he told her even the barest of Cazador’s crimes, he’s certain she would delight in dancing on Cazador’s corpse.
Astarion smiles ruefully. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
He considers Emerie, chatting with Gale across the campfire while Gale cooks. She’s a wildcard. He can’t make heads or tails of what she wants out of life, which makes it difficult to predict what she will do in any given situation. She says she cares about him. Maybe that’s enough.
It probably isn’t.
He’s not sure he would face Cazador for her just based off of their short relationship. Small moments of affection and a few tumbles in bed aren’t enough to risk everything for.
She laughs at something Gale said, and he can’t help but think how beautiful she is with her sparkling eyes reflecting the firelight.
Beauty wouldn’t be enough to risk his life for either.
Then again, the thought of her being under Cazador’s control is painful. It would hurt to watch the sparkle fade from her eyes, to watch her turn into himself.
That might be enough, but only because he knows how Cazador had broken him. He doesn’t know how to make her feel the same way, since she doesn’t have that first hand knowledge of the things Cazador is capable of.
I want to destroy him for what he did to you. That’s what she’d said to him after discovering his scars. Maybe she does care about him enough to risk everything to help him get revenge and freedom.
If she does, he doesn’t understand why.
Her voice punches through the swirling vortex of his thoughts. “What do you think, Astarion?”
He looks up, meeting her eyes across the campfire. “Hmm? Sorry, I was leagues away.”
Gale fills him in. “We were discussing the potential merits of fungi for medicinal use. It’s impressive how these myconids have harnessed the power of a fungus that raises the dead, so to speak, and allows them to speak mind-to-mind.”
Astarion suppresses a shudder. The myconids had had his hair standing on end. It was horrifying enough to have been turned into a vampire. He wonders what remnants of the poor souls are left in those bodies after they’re raised into mushroom people. He attempts to sound nonchalant when he answers, “I’m afraid impressive isn’t the word I’d choose. Disturbing feels more apt.”
Gale’s eyes gleam dreamily. “But think of the possibilities! If we could harness that power, people could speak mind to mind over great distances! That’s the kind of thing that could change the world.”
Emerie interrupts this disturbing train of thought, amused. “Yes, and put all the couriers out of business. Not to mention the side effects.”
“Well, yes. It’s hardly ideal to turn into mushrooms, is it.” Gale almost sounds sad about it.
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Have you forgotten that we have our own special telepathic worms in our brains? And we’re going to so much trouble to remove them. Let’s not start planning the next form of mind control before we’ve solved the first,” he drawls, sufficiently disturbed to want to end this conversation.
“Here, here.” Emerie says, standing up and stretching. “Astarion, didn’t you have something you wanted to show me?” She looks so innocent, he almost wonders if he had mentioned wanting to show her something.
“Oh, of course, darling.” He stands as well, walking around the campfire and past her. “It’s this way.”
She falls into step beside him, not saying anything else until they are well out of hearing range of their companions. She sighs. “Thanks. I needed a break.”
“Next time, you can just say you have to answer the call of nature. I doubt anyone would question it.”
“I guess I could have done that. I wanted to check on you, though. Are you okay?” They stop walking at the base of a very large, strange tree. The branches seem to go up forever, extending so far into the darkness above that he can’t make out the ends, if there even are any.
He doesn’t know how to answer her, but he knows by now that she’s patient. She will wait while he sorts through his thoughts. He sinks down with his back to the tree, leaning against it. She moves to sit next to him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off her.
Is he okay?
He closes his eyes, exhaling steadily. “I’ll be fine.”
She hums, but she doesn’t press the issue. He appreciates that about her. She may ask the question, but he’s free to answer or not as he sees fit. She certainly doesn’t seem to hold his silence against him, even when he knows she knows he’s not telling her everything.
She tucks her hand under his, lacing their fingers together. She tips her head back against the tree and closes her eyes. “I know it’s selfish, but I’m glad I’m not doing all of this alone,” she says, quietly. “I shouldn’t be happy that we are all in the same shitty boat, but I am. Does that make me a terrible person?”
He considers it, rolling the thought around in his mind for a moment. “You aren’t a terrible person, by any measure. It’s alright to not want to suffer alone.” Gods know he’s taken comfort in the idea that no matter what, he wasn’t alone in his suffering at the hands of Cazador. He always had his siblings. He considers also that he might very well be dead already if he had been left to deal with the tadpoles alone. He certainly would not have gotten this far.
It’s been… nice, having friends.
What a thought.
Emerie squeezes his hand, and he squeezes hers back. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m glad you don’t think it makes me terrible.”
He laughs. “Darling, if you’re terrible, I’m a monster. I keep picturing Gale as a mind flayer whenever he gets particularly annoying.”
She laughs, but her face screws up. “That is pretty horrible.” She glances at him, mischievously, “What do you picture when I get particularly annoying.”
He cuts her a sardonic glance. “I just picture you, naked, on your knees.” He leans over, inhaling her scent, and whispers in her ear, “It’s such a pretty picture, and I have such fond memories of you in that position.” She inhales sharply, and he grins. “Of course, when I picture it, we’re somewhere more civilized than the middle of a forest.” He squeezes her hand again and then stands up. “We should probably head back before the others send out a search party.”
She blinks up at him, hunger in her gaze. “It would almost be worth it.”
He smirks. “You can worship me any time you’d like. I don’t mind.”
Her eyes slide shut and she shivers, but then she pushes herself up. Her eyes rake over him suggestively, making his blood heat in his veins. “If I’m going to worship you,” she says, stepping into him and running her hands down his chest, “We’re going to do it somewhere far more comfortable than this. It sounds like a lot of work.”
Mischief dances in her eyes as she kisses his cheek, then turns and walks away.
Menace.
—-
Astarion has been quieter since their descent below the surface. Emerie is worried about him. She knows he’s scared. He’s tense and withdrawn and spends more time staring into space than doing anything else.
She doesn’t know how to help.
He seems to come back to himself a little every evening when they curl up together under the blankets in their tent. He seems to revel in having her hands on him, like a cat being stroked and admired. Meaningless conversations flow easily between them when they’re alone, but as soon as they rise for the day, he’s brooding again.
Emerie can tell that something is eating at him, but she doesn’t know how to get him to say what. When she asks if he’s okay, he always says he’s fine. He’ll be fine. Not to worry.
She’s worried.
On their fourth rest- there isn’t really such a thing as day or night down here- she wakes before him. Neither of them have been sleeping well, but she thinks he’s been sleeping even less than she has.
He looks so much more peaceful in his sleep. His face is free from worry lines, smooth and youthful looking. She can almost picture what he would have looked like before being turned.
She wonders what color his eyes were, before.
She resists the urge to touch him, extricating herself from their blankets as carefully as she can. She forgoes boots, knowing the sound of her pulling them on will wake him. In his shirt and her leggings, she goes to find somewhere private to do her business.
She finds a somewhat secluded spot and does what is necessary. She’s returning when she sees the circle of mushrooms on the ground around her. She pauses, just for a moment, and then suddenly she’s transported up the cliff nearby.
Well, shit.
Faerie circles.
She stumbles. The world flashes around her again, and she falls to her knees on several of the mushrooms around her.
The sun is shining. It’s hazy and weak, but the sun is shining.
She’s above ground.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” She turns around in the faerie circle once, then twice, trying to trigger it to take her back.
No luck.
She’s in a swamp. Behind her is a fetid bog, and in front of her is a sprawling wooden house.
She walks up to the door and knocks.
“Just a minute, dearie!” she hears from inside. After a moment, she hears footsteps and an old woman, vaguely familiar, opens the door. She smiles kindly at Emerie. “Well, hello, dear. Are you lost?”
“I… well. Yes. I accidentally ended up in a faerie circle and it brought me here.” Emerie doesn’t know where here is, exactly.
The woman tsks. “Oh, you poor thing. Well, come on in and have a bite to eat. We’ll see what we can do for you.”
Emerie hesitates, but it seems like the best option. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re more than welcome. My name is Ethel. I make potions and such. It gets lonely out here, all by myself. You’re lucky I was home today. I usually travel to sell my stock.” She leads the way around a lofted area to a wooden staircase that leads down to a warm area in front of a heart.
Emerie’s steps falter when she notices the man sitting at the round table. He’s looking her over with interest.
It’s the monster hunter from the road- the one that had been looking for Astarion.
His eyes are locked on the very obvious bite marks on her neck.
Notes:
Things are about to get more intense. Thank you all so much for being here!
Chapter 12
Notes:
This chapter brought to you by food poisoning, procrastination on my lit paper, and obsessive Astarion brain rot.
I'm sure you all understand. (Slightly shorter than usual, but it had to stop where it did)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The old woman, Ethel, chuckles darkly on seeing the man sizing Emerie up. “Look, dearie. You came all this way to find a vampire and its snack fell right into your lap.”
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Lie.
“It was terrifying. He killed several of my companions. I was able to escape, but I got lost in the Underdark.” Emerie’s nerves work for her, making her words tremble.
The man stands up, coming around the table to eye her with distaste. “Some of those bites are older than others. It looks like the beast fed on you repeatedly.”
Her heart thunders in her chest. Shit.
Ethel cackles. “Of course, Gandrel. She’s friends with the spawn. She must have stumbled into the faerie rings in the Underdark. They’re a part of my transportation network.” She busies herself with a kettle, putting it over the hearth. “You may as well sit down, dear. You won’t make it far on your own.”
Gandrel looks at Ethel, interested. “Can we use the rings to get to the spawn?”
“I’m afraid not. Our girlie there crushed some of the mushrooms when she came through.” Ethel tuts, annoyed. “It’ll be at least a month before they grow back.”
Thank the gods, Emerie thinks. If Astarion was right, this man was sent to drag him back to Cazador. She doesn’t want to imagine what might happen to him if the Hunter manages to find him.
Emerie turns and takes off for the other door. The hunter- Gandrel- curses and chases after her. She tears down the steps, down the hill, past a well, and then she’s tackled by something viciously fast and small. They sprawl in the mud. Emerie wishes she had taken a weapon with her when she left camp that morning. She grapples with the thing, short and hideous with extremely sharp looking teeth.
The hunter catches up. He aims a crossbow at her. “Let’s try this again. Get up.”
The thing lets her go. She pants, out of breath. She doesn’t like her options.
“Now,” Gandrel insists.
Shit.
Emerie closes her eyes, accepting this temporary defeat. She’s been captured enough times in her life to know that she doesn’t stand a chance here, weaponless, powerless, with no idea where she even is.
Shit.
She pushes herself up to stand, grimacing at the muck coating her. Her bare feet squelch in the mud as she holds her hands in the air and walks towards Gandrel.
“Alright.” Emerie eyes the man warily.
He gestures towards the sprawling wooden house with the crossbow. “Back inside.” He keeps the crossbow trained on her as she steps around him. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end as she walks, knowing he has the bow trained on her the entire time.
When she makes it down the stairs to the table, Ethel gives her a disapproving look, hands propped on her hips. “Now look at this mess you’ve made.” She makes a gesture and the mud from the door to Emerie disappears. The woman frowns, noting the mud still coating Emerie’s feet and clothes. She makes the gesture again, and nothing happens.
The faerie circles suddenly make sense to Emerie. The woman is a hag- a fae creature.
Ethel’s eyebrows raise. “Well, well, aren’t you full of surprises.” She holds out a hand. “Hand over whatever pretty little magic bauble you’ve got on. I know anti-magic artifacts when I encounter them.”
Emerie shifts, but smiles wryly. “You’ll have to cut it off, I’m afraid. She gestures to her ankle. The woman- or hag’s- eyebrows raise further.
Ethel cackles. “A slave. Oh, this is delightful.” She grabs the kettle from the fire and pours it into two teacups sitting on the table. “Sit down, dear. I don’t bite.” She grins at her own joke.
Emerie sits in the chair, hesitantly.
“Gandrel, where are your manners.” Ethel props her hands on her hips again. “Put that thing down and sit.” Gandrel sighs, but comes into view as he walks around the table and sits in the other chair. “Good boy.”
Gandrel bristles visibly at the hag’s tone. He doesn’t argue, however, but sets his crossbow on the table, earning a disapproving glare from Ethel.
The woman putters around, putting food on plates that Emerie knows better than to eat. Gandrel looks Emerie over with interest. “So, you know where the vampire spawn is.”
She decides not to answer.
The man sighs, sitting back. “My employer said that Astarion would be alone. They seem to think that the spawn doesn’t have any friends. That doesn’t seem to be accurate, though, does it.”
Emerie raises an eyebrow, but chooses to stay silent.
Ethel cackles, setting plates in front of them. “The girl is not going to talk without some… encouragement.”
“I had worked that out for myself.” Gandrel pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly annoyed. “You do realize that vampires are selfish creatures. Whatever you think you are to him, he’s using you. You’re merely a toy for him to play with until he gets bored and finds something more interesting.”
Emerie snorts. He’s talking to her like she’s some naive young thing who hasn’t been used by others, over and over, and discarded without a care.
She knows Astarion is different, so far. At least, he’s different with her. She also knows that this man doesn’t know anything. He probably doesn’t even realize who he’s working for.
She almost pities him for being used for Cazador’s nefarious purposes. Somehow, she has a feeling he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.
She won’t be the one to enlighten him.
The crackling fire is the only sound that fills the house for a long while. Emerie stares at the table, tracing the grains of the wood. Her stomach grumbles, but she’s not about to touch anything inside a hag’s lair.
It seems that Gandrel has the same idea.
“It would seem, my dears, that you are at an impasse.” Ethel calls from the opposite side of the dwelling. She’s rummaging through drawers somewhere to Emerie’s left, up on the lofted area. She hears footsteps as the hag approaches. “If I could make a suggestion?”
Emerie goes to turn her head at the same time the woman grabs her shoulder in a crushingly strong grip. She feels the prick of a needle against her upper arm. The room starts to spin.
She thinks she might be falling. As if at a distance, she hears, “Take her back to your employer. The spawn marked her as his- he might come after her.”
He eats roar, but she can almost make out some more words. “Ring… basement… Baldur’s Gate.”
—-
Astarion has been up for an hour when it becomes apparent that Emerie has gone missing.
The others had already packed up their things, preparing for the day ahead. They’re eating breakfast while Astarion slowly packs his own things, then looks over Emerie’s.
Her boots and weapons are still here. Her sketchbook is out. It’s been at least an hour.
He steps out of the tent, carding his hand through his hair as he looks around. Where would she have gone?
Karlach meets his eyes across the fire. “Hey, soldier. What’s up?”
“Emerie isn’t here. Her weapons are here, but she’s not.” He tries to say it calmly. He thinks he manages.
The others look around at each other, realizing the same thing. Nobody has seen her.
Halsin stands up. “I‘ll see what I can do to track her.” He shifts, turning from a large elf into a large wolf nearly instantly.
The wolf sniffs around the tent, picking up the scent. Astarion follows him to the edge of camp, then into a secluded area littered with glowing mushrooms. The wolf pauses for a minute, sniffing the air, and then comes to stand outside a ring of mushrooms.
Astarion’s hair stands on end.
A faerie circle.
Halsin shifts back, looking over the circle carefully. He steps inside.
Then he disappears.
A sound from his left has Astarion turning. Halsin is at the top of the steep cliff to his left. “Stay there while I look around!” The elf calls down to him.
Astarion resists the urge to step into the circle himself.
After several minutes, Halsin reappears in front of him. “The trail goes cold at the top of the cliff.” The elf cards his hand through his hair, looking up. “It’s like she stepped into the circle and vanished. But the one up there brought me right back here.”
Astarion closes his eyes, fighting for calm. “So, she probably got transported somewhere.”
Halsin inclines his head. “It seems likely.” He pauses, looking uncomfortable. “If she was, it seems like it’s been disconnected from the other side.”
Astarion looks up to the top of the cliff. “So we have no idea where she might be.”
Gods. Fucking. Damnit.
“Yes.”
Honestly, he wishes Halsin hadn’t confirmed it. The bigger elf hesitates, but says, “We can stay here for a while longer. Maybe she will find her way back through the circles. It’s possible she got lost a little on the other end.”
Somehow, Astarion doesn’t think that’s likely. Nevertheless, he nods sharply.
They return to camp.
Halsin relays the information to the others, while Astarion retreats to the tent he’d left up. He doesn’t care what the others do. He’s not going anywhere. Not until he thinks she’s not coming back.
He starts to pack her things. It’ll be good to have her stuff ready to go when she returns.
He pauses when he gets to the sketchbook. It’s open to a drawing of a tree. He thinks it looks familiar.
He flips the pages.
Bricks, a cat. The campfire. Wyll, before and after getting horns. It’s a rather good rendering of the man, actually.
An elf.
He pauses. He recognizes the shirt.
It’s him.
He flips the page. Him, again, laying in the sun.
His heart clenches and he flips the page back. He hasn’t seen his face in… gods, he doesn’t even know how long. He runs his fingers over the lines on the page.
He flips through a few more. Shadowheart and Karlach’s backs in front of a fire. Him, angry. A brain. His scars. Him, asleep. Bottles on a rack. A window. Him.
He sinks to his knees.
He studies the last drawing. Him, laying down, arm stretched behind him, with a soft smile on his face.
He forces the air out of his lungs, trying not to cry.
A tear slips out anyway. It’s fine. Nobody is here to see.
He puts the sketchbook in his own things.
Notes:
I'm beyond excited to have gotten this far. I had a list of things I wanted to happen when I started this and it's so satisfying every time I hit a major point.
Thank you all SO SO much for reading, For those of you leaving comments, you are the most amazingest people ever and I hope your day is as lovely as you are. <3
EDITED TO ADD: if you are reading this as a completed work, this is a really great time to take a break.
Chapter 13
Notes:
This is the mildest caution to please mind the rating and the tags. I promise not to keep it too dark for too long.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Awareness returns in stages.
Emerie’s head hurts. Her left shoulder aches. Her tongue feels heavy and dry in her mouth.
She smells smoke.
She wonders if Astarion is awake. She tries to reach for him, but her hands won’t move.
She cracks her eyes open. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort, like her eyelids weigh a ton.
It’s dark.
She’s in a tent.
Astarion probably went out to hunt.
She thinks she might hear muffled voices, but she drifts back into unconsciousness.
—-
The waiting grates on his nerves.
Astarion walks back to the faerie circle again and explores around it. There aren’t any signs she was here, except for the evidence of what took her from camp. He’s not keen to look too closely at that.
He steps into the circle of small glowing green mushrooms. At first, it does nothing. When he takes a step to move out, it triggers.
He looks around him and steps out of the circle. He’s still in the Underdark, at the top of a cliff. Astarion looks over the edge. Sure enough, he can see the green ring beneath him. The ring or mushrooms at the top is a faint purple color.
There isn’t much up here. The walls rise, steep and sheer, for as far as his eyes can see. He could walk from one side of this ledge to the other in less than a minute.
When he’s circled the perimeter of the ledge twice, he breathes. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
He steps into the circle again and is transported back to the bottom.
Karlach is waiting several yards away, surveying the area with a tight expression. They lock eyes. “Anything?” she asks, and he has to shove down the urge to snap at her.
“No. Nothing.” It’s been hours upon hours and there is no sign of their missing…
His missing…
Whatever she is.
Karlach frowns and then sighs. “Alright, then.” She says it quietly, low and resigned.
They walk back to camp together.
The others are in a loose circle, not speaking. Every head turns when they come into view.
“Anything?” Shadowheart sounds reluctantly hopeful, as if they’ve got Emerie hidden behind them ready to jump out and yell ‘surprise!’
Karlach shakes her head. Shadowheart droops, visibly saddened. Halsin looks grim. Wyll and Gale exchange a hesitant glance.
Wyll is the one who broaches the subject that none of them want to. “We probably shouldn’t linger. Wherever she is, she knows where we’re going. She’s a survivor.”
Astarion doesn’t bother to point out that there’s no guarantee that any of them will survive where they’re going, even in a group. He doesn’t want to imagine doing this alone.
I’m glad I’m not doing all of this alone, Emerie had said to him only yesterday. His stomach feels leaden. “Alright. Lead the way,” he says, and he tries to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do.
—-
The next time Emerie wakes, she feels groggy, but alert. She’s on a blanket on the ground in a large tent. She tries to sit up, but realizes quickly that her hands are tied behind her.
She hears footsteps.
Heavy boots appear in front of her. Looking up, she sees an old woman, head half-shaven, with cropped silver hair on the other side of her head. The woman is wearing bits of polished armor and a braided headband. She inspects Emerie with sharp eyes. “Hello, elf.”
Emerie manages to sit up with some effort, crossing her legs in front of her. Her head aches. Gandrel steps into view near the old woman. Emerie’s jaw clenches as she glares at him. “Where am I?”
“You are a guest of our camp. We are outside Baldur’s Gate.” The woman’s voice is deep and crisp- no nonsense. “I am Ulma, leader of the Gur community here. We are looking for the vampire spawn Astarion, who abducted our children.” Ulma looks Emerie over, eyes lingering on her neck.
Emerie’s stomach clenches. “When?” Astarion has been gone from the city for weeks. Maybe they’re mistaken.
“Several weeks ago, at night, Astarion and another spawn came and took several children.” Gandrel says, voice low and tight. “We’ve been trying to get them back since then.”
Emerie’s eyes shut, pained. He was here several weeks ago.
Gandrel continues, “I should have recognized him when I met you the first time, but I hardly expected to see a vampire spawn strutting about in daylight.”
Emerie meets his eyes for a moment, but they’re hard. Angry. She looks to the woman instead. “I don’t understand what you want with me. I don’t know anything about it.”
Gandrel snorts, but the woman just raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps not. But we have been unsuccessful trying to get into the palace of Cazador Szarr. One of his spawn, however, might have better luck. Or an idea of a different way in.”
Emerie shakes her head. “What makes you think the children are even still alive? From what I’ve heard, Cazador is ruthless. If it’s been weeks…” she trails off, not wanting to say it. There’s no hope.
Ulma’s eyes dim, but her jaw clenches. “Then we take our revenge. But we need Astarion.”
“I can’t give him to you.” Emerie says, tightly.
“Can’t you?” Gandrel mocks. “You’ve been with him this whole time. You know where he is.”
Emerie shakes her head again. “I don’t.” She knows where he’s going, but these people don’t need to know that. “I can’t help you.”
Ulma inspects her. “He will come find you, or we will find him. One way or another, the spawn will answer for what he’s done.”
Emerie wonders what, exactly, he did- or if he even had a choice. She doesn’t know, and that bothers her. Her heart aches for the children whose lives were destroyed.
Astarion had thought the hunter was working for Cazador. That doesn’t seem to be the case, but she does wonder, “How did you know where to look for Astarion?”
Gandrel looks her over, brow furrowed. “I was looking for him and I heard at an inn in the city that he’d been seen in that area.”
Impossible.
“He wasn’t there long enough for anyone to have known and made it back here,” she says, mind racing. Cazador must have some way of knowing where he is. She exhales raggedly. “Cazador is playing you for fools. He wants Astarion back, and he sent you on the hunt for him.”
Gandrel laughs humorlessly. “Why would he need to do that? A vampire controls their spawn, completely.”
Unless those spawn are kidnapped and infected with a mind flayer parasite, Emerie thinks. The woman, Ulma, looks troubled. She glances at Gandrel, who clenches his jaw and turns to exit the tent.
Ulma turns away from Emerie. “Someone will bring food and water when it’s time to eat.”
Things could be worse.
The Gur are certainly a better option than Cazador, at least.
Emerie’s head is spinning. Whatever poison the hag had used to knock her out was strong. She lays back down on her side, hands useless in their bindings. She examines the inside of the tent. It’s bare, with nothing more than a rickety table and a bucket. She shuts her eyes.
Her mind struggles to process everything she’s learned. She tries to reconcile her lover with the vampire spawn who kidnaps children. It’s not a pretty picture. She would like to think that he had only done it because he was compelled to.
But she knows he had decided to manipulate her.
He said he cared about her.
It could be a lie.
He was sweet to her.
He could just be using her.
It must have been close to dusk when she woke, because the tent grows impossibly dark as her mind spirals out of control.
When a tall figure comes into the tent, she thinks it might be a hallucination for one wild moment.
The figure draws closer. It’s a man. His hair is long and dark.
His eyes glow red.
She tries to say something, but the sound dies as it leaves her mouth. A silencing spell, she realizes. Her cuff won’t do anything for magic that affects the space around her. Astarion was right about Cazador looking for him.
The vampire approaches, and Emerie tries to move away, but she’s clumsy and slow without her hands to help. The vampire is there in a flash of movement. He hauls her to her feet, lifting her as if she weighs nothing. One strong hand grips the back of her neck in an iron grip, forcing her to walk in front of him.
She feels the tip of a blade press into her side.
They walk through the opening in the tent. The moon is bright. They’re at the top of a rise over the river. She can see it glistening, far below. The air isn’t as fresh here as it was in the grove- it’s choked with the smell of the city. She can see the walls, huge and foreboding on the opposite side of the river.
A man is dead in a pool of blood outside the tent.
The vampire forces her to keep moving. She tries to ignore the slick feeling of the man’s blood between her toes.
They stick to the shadows, passing rows and rows of tents before they come to open air on the river’s edge. Another vampire, a pretty tiefling, waits for them there. Her brow furrows as they approach. “That is not Astarion.”
The big vampire lets go of Emerie. She takes a step backward, then two, so she can keep both vampires in view. She tugs fruitlessly at her bindings, trying to free her hands.
No luck.
“No, it’s not Astarion, but she’s wearing his shirt. She reeks of him.” The male vampire regards Emerie with an unyielding stare.
The female’s jaw clenches. She takes in Emerie’s clothing, her dirty feet, and tilts her head when her eyes stop on Emerie’s neck. “Interesting,” she mutters.
“Who are you?” Emerie growls.
The male raises an eyebrow at her pitiful display of defiance, but it’s the female who answers. “I am Aurelia. This is Leon. We are Astarion’s siblings.”
Emerie considers, for a moment, pretending she doesn’t know who Astarion is. Unfortunately, his clothes and the bite marks on her neck tell a different story.
And his scent, apparently.
Emerie glances at Leon, stern and unyielding. She meets Aurelia’s eyes instead. “Any chance you could let me go?”
Aurelia tilts her head. Leon chuckles. “No, little elf. We’re taking you to our master.”
Emerie’s heart sinks. She glances at the river- running water.
“Try it, and see how far my patience goes,” Leon says, amused.
Despite her hands tied behind her back, Emerie tries to make a run for the water.
She’s slammed to the ground, face first, within five steps. The coppery taste of blood fills her mouth. She turns her head to the side, gasping for breath.
Leon leans down close, knee in her spine. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Emerie whimpers, pained. The pressure on her spine eases a little. “Please, just let me go,” she whispers.
She hears a deep sigh behind her. “I can’t.”
—-
When they stop for the day, Astarion exiles himself to his own tent. He doesn’t feel capable of being around the others. Not tonight.
The blankets still smell like her.
Several drops of Emerie’s blood stain one of his cushions. He wonders when he let that happen.
He takes out the book. He flips through it again, slowly, taking the time to really look.
It’s just lines on a page.
The romantic in him balks at that thought. Her hands made these lines. She is as much a part of this as she is of anything.
He obsesses over the first drawing of him. It’s just marks on a page, but it’s more than he ever thought he would see of himself again.
It’s another gift that she doesn’t even know she’s given him.
He flips the page. Then flips it again.
She took her time on this one- him lounging in the sun. Amusement curls up inside him at the thought that she’d spent hours obsessing over the memory of him laying in the grass.
On the side of the page, she’s scrawled the words may the flowers remind us why the rain was necessary.
He slams the book shut.
—-
They take her to a sparse room.
Leon cuts the ropes binding her hands before they shut the door on her. Emerie works the kinks out of her shoulders and rubs the soreness out of her wrists as she paces the room.
There’s no furniture.
She knows there’s no hope of escape. They had passed dozens of guards on the way in.
It smells like death in here.
Her head aches.
There are hooks in the wall.
She tries not to think about it. She sinks down against the far wall, staring at the door.
Emerie thinks it’s been about an hour when the door opens again. She scrambles to her feet.
A male elf enters, red eyes creeping over her disdainfully. His black hair is slicked back. Dread curls in her gut. She knows who he is before she even says anything.
“Well, well, well,” Cazador drawls. His lips quirk up into an evil smile. Leon steps into the room behind him and shuts the door. “If it isn’t our poor, lost son’s little toy.” Cazador steps closer, inspecting her. “Tell me, does the little toy have a name.”
Emerie doesn’t think it will change her fate one way or another to tell this monster her name. She clenches her jaw and glares.
Cazador chuckles. “Oh, this will be fun. Leon?”
Emerie’s gaze flickers to Leon, who makes a gesture at her. She feels magic fizzle in front of her. She represses the urge to smile.
Cazador glances back at his spawn, eyebrows raised.
Leon tries again to cast whatever spell he was attempting. Again, it fizzles in the air in front of her.
Leon tilts his head, eyes raking over her. “Anti-magic,” he says, lowly.
“Find it,” Cazador snaps, impatient.
Leon takes a step towards her, and Emerie swallows. She doesn’t want to know how he intends to find it. She indicates her ankle, raising the hem of her pants. “It doesn’t come off.”
Leon’s gaze flickers with something that might be sympathy, if Emerie had to put a word to it. Cazador eyes her with extreme distaste, his jaw clenched. “I guess we will have to do this the messy way, then.”
His eyes are the same color as Astarion’s.
She hates them.
Leon retreats, speaking to someone outside the room.
Cazador smiles at her. “I would be lying if I said you could make this easier for yourself.”
Leon returns with long shackles attached to chains.
Emerie shuts her eyes as the cool metal is fastened around her wrists.
“Begin.”
—-
The second morning without Emerie at camp is subdued. The normal conversation has stilled in everyone’s throats, their eyes studiously avoiding the empty space where she should be.
It infuriates Astarion.
He wishes someone would act normally. It would be easier to forget if they all just pretended it hadn’t happened.
He fantasizes about ripping their throats out as they eat breakfast.
It doesn’t bring him any joy.
He wonders, briefly, how they might taste.
He lets the thought drift away.
He has to keep them alive to get to Moonrise. If they don’t find a way to rid themselves of the tadpoles, they’re all doomed. Astarion knows he won’t be able to make it alone.
He needs them.
He tries to pretend the thought doesn’t fill him with terror.
—-
Emerie is vaguely aware of the door opening. She’s curled up at the base of the wall, her knees and forehead pressed into the stone. The door shuts. She clenches her eyes shut tighter at the noise. Everything aches, but she can’t decide if the ache is worse or the sharp points of pain in parts of her body.
She thinks, probably, the ache.
Soft footsteps approach. She hears someone behind her, setting what sounds like bottles on the stone. She hisses when she feels a soft touch on her arm, stinging where they ripped through her stitches with a knife.
The hand withdraws. She hears a soft breath.
“This will be easier if you cooperate.” It’s Leon. He says it softly, like it actually matters.
Emerie doesn’t respond.
He sighs. “I have potions. They will help.”
Emerie breathes deep, setting off a sharp pain in her chest. She exhales slowly, trying to keep it controlled. “Why?” she says, hoarsely.
“Consider it my good deed of the year,” he says humorlessly. “You can certainly refuse, but you’ll spend a miserable day in pain for no good reason.”
Emerie snorts.
There’s a long pause. “He’s going to keep you alive. Cazador will love using you to torture Astarion, whenever he returns.”
Emerie rolls over to look at him. He’s crouched on the ground next to her, observing her emotionlessly. Several bottles sit at his feet. “What if he’s gone for good.”
Leon sighs. “We live a very long time. Cazador will never stop looking for him.” He tilts his head. “And I imagine our master already has plans to make sure you live to see the day he finds him.”
Emerie laughs, and it’s a choking, wet sound. She closes her eyes. “Of course he will.”
She hears Leon shift. When she cracks an eye open, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her. “He’s going to find a way to make you talk. You’re not helping Astarion with your silence.”
Emerie regards steadily him with both eyes. “Maybe. But if I hold on long enough, anything I know will be useless.”
The glow in his eyes is unsettling. It’s a stark reminder that he is merely a puppet of his master. “I doubt he would do the same for you.”
Would he? Emerie hasn’t known Astarion long enough to know. Leon might know him better. He’s certainly known him longer. But… he only knows the Astarion that was under Cazador’s thumb. “He might not. I hope to never find out.”
Her eyes drift shut.
Leon sighs. “Take the potions. It’s the best I can do for you.”
He stands, and she hears him walk away.
“Leon?”
He stops. She opens her eyes to see him standing in front of the door, stiffly. He turns his head to look at her. “Yes?”
“Why do you care?”
He doesn’t answer.
It’s a while after he leaves that she drags herself up into a sitting position. She tries to use her right arm and the sharp pain makes her head spin. She rolls to her side and uses her left arm to push herself up, resting her forehead on the wall until she can tell up from down.
She turns, slowly, and drags one bottle to her. She pulls the coke out and sniffs it.
Healing potion.
She drinks it and feels marginally better. She downs two more like it, and then inspects the last bottle. She doesn’t know what’s in it.
She’s not sure it matters.
When she drinks it, she realizes it’s a sleeping potion.
How considerate, she thinks, curling back up as she feels herself drift away.
—-
They spend the night in a cold stone room in Grymforge. They agree to a watch schedule, not trusting the reluctant hospitality of the Duergar inhabiting the underground city. Astarion is twitching with the urge to go make a meal out of the distasteful creatures.
They can’t afford to fight their way through the whole city.
Probably.
Halsin in bear form is incredibly useful in a fight. He’s good for at least ten men by himself. Wyll is sickeningly powerful, too, come to think of it. The rest of them are more than adequate, at this point. And Karlach is a one-woman army.
It’s difficult to talk himself out of going out and snapping someone’s neck.
Frustration makes him restless.
They’re close, according to Halsin. The way to the surface should be somewhere in this city. They just have to find it.
It would probably be easier if they ask around.
Which means no killing.
His fingers twitch on the pages of the novel he stole from Gale. Some love story about an elf and an orc. Probably Halsin’s ancestors, given the druid’s size.
He wishes Emerie were here to read it. She would laugh.
The others chat over their evening meal, seemingly unconcerned.
His fingers twitch again.
—-
The second night is worse.
She considers that it’s likely because Cazador had time to plan. Or perhaps he’s just that sadistic.
It’s hard to know.
His voice echoes in her head, over and over. What pretty screams you have, little toy.
Pretty screams.
Pretty screams.
Little toy.
Little toy.
Astarion's screams are sweeter.
She whimpers when the door opens. It closes again.
She hears a single set of footsteps, and then a blanket covers her.
“Did he send you?” she croaks.
She feels a large body sit down beside her and hears the bottles clink on the floor. “No.”
She tries to sit up and fails. Large hands grip her under her armpits, and she gasps in pain as he tugs her into a semblance of sitting against his lap. He tugs the blanket back over her.
She hears him pick up a bottle. He uncorks it somewhere near her ear, and then presses it to her lips. “Drink.”
She does. She doesn’t have the will to resist.
It helps.
She cracks her eyes open. It seems like such a long way up to his face. He looks down at her, grim.
Her back is cold.
“You’re getting blood on your clothes,” she says, hoarsely.
He snorts. “No wonder Astarion likes you. He was always worried about his pretty clothes.”
She rolls that thought around in her mind. It fits. She smiles a little.
He notices. “You care for him.” It’s a simple observation. Too simple, really, for the situation. She laughs, short and sharp. She’s sitting in a puddle of her blood, simply for refusing to tell Cazador where Astarion was when she last saw him.
He sighs, his head tipping back against the wall. “Nothing good comes of caring about vampire spawn, girl. Nothing.” He says it bitterly, like he’s learned the hard way.
She hums. It’s not agreement, but she can’t force out any more words. He reaches for another bottle and presses it into her hand.
She uncorks it and drinks. He’s silent for a long time, then he whispers, “I have a daughter. She lives here.”
Her eyes flick up to him. He’s staring at the door, far away. “Cazador found out about her when she was still small. He… took… her mother. And her. He keeps her here.”
To ensure his good behavior, she knows. Her heart aches for him. “How old is she?” she asks, not sure she wants to know.
“Ten.”
Strange. Her brow furrows. “How old are you?”
He glances down at her. “Over a hundred.”
She looks at his ears. They’re rounded, like a human’s. He anticipates her thoughts. “I use a transmutation spell as a disguise when I go into the city. It… changes me, physically, at least. It was enough to make it possible to impregnate Victoria’s mother.”
Emerie filters this information through her brain. She supposed it makes sense. “Did you love her?”
A long pause, then- “Yes.” A muscle twitches in his jaw.
Her eyes sting. He grabs another bottle and presses it into her hand. She uncorks it and drinks.
She sets the bottle aside carefully and drags herself up into a sitting position. She settles next to him against the wall, pulling the blanket around her. She thinks of the man next to her, of his lost love, and of the daughter he has somewhere in this horrible building. Her chest aches and her eyes sting.
She thinks of Astarion, alone in this place for two centuries. She wonders if he had ever dared to love anyone.
She wonders what it cost him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, inadequately.
“You remind me of her, a little. She knew what I was. She loved me anyway,” Leon confesses. He passes her the last potion- the sleep potion.
She doesn’t want to be awake anymore. She drinks it.
—-
They end up fighting anyway. Karlach can’t abide the idea of slavers.
Astarion doesn’t mind, even though the sentiment is irritating. He’s thrilled to rip the Duergar to shreds.
He doesn’t bother to make a meal of them. The smell of their blood makes his mouth water, but he’s nauseous and tired.
Besides, the burn of the hunger is a good distraction.
—-
Emerie thinks it’s been several days.
Someone left her food a few times. She isn’t entirely sure how many. It’s stale bread and water, but she eats it anyway. She doesn’t want to find out how they might decide to force her to eat if she refuses.
Cazador is grinning when he comes in, Leon his tall shadow. She studiously avoids looking at the spawn, both tormentor and confidant.
A gesture from Leon has chains hooking into the cuffs on her wrists, drawing her up the wall as they attack to the hooks embedded in the stone.
She doesn’t bother glaring. She doesn’t have the energy.
“Your defiance is at an end, pretty toy. We have come up with a solution to our magic problem.” Cazador claps his hands together once, and Leon steps forward holding a glowing potion bottle. Frost coats the outside.
He is expressionless when he presses his fingers into the hinge of Emerie’s jaw, forcing her mouth open so her can pour the potion inside. As soon as it’s in, his hand covers her nose and mouth until she’s forced to swallow.
Emerie feels like frost is forming in her veins.
Leon sinks to one knee. She feels a tingle against her bare legs. When she looks down, she sees a searing flame in Leon’s hand.
“This will probably still hurt,” Cazador says, gleefully.
For a while, all Emerie feels is the kiss of air fluttering against her cuffed ankle. It slowly warms, until she feels the heat. She looks down, and the cuff is red hot.
—-
They force her to drink something after the cuff melts. Her ears are ringing. Her face is wet and cold.
Her throat is raw.
The burning in her foot gradually subsides from searing pain to something marginally more bearable.
The scent of burned flesh fills her nostrils.
Slowly, her vision clears. She meets Leon’s expressionless gaze.
“Do it,” his master commands.
Leon makes a gesture, and she feels a pressure in her mind as he enters her thoughts.
She whimpers, knowing it’s only a matter of time now before they get the answers they’re looking for.
She decides to try to hide it anyway.
“Idiot girl,” Leon mutters, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
The pressure in her head increases. Her eyes slam shut.
“Where is Astarion?” Cazador drawls, too pleased with himself.
She hates him.
She pictures him falling into a volcano, then being shredded by wolves, then being turned to ash in the sun.
She thinks she feels a touch of amusement from the presence in her head.
“You aren’t his usual type, you know. He tends more towards men,” Cazador says, seemingly offhanded. Emerie’s mind drifts, against her will, to Astarion’s head between her legs. “Then again, he’s hardly picky, is he.”
Leon seizes on the memory and forces it to reach its conclusion. Thankfully, it’s nothing incriminating, merely a private moment between the two of them.
She refuses to feel shame.
The unwelcome intrusion makes her think of many other memories that she really doesn’t want to think about, even if doing so stops her from thinking about Astarion.
She remembers Astarion, sitting in the sunshine. She feels, intensely, Leon’s surprise at that. He pushes further. She thinks of rubbing Astarion’s back while he watched the sunrise. Then his arms around her. A kiss on her forehead. His mouth on her neck. His bite. Him, in her mouth.
She gasps, trying to think of anything else. The way the grass felt under her paws in wild shape. The waves against the dock in Waterdeep. The forest. Parties under the light of the moon.
“Is he really worth all this trouble, girl?” Cazador says, and his words stir anger in her gut.
Of course he is.
She thinks of his hand squeezing hers under the tree in the Underdark.
Shit.
She opens her eyes, meeting Leon’s glowing red ones. “The Underdark?” he asks.
Cazador laughs, cold and cruel.
She’s not surprised that that isn’t the end.
—-
“You look terrible.”
Astarion looks up to see Shadowheart in his room. They’ve decided to rest and resupply in Grymforge before continuing to the surface. “Well, hello. Do come in,” he says, glaring at her and snapping the sketchbook shut.
She rolls her eyes at him but comes further into the room. “You haven’t eaten. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
He swings his legs over the side of the bed he’s claimed as his own. “Oh? Any particular reason you’re paying such close attention?” he drawls, mockingly.
She huffs. “We’re going into the shadow lands tomorrow. If half of what Halsin says is true, we all need to be at our best.” She looks him over critically. “You are not at your best.”
His muscles are tight with irritation. “What do you suggest? I can hardly just kip out for a meal. Unless you’re offering.”
She shrugs, unconcerned. “Maybe I am.”
He wants to throw something at her. He sighs and punches the bridge of his nose. “Get out.”
Shadowheart raises an eyebrow at him. “Alright, alright. I get it.” She walks over to his table and picks up his knife. He shifts, getting ready to tackle her if he needs to.
“That. Isn’t. Out.”
“I know.” She brings the knife to her arm and slices it open, holding her arm over the silver bowl on the table. Blood pours from the wound. His nostrils flare at the scent, his hunger sharpening.
“Get. Out,” he says through gritted teeth.
The bowl fills. Shadowheart murmurs a spell and the wound closes. She sets the knife on the table.
“Eat. Or… drink.” She blinks, turning around. “Whatever you do. If you don’t, you’ll deserve whatever happens to you tomorrow.” She leaves, shutting the door behind her.
Meddling bitch.
He drinks the blood, eventually. He even feels marginally better, except that without the hunger, his mind has nothing to focus on but his thoughts.
He doesn’t rest.
—-
“I’ve been ordered not to heal you.”
Emerie vaguely knows the voice, she thinks. She opens her eyes and the room spins.
Cazador took far more blood than Astarion ever had.
He’d made sure it hurt when he bit her, too. There’s a deep ache in her neck where his teeth had cut through her flesh.
She tries to focus. She vaguely recognizes Leon, crouching in front of her.
Was she sitting or lying down?
She isn’t sure. She lets her eyes slide shut. At least she’s clean, now.
There’s another set of footsteps. Emerie flinches.
“Father?” A soft voice breaks through the haze in her mind.
“The potions, Victoria.”
Victoria. The child. Emerie fights to open her eyes. She sees a small hand in front of her, holding out a vial.
Emerie takes it in a shaking hand.
Sitting. She thinks she’s sitting.
She tips the potion back. The room stops spinning. The girl next to Leon is tall, for ten years old. Her hair is blonde, far paler than her father’s. She wonders, dizzily, if that came from him or from the form he took when the girl was conceived.
She tries to smile at the girl. “Hi, Victoria. I’m Emerie. Thank you.”
Serious blue eyes regard her. Human. Utterly human. “You’re welcome,” the girl says, glancing up at her father.
Leon waves his hand, and the girl disappears. “Thank you. Go back. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Emerie watches the door open and shut, the invisible child presumably passing through it.
Leon pulls something white from his pocket and hands it to her.
Astarion’s shirt.
“I cleaned it, for all the good it does.” His voice is emotionless, but she thinks she can see something flicker in his eyes.
“Thank you,” Emerie whispers. She traces the collar of the shirt with her fingers.
He sighs. He stands.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve known Astarion for a very long time. I think he cares for you, too,” he says softly. He leaves, shutting the door carefully.
Emerie lays down on the shirt.
It doesn’t smell like Astarion anymore.
Notes:
The worst of it should be out of the way. I made an effort to not do anything gratuitous here, and I really did not want to spend more than a chapter on anything quite this dark.
Thank you all for reading <3
Chapter 14
Notes:
I have very carefully avoided (or tried to avoid) any real description of Emerie. That was on purpose because honestly I feel like we all deserve to picture her however the heck we want to. <3 I do realize that this leaves some ambiguity about the whole spawn situation, though. For clarification: as far as I’m concerned the lore is that you have to be drained to the point of death by a true vampire in order to be turned. I’m sticking to the game’s rules/lore as much as I can and filling in with DM knowledge and DnD 5e rules where the game is ambiguous (plus the rule of cool, because I can.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In quiet moments in the dark room, Emerie comes to some conclusions.
Cazador must have had a way to locate Astarion, but it must be limited somehow. He’d known the approximate area to look for him, but Gandrel had been days from the Nautiloid crash site when they’d encountered him the first time.
Cazador’s also spent far too much effort trying to get answers out of her. That could be simple sadism, but she doesn’t think so. It was a risky move, taking off the anti-magic cuff of an unknown spell-caster.
Which, she reflects, is probably why he said no healing. That also means he’s going to keep her as weak as he can.
She can summon a few sparks in her hand, but that’s about it. She certainly doesn’t have enough energy to wild-shape.
She knows Leon won’t risk giving her more than one potion. She doesn’t want to imagine what would happen to him if she gains enough strength to cast anything and Cazador finds out about it.
She counts the stones in the wall across from her, trying not to wonder where Astarion and Karlach and the others might be.
She hopes, wherever they are, it’s far away from here.
—-
“Shadow Curse” has to be the biggest understatement that Astarion has heard in his very long existence.
The depths of night aren’t as dark as the oppressive gloom that hangs over this land. The closest thing he can think of is the darkness in the tomb he’d clawed his way out of after he’d been turned.
Even that darkness may have been more pleasant.
This darkness twists and writhes and- quite literally- comes alive.
Thank the gods that Shadowheart had learned some new tricks, or they might have been mincemeat. The cleric was able to conjure a circle of brilliant light that dissolved the shadow monsters encircling them.
He’d try to remember to leave an offering to Shar somewhere- perhaps a nice corpse.
He hopes that’s the appropriate form of gratitude.
Then again, this curse is Shar’s doing. He reflects that his gratitude may be ever so slightly misplaced.
They make friends, of a sort, due to the banishment of the shadow monsters. The Harpers’ leader tells them about a sanctuary from the curse.
Thank the fucking gods.
Not Shar.
—-
“How long have I been here?” Emerie isn’t sure, but it feels like it’s been a long time.
“Eight days,” Leon says, casting a spell to clean up the mess on the floor.
It feels like it’s been an eternity, but it’s hardly been more than a week.
Emerie suddenly has fond memories of Calimport. She’d even take the bed.
She snorts at herself.
She thinks she understands what Astarion meant about gnawing his own leg off now.
“You shouldn’t antagonize him.”
It takes her a minute to realize he means Cazador, not Astarion. She tips her head back against the wall and looks up at Leon. “But he makes it so easy.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Fucking hells,” he mutters, sitting down next to her and holding up a cup of water for her to drink.
She thinks she might hate him for knowing that she can’t hold it herself.
“Astarion liked to antagonize him, too. He always had some clever nonsense to say.” Leon doesn’t sound amused.
Emerie laughs. It sounds like something Astarion would do. She can almost imagine it.
—-
The legendary Jaheira is in charge of this ragtag group of Harpers. Astarion almost thinks things might be looking up, if Jaheira is here to take the fight to Moonrise Towers.
He hopes they find out whatever they need to about the tadpoles first.
Jaheira is- perhaps understandably- suspicious of their little band of illithid-infected misfits, but her feelings are assuaged with the help of a truth potion. She invites them to find rooms upstairs at the Last Light Inn. “The roof is… questionable, which is why there are so many rooms free up there, but I doubt it will be a problem,” she says.
Honestly, it’s probably infinitely better than a tent, he thinks.
They’re greeted by several tieflings from the grove. Karlach spots Dammon cross the yard in an open-walled forge and goes to say hello, to Shadowheart’s amusement.
Astarion is too tired to be amused.
He is relieved -and surprised by the feeling- when they go inside and find the tiefling children milling about. He hadn’t dared to hope for their safety. He also doesn’t remember when he’d decided their safety mattered.
The group are directed to the stairs by one of the children. At the top is a wide sitting area open to the outdoors. It’s littered with tables and chairs in questionable repair. The perimeter of the building is lined with open doors, and Astarion can see beds inside some of the rooms.
What draws his attention, however, is the man sitting at a table set with a lanceboard across from the tiefling child, Mol.
Raphael still doesn’t look like a normal man, even without the wings, horns, and red eyes that identify him as a devil. Astarion’s hair stands on end at the casual nature of a devil they know wants something from them sitting here so casually.
He’s not the only one who notices. Gale swears under his breath. Wyll stiffens. Shadowheart starts walking towards the pair.
Mol moves two pieces on the lanceboard between the pair and Raphael chuckles. “Brava. I see I was right to make you the offer I did.”
Mol grins. She looks over Raphael’s shoulder at Shadowheart. “Look who finally made it!” the child teases. “I thought you all would be halfway to Baldur’s Gate by now.”
Shadowheart raises one prim eyebrow at the child. “Yes, well, we had some errands to take care of along the way. Who’s your friend?”
Mol shrugs. “Just someone I met on the road. This is Raphael.”
“We’ve met,” Raphael drawls.
The child’s eyebrows shoot up. She looks over the four of them. “Where’s Karlach? I liked her. Don’t tell me she got herself killed.”
Astarion tries to hide his annoyance that the kid didn’t mention Emerie.
Shadowheart laughs. “Karlach’s outside, visiting Dammon. You can go see her, if you’d like. Let her know we have actual rooms to sleep in tonight.”
Mol hops out of the chair gleefully and takes off down the stairs.
“She is a delight, isn’t she? So young, so full of hope.” Raphael grins at them.
Wyll crosses his arms. “Whatever deal you cut with the child, let her out of it.” His voice is low and threatening. Astarion thinks that if anyone has learned about infernal deals the hard way, it’s Wyll.
Raphael chuckles. “Any deal the girl makes will be her own choice. I am hardly going to force her.” He looks them over critically. “I can’t help but notice you all are missing someone. It’s such a shame- it’s been a delight watching the vampire and the slave fall all over each other. I suppose I’ll have to find some other form of entertainment.”
Astarion bristles. Fury threatens to choke him. He takes a step toward Raphael, who grins broadly. “Don’t you want to know what happened to your erstwhile lover? It’s quite the tale, after all.”
Astarion stills.
“Get to the point, if you please,” Gale says, tightly.
Raphael’s eyes never leave Astarion’s. “Your little mouse fell afoul of a cat. The cat took the mouse out to play, but the fox closed in and took the mouse away.” The devil’s eyes gleam.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Astarion spits.
Raphael sighs, as if it pains him to have to spell it out. “Your little… lover… found herself in a hag’s back yard. That hag happened to be assisting a certain monster hunter who was on your trail.” Raphael waves his hand and the lanceboard on the table disappears. “That monster hunter took the girl to Baldur’s Gate, hoping she would assist in tracking down a certain vampire spawn.” Astarion’s throat is tight. Raphael stands. “Unfortunately, the Gur underestimated your old master’s reach.”
Fuck.
Astarion’s head spins.
“Your pretty little lover has been the guest of your former master. He’s been giving her the… royal treatment, since he can tell how much she means to you.” Raphael croons.
Astarion thinks he’s going to vomit. He shuts his eyes against the feeling.
Gale, annoying Gale’s voice, cuts through the nausea. “Well, if you’re so formidable, why don’t you retrieve her then?”
Raphael laughs. “I suppose I could, if I were so inclined.”
“What would it take?” Astarion’s own voice sounds far away to his ears. He opens his eyes.
The devil looks him over. “I suppose I’ll have to think about it.”
Astarion growls, lunging for the asshole. Raphael snaps his fingers and disappears.
Astarion’s hands close on air.
—-
The worst part, Emerie thinks, is that Cazador seems intent on keeping her until Astarion returns. Unfortunately, she knows her friends have no way of knowing where she is.
Hells, she hardly knew how she had ended up there.
She’s entirely on her own.
Well, mostly on her own.
“So you’re a druid.” Leon’s been sitting with her for a while.
Emerie nods. It’s an awkward movement from where she’s lying on the floor.
“What’s your favorite wildshape?”
“A cat.” Cats are small and agile and she enjoys digging her claws into trees.
Leon huffs. She thinks she can see him roll his eyes. “What’s your most powerful wildshape?”
Emerie’s heart stutters. “Did Cazador tell you to ask?”
“Cazador doesn’t know you’re a druid.”
Oh.
Oh.
She laughs. It aches, but it could be worse.
—-
Astarion has to get out. He walks outside in a daze. He avoids the courtyard, cutting around the side of the inn in as wide a path as he can. There’s a low, crumbling wall near the barrier where the light of the refuge meets the shadow curse.
He steps over the wall. For one wild moment, he considers walking out into the curse and letting it take him.
He collapses against the wall instead, burying his face in his knees.
Everything feels distant. The sounds around him seem muffled, as if he stuffed cotton into his ears.
He’s vaguely glad he doesn’t need to breathe. His throat is so tight that he doesn’t think he would be able to manage if he did.
It’s the worst thing he can imagine. He had considered, at best, that Emerie was stumbling around in some distant corner of the Underdark. At worst, he had imagined a painful death.
It had never even crossed his mind that Cazador could have gotten his hands on her.
He knew that nowhere was too far for him to run. He knew his luck would run out. He knew that every step he took outside of his master’s control was a risk.
But the freedom. He’d gotten to see the world and feel the sun on his skin. He’d gotten to make choices- some better than others- for the first time in forever. They were his choices. Emerie had been his choice.
And it hadn’t cost him.
It had cost her.
Despair is a yawning chasm cutting through his very being.
Something touches his leg. He flinches, his head jerking up. He blinks several times.
The fucking owlbear cub.
The thing nuzzles into his leg like a damned cat.
He straightens his legs and reaches for it, but it darts away. He tips his head back against the wall and waits.
Sure enough, it comes back.
He feels the beak against the back of his hand and turns toward it. He turns his palm over and lets the thing decide what it’s going to do.
Probably bite him. It’s what he would do.
The beast inspects his hand and then looks up to inspect Astarion himself.
It limps a little closer.
Astarion’s gaze sharpens on the paw. It’s sliced open. The blood is dried in the beast’s feathers. It’s a miracle the creature survived the shadow curse with no more than a bloodied paw.
He stares at the creature dubiously. If he’s going to help the damned thing, he’s going to have to get up.
It sits next to him. It’s warm.
It’s the warmth seeping into his leg that convinces him that he should do something to help.
Emerie would.
He stands and the owlbear doesn’t retreat. He sighs loudly. “If you savage me, I will throw you,” he warns the creature. He bends over and scoops it up.
It’s surprisingly heavy.
He takes it into the inn. No less than 10 people back away from him with wide eyes when they see the little monster. He is almost amused.
Up the stairs, he considers the closed doors before realizing he has no earthly clue which rooms anyone would be in. He needs Shadowheart- or perhaps Halsin.
“Do normal healing spells work on animals?” he asks the owlbear. It chirps at him.
Not really a helpful answer.
Notes:
I took artistic liberties with the layout of Last Light because honestly it seemed silly to me that the party has a whole conversation with Raphael within earshot of Jaheira and a bunch of harpers and tieflings and nobody ever questions it.
Also holy shit I am blown away by all your comments. I do a little happy dance every time I read one. <3
Chapter 15
Notes:
This is probably the least edited chapter I will post because I honestly could not handle reading it again.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The owlbear, freshly healed and disturbingly docile, is curled up in the corner.
In a fit of madness, he’d sacrificed a cushion to the beast.
Astarion, still as a statue in the musty bed, stares at the ceiling for hours. There’s a hole in the roof over near the door where he can see out into the darkness.
He doesn’t close his eyes.
The images that flicker across his imagination are horrible enough without granting them the courtesy of his full attention.
He knows, with nearly two centuries of experience, exactly what Cazador does. He’s sometimes inventive with his cruelties, but he is predictable in one way- he is inherently cruel.
On one hand, he knows that Emerie is alive.
On the other hand, he thinks he rather wishes she weren’t.
To die at Cazador’s hands is a tragedy he’d delivered to too many unfortunate souls. To survive at Cazador’s hands is a horror he wishes on nobody.
Death is final. To live is to suffer.
He can’t sleep.
He can’t bring himself to do anything else either.
Every night he walks free is a night someone else suffers. Astarion had already been plagued by the thought that without him there to attract Cazador’s ire, his siblings were likely getting more… attention… than usual.
One of the few joys of Astarion’s life was getting under Cazador’s skin. Unfortunately, Cazador usually paid back in kind- though more literally than figuratively.
He had accepted that his absence would have repercussions for the others.
It was beyond naive of him to have taken a lover. He knew what happened when Cazador sensed one of his spawn forming emotional attachments. He had mistakenly thought he was far enough outside of his master’s grasp to be safe.
One taste of freedom, and he’d tried to eat the entire feast.
Guilt, his old familiar friend, wraps him in its arms tonight.
—-
Emerie can smell the blood.
It’s the one thing she’s sure of. Her mind has gone hazy and her heart trips and stutters too fast to be real.
She had been nauseous for a while. That passed.
She’s relieved.
She smells sulfur.
“Dear oh dear, what have we here?” She hears, as if in a dream.
She thinks she sees boots.
She was cold, before. Now, in her dreams, she is pleasantly numb. Her brain buzzes and her skin tingles.
“I was going to leave you, you know. I liked the tragedy of it all. One short taste of freedom before an untimely and dramatic end-“
Is that the devil?
“But as entertaining as this promises to be, I have other uses for you and your friends- and I have faith that you will find some other tragedy to keep me amused in the meantime.”
Oh, good. It is the devil.
“So tell me, mouse, what’s the price of your soul?”
Not much, at this point.
Emerie doesn’t think her soul is worth much at all.
—-
The sky hasn’t changed in the hours he’s been staring.
He wonders how high into the heavens the curse extends.
He almost thinks he’s hallucinating the nearly silent sobs that ghost over his ears. He would dismiss them entirely if they didn’t arrive with the overpowering stench of blood.
He sits up. There’s a child- or a ghost- inside the door. She’s nearly colorless.
Then there’s the crumpled form on the floor.
He’s out of the bed in a second.
Blood, blood… so much blood. His nostrils flare and his mouth waters.
Sheer panic sets in when he grips her by the shoulder.
“SHADOWHEART!” He yells it at the top of his lungs.
He hears more than sees the child move. Her voice is the barest whisper of sound. “Her name is Emerie,” she says.
He knows that.
Footsteps and grumbling sound in the hall. His door opens. “Astarion, I am not a veterinarian…” sleepy eyes sharpen and widen as they take in the scene on the floor.“Dark lady save us.” Shadowheart kneels at Emerie’s side, hand extended. “I don’t have any potions,” she says, and it’s as panicked as he’s ever heard her.
Astarion, who has had all of a minute to take in the utterly still form of Emerie crumpled on his floor, says, “Heal her, damn you.”
Shadowheart shakes her head, eyes wide. “It won’t work.”
“Use your eyes,” he growls, feeling the faint flutter of Emerie’s heartbeat through the slickness of her blood on her chest. Her ankle, blistered and raw, is as bare as the rest of her.
Shadowheart takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.” She places a glowing hand on Emerie’s chest and murmurs spell after spell.
At length, deep cuts and bruises fade and Emerie’s shallow breaths deepen. Her heartbeat slows and strengthens.
Shadowheart, sitting back on her heels, glances over the body laid between them. “I can’t do anything more right now. I’m spent.” She looks at him. “How…?”
Astarion shakes his head. “I don’t know.” His eyes are locked on Emerie’s face.
Shadowheart exhales shakily. “We have to clean her up. I’ll… go get some things.” She stands and turns towards the open door. She stops. “Hello, there.”
The child. Astarion glances up. Her arms are wrapped around herself, but she’s dressed for warmth. His eyebrows furrow. “Victoria?” Shadowheart’s eyes shoot to him.
Victoria’s eyes are wide and frightened. She nods, a short and hesitant motion.
How in the hells…?
“You’re safe. It’s okay.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “How did you get here?”
She rubs her arms and glances at Emerie. “There was a man. He told my father that she…” she stops. Inhales. Starts again. “He told my father that she wanted to take me somewhere safe.”
His gaze returns to Emerie. She looks impossibly small. “Shadowheart? Can you take Victoria to wherever Mol is?” He bends over and scoops Emerie into his arms.
She’s fine.
She’s fine.
She’s fine.
He hears Shadowheart murmuring to the child and the door clicks shut as he turns towards the bed. He settles on the mattress with his back against the wall, Emerie cradled in his lap.
She’s fine.
He pulls the blanket over her.
She’s fine.
He carefully tucks the blanket around her with one hand.
She’s fine.
He presses his face into her hair.
She’s fine.
He shudders and clutches her to him tightly.
The click of claws on the floor reminds him that they aren’t alone. The owlbear cub hops up onto the bed, its weight depressing the mattress. He feels its paws against his leg, then hears the huff of air as it sniffs at Emerie, then butts its head into her hair. It chirps.
“She’s fine,” he tells it without moving. He feels the cub turn in a slow circle, then settle between his leg and Emerie’s back.
He obsesses over the rhythm of her breath against his chest. He counts them.
When he gets to 100, he pulls back and inspects her face. Faded bruises cover both eyes, the bridge of her nose, and her cheek.
He tries to pull air into his aching chest. His breath stutters. He tries to match the rhythm of her breaths until the ache subsides.
The smell of sulfur lingers on her skin.
He wonders what devilish bargain she’d struck.
She wanted to take me somewhere safe, the child had said. Emerie had brought the child here.
A part of him, in the deepest recesses of his soul -covered in cobwebs and centuries of dust- is alight with wonder that she considers him safe.
Naive, foolish thing. He traces her cheekbone with his thumb.
He presses a kiss into her hair.
He buries his face back in her hair and counts her breaths again.
—-
Astarion lifts his head when the door opens. “I brought backup,” Shadowheart announces, stepping in with a pile of rags. Halsin comes in behind her with a steaming pot of water, which he sets down on the low table at the foot of the bed. Shadowheart carefully shuts the door.
The female elf sets the rags down at the foot of the bed and stays there. Halsin steps closer, face carefully blank. Astarion swings his legs over the side of the bed, disturbing the owlbear cub, who retreats to the floor. He stands, then carefully places Emerie onto the bed and steps back.
Halsin bends over the bed, holding a hand over Emerie’s chest. His deep voice chants something in an ancient language that Astarion doesn’t know, and a faint green glow passes from his hands into the woman on the bed. He continues chanting for nearly a minute before he closes his fist.
When Halsin straightens, he looks at Astarion. “She may very well sleep for a while, but her body is healed.” He inclines his head, indicating the cub. “I will take your companion for the time being. Owlbears are not known for their manners indoors.”
Astarion privately thinks that the owlbear has been more civilized than many people he knows, but he doesn’t say so. “Thank you,” he says, though the sound doesn’t come out quite the way he meant for it to.
The druid scoops up the owlbear in huge arms and leaves the room.
Shadowheart clears her throat. “I thought we should probably clean her up.”
Astarion nods. “I can do it.”
Shadowheart glances between him and the woman on the bed. She searches his eyes. “Alright. If you need me, just shout.”
He nods again. She leaves.
—-
The blanket is probably ruined, but Emerie is as clean as he can get her. He finds a new blanket stuffed into her pack and wraps her up in it. He settles down next to her with his book, staring unseeing at the page.
His eyes fly to her when her breathing changes.
Her lips are dry. He distantly realizes he should have made sure she had water.
“You smell amazing,” Emerie says hoarsely.
It startles a choked laugh out of him.
Her breathing evens out again.
—-
When Emerie wakes, she is warm and comfortable. She stiffens.
“Hello, love.”
She struggles to place the voice for a moment. Her eyes open.
Astarion is sitting next to her, holding a cup of water. He offers it to her. She blinks.
She struggles to sit up on the bed, her eyes not leaving his.
She’s still dreaming.
She takes the cup in a hand that doesn’t tremble.
Dreaming.
The water is cool. She drains the cup.
He takes it from her and sets it on the floor.
When he meets her eyes again, his are wary.
Maybe… not a dream.
“Are you real?” she asks, her heart trying to fly out of her ribs. She reaches out to touch him, but stops, suddenly terrified.
If she touches him, he might disappear.
His eyes search hers, his gaze softening.
Her fingers tremble when she extends them to touch his cool shoulder.
Solid.
His smell, brandy and rosemary and citrus, washes over her.
She trembles all over, launching herself into his chest.
She can’t breathe.
He hauls her into his lap and crushes his arms around her. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “You’re fine. You’re fine.” She buries her face in his chest, clutching his shirt and panting for air.
“Please don’t leave,” she begs, pressing her face harder into him.
He inhales raggedly. She feels his fingers twitch and then he presses a kiss into her hair. “I won’t.”
Notes:
Just know that somewhere in the depths of my laptop, there is a version of this where the damsel saves herself and Cazador is tortured to death by a vengeful Druid with ungodly amounts of power that she has no right to have. It was good for my heart but not for this particular story.
**Edited as of 11/22 to add that one alternate version is posted under the work "Fun House Mirror" :)
Chapter 16
Notes:
This chapter brought to you by migraines and 3 AM cat zoomies
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Emerie isn’t sure how long they sit there. It’s long enough for the trembling to subside and for her tears to soak the front of his shirt.
She sits up, suddenly panicked. “Victoria!”
Astarion rubs a soothing hand down her arm. “She’s fine. Shadowheart is minding her.”
Emerie closes her eyes. She is still uncertain how much of this had been a dream and how much had been reality. Astarion tugs her back against him and she lets herself collapse back against his chest.
They’ve been like this long enough for him to be warm.
She realizes after a while that she’s naked, except for the blanket wrapped around her.
“I lost your shirt,” she says into his chest.
His hand, still rubbing up and down her arm, stills. It tightens slightly around her bicep as he inhales. “Remind me to pretend to care about that later.” He snorts. “My shirt,” he mutters. “You go missing, show up here in the middle of the night inches from death, and you think I give a damn about the shirt. Honestly.”
She chooses to remain silent for a long time, just breathing him in. Emerie doesn’t know what to say about what had happened over the last nine days. She knows she has to say something, but her mind is a muddle and she’s already fighting to stay awake.
“I missed you,” Astarion confesses into her hair.
For a moment, she thinks her heart stops beating. She looks up into his face. His crimson eyes are shuttered, but soft.
She burrows back into him. “I missed you, too,” she whispers.
Emerie drifts off to sleep, warm and comfortable, wrapped tightly in a blanket and a pair of arms that she’s a little convinced feel like home.
—-
Astarion eventually transfers Emerie from his lap to the mattress next to him. He stretches, muscles incredibly stiff from stress and sitting in one position for hours.
He goes about finding clothes for both of them. His own have suffered the same fate as the first blanket, and he drops them on the floor in the corner where he’s tossed the bloody blanket.
He changes, keeping an eye on Emerie the whole time.
If he knows anything, she’s going to want food and a bath when she wakes- probably in reverse order, but he thinks he might insist on the food first.
He would leave to go find out where there might be baths in this place, but he had promised her he would stay.
He still feels no small measure of guilt, but it’s tempered by two incredibly small pieces of information that he lets feed a small flame of hope. She’d considered him safe- and she’d asked him not to leave.
Astarion is not sure he wants to live up to whatever idea of him she’s got in her head, but he thinks of blood and warmth and simple affection and a sketchbook and he thinks that for her, he could probably try.
—-
When Emerie wakes again, she is momentarily disoriented.
She’s on a soft bed. The stone wall in front of her face is irregular and worn in a way her cell hadn’t been.
A careful inventory of her body reveals that she has been healed thoroughly. Aside from a slight headache and hunger, she feels fine.
Rolling over, she finds Astarion propped against the wall next to her, reading a book. His eyes meet hers over the top of it and he shuts the book, sitting up and resting one foot on the floor. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and she has to resist the urge to crawl back into his arms instead of answering.
“I feel fine.” She sits up, the blanket falling off her.
He stands, going to the low table at the foot of the bed and picking up a pile of clothing. He hands it to her. She recognizes her own things, purchased in the grove. She quirks a smile at him and gets up to pull on her clothes.
He clears his throat. “It’s ever so slightly more civilized here than what we’ve been dealing with. There’s a kitchen, for one thing. If you’re up for it, you should probably eat something.”
Dressed now, Emerie nods. She sits down to tug on her boots, which are sitting next to the bed. She tries to comb her fingers through her hair and they snag in a tangle immediately. It’s a hopeless effort.
Astarion appears in front of her with a comb, which he offers to her.
She takes it and starts carefully working out the knots. “I could definitely eat,” she says, and out of the corner of her eye she sees him relax a little.
“I think there’s a bath somewhere, also, but I haven’t had a chance to look into it quite yet.” He says it offhandedly, but it makes her feel warm nonetheless.
“That sounds nice, too.” She sets the comb down and stands. “Lead the way.”
She stays two steps behind him as he guides her down the hall and downstairs. The building is clearly old and disused, but the hum of voices that gets louder as they descend tells a different story.
The soft warmth of a hearth and torches casts the run-down inn in a cozy light. Dozens of people sit or mill about at tables in the room the stairs open into, many of them heavily armored and armed. A few tieflings who Emerie thinks she recognizes sit at a table on the far side of the room, but Astarion guides her through an archway into a huge common area with a bar, more tables, and an open space covered in tiefling children before a large open doorway.
She has enough time to take all of this in before she’s crushed into a hug by a tall red blur. “Oh my gods, I’m so happy to see you!” Karlach exclaims, grabbing Emerie by the shoulders to hold her at arms length and inspect her. “You look good! We were so worried.” Karlach pulls her back into a hug, rocking back and forth before letting her go.
Emerie is suddenly overwhelmed by the lights and the noise, but she gives Karlach a small smile. “I’m happy to see you, too.”
Wyll, behind Karlach, comes forward and pulls her into a more careful hug, patting her on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you as well,” he says, and lets her go.
Emerie steps sideways so her arm brushes Astarion’s, needing space. “Where are the others? They’re all here, right?”
Karlach nods, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. “They’re around here somewhere. Halsin’s in with the healers. I saw Gale a few hours ago, and I think Shadowheart went back to bed. She was knackered, poor thing.”
“Is she okay?” Emerie asks, alarmed.
Astarion sighs. “She’s fine, she just had to do a lot of casting, and you know how she gets without her beauty sleep.” He jerks his head towards the bar. “Come on, let’s get some food in you.”
Karlach and Wyll lead the way to the bar, where a man bearing a pendant with the Harpers sigil on his apron is serving bowls of a thick stew from a pot on the stove against the wall. He passes one to Emerie and the others when they sit, and she almost giggles when he places one in front of Astarion.
He subtly pushes it a little in her direction and her lips quirk up in amusement.
This is good. This is fine.
She takes a bite of the stew.
It’s not the best thing she’s ever tasted, but it’s heavenly nonetheless. She lets the conversation wash over her while she focuses on eating and drinking.
She’s mid-bite when Karlach, who had been chatting up the harper, turns to her. “So how did you get here?”
Emerie swallows, then takes a minute to wash the food down with water while she gathers herself. She moves her leg so the side of it is brushing against Astarion’s, needing to ensure he’s still there and solid.
“It’s kind of a long story,” she hedges.
Karlach smiles. “I’ve got time,” she says, and it’s a little dreamy. Emerie reminds herself to ask later about Karlach’s engine. She doesn’t have the energy right now.
It’s Astarion who rescues her from having to try to think of what to say. “Unfortunately, story time is going to have to wait. I promised the lady a bath.”
Karlach droops, but then rallies. “There’s a bathhouse in the basement. There are pipes that run from the lake to the forge and then down. It’s a little dirty, but it’s heaven compared to what we’ve been dealing with.” She looks Emerie over. “Shadowheart even found a closet with towels and soap down there.”
That sounds absolutely heavenly.
“That sounds incredible. Thank you,” Emerie says.
Astarion stands, taking her hand to help her out of her chair. “Shall we?” He raises an eyebrow at her.
Nothing has ever sounded better. “Lead the way.”
—-
It takes them a little while to find everything and to figure out how to operate the pumps, but it’s well worth it.
The metal tub is wide and deep, and they both fit. Astarion had hesitated to join her, but she’d made it clear that she expected him to join with a quirked eyebrow and, “Are you coming?” So now he sits behind her in the tub, submerged in blissfully warm water while they soak.
He thinks she might be dozing against his chest. Her wet hair is plastered to him, but he doesn’t really mind.
They’d washed first with soap before draining the water and refilling the tub. It’s a luxury, but he feels like it’s been earned.
“Astarion?”
Not dozing, then. “Yes?”
“This is nice.”
He glances down at the top of her head. “I agree.”
She hums. Then, “Can we stay here forever?”
He blinks. “I wish we could,” he says, even though it’s silly and sentimental, but honestly, it’s just nice. “But I think eventually it will get uncomfortable.”
Emerie sighs. “True.” She turns her head a little and looks up at him, searching his eyes for something. He’s confused, until she asks, “Would it…” she turns her head back, watching her hand trace idle patterns into the back of his own. “Would it be strange if I asked you to bite me?”
No. Yes. He hesitates. “Why?”
“I want it to be you.”
Such a loaded statement.
He runs his hands up her arms, then nudges her head with his nose to tilt it to the side. She grasps his knee lightly in one hand when he trails his mouth down her neck. “Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
That’s good enough for him. He punctures the skin on her neck in one bite, then withdraws enough to allow gentle suction to fill his mouth with her blood. It’s almost sweeter than he remembers and he groans.
She sighs as he swallows the first mouthful. She shivers at the second. He pulls away after the third, and she brings her hand up to the back of his head, pulling him back down. “No.”
He hesitates, slightly alarmed but also greedy. He bites back down, drawing more blood and letting it flow faster. He feels himself harden against her, but he tries to ignore it.
Emerie whimpers, the hand in his hair spasming but holding him tight. He wraps his arms around her tight, struggling to control the hunger that rages inside him. When her heartbeat flutters and weakens, her grip slackens, and he pulls back with a gasp.
Blue light fills her palm and she murmurs a word that he vaguely knows means restoration, and he feels her pulse strengthen.
She rises up on her knees and turns in the water, and the uncertain hunger in her eyes undoes him in more ways than one. She sinks down onto him, the heat and grip of her far more powerful than the warmth of the bath, and now he whimpers, drunk on her.
He sees her fight back a smile, but he doesn’t care, gripping her hips as she leans into him and presses a soft kiss into his lips that isn’t enough, nor is the soft rocking of her hips enough, but then she pulls away and tips her head to the side, her hands drawing him back down to her neck.
“Bite me again.” And holy fucking hells, if he wasn’t already dead, he would die right there.
Notes:
*squints at it*
It's probably unhinged, but so am I.
Love you all <3
Chapter 17
Notes:
This one is short because it just doesn't end the right way any other way.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Let me set the scene: once, long ago, in this very castle, was a vampire spawn called Cazador Szarr.”
Emerie can’t recall everything from that last day in her cell, but she can recall every word from Raphael.
She is clean, truly clean, for the first time in months. It’s a good feeling, but it adds to the surreal quality the world has taken on.
“Young Cazador was afflicted with the curse of all vampires- a slave to his master, unable to walk in the sun, and slave to a fierce and eternal hunger.”
Emerie keeps close to Astarion, still not sure that he won’t disappear if she lets him get too far out of reach. As it is, she has to fight the urge to keep her hands on him at all times.
“The spawn sought a cure for his curse. He went to the gods, but they would not answer him, and so he sought assistance from much more sinister places.”
The turn of Emerie’s thoughts have her inspecting Astarion from where she walks a step behind him. He is slim and lithe and graceful, and the sight of him whole and healthy soothes her aching soul.
“He found an answer from the arch devil Mephistopheles, who is a cunning and mercurial master of the most arcane arts. The devil, seeing the great potential for raising a new army in order to take the ultimate power he so craved, told young Cazador of two cures that would allow him to break his curse.”
Gods, does her very soul ache. She’s started down a path of no return, and every move she makes from now on is a risk.
“The only problem was that one cure required Cazador to become mortal once again, and the other for him to sacrifice 7000 souls to fuel Mephistopheles’ army, and in return Cazador would be granted unheard of power.”
The terms of her agreement forbade her from repeating anything Raphael had revealed to her- a cruel twist he had added at her insistence that her soul was worth two lives- hers and Victoria’s.
She knew he was toying with her.
She and Astarion emerge from the inn and Emerie’s steps falter, mind going blank. There are pools of light scattered around the inn, but they all die off 30 yards out, swallowed by darkness. Curling and terrifying shapes seem to take form in the darkness, but it is impossible to make them out. “When they said shadow curse, they were not joking,” she mutters.
Astarion shoots her a look. “Trust me, it looks much better from in here than it does out there.” He leads her around the side of the inn, where there is a wide, open area with a few children and…
Emerie blinks. “Is that the owlbear…?”
Astarion huffs. “I told you you would not believe who the girl was with.” Because next to the owlbear, softly kicking a ball that it proceeds to pounce on and claw at, is Victoria. She has a small smile on her face, watching the cub attack the ball.
Mol and Arabella are with her.
Emerie’s heart warms.
It was worth it.
Victoria sees her and her smile widens a little, starting to walk closer. She pauses when she looks at Astarion.
He sighs. “You have nothing to fear from me, child. You’re far too small to be worth the trouble.”
Emerie frowns at him. “Be nice.”
He rolls his eyes. “I was.” The owlbear cub pushes the ball over to his feet. “Absolutely not,” he says to it. It chirps at him and headbutts his leg.
He looks pained, and Emerie has to fight not to show her amusement. Victoria looks Astarion over thoughtfully. “You’re the one who was always in trouble.”
Astarion freezes, face going carefully blank. “Guilty as charged,” he says.
Victoria nods, apparently satisfied, and turns away from him. “Thank you,” she says to Emerie.
Emerie’s heart clenches, remembering the kindness that both Victoria and her father had shown her, at great risk. “Thank you. I wouldn’t be here without you.” And a little deal with a devil, but who’s counting.
Violet looks pleased, but then her face turns serious. “What about Father?” she asks, and Emerie’s heart breaks at the haunted look in those bright blue eyes.
She has no way to answer that. “I don’t know. I will find out, though.”
Astarion’s eyes cut to Emerie. “You will?”
She nods, meeting the girl’s eyes instead of his. Victoria looks slightly relieved. “So, Victoria, would you like to introduce me to your friends?” Emerie had met them all before, but the question makes the girl’s eyes light up and she almost looks like a normal child as she gives Emerie the names of the first friends she’s ever been able to have.
—-
Astarion stews in his irritation until they make it upstairs with a steaming bowl of some kind of rice and chicken dish and sit at one of the tables near where Raphael had been playing lanceboard with Mol. Emerie has hardly sat down when he can’t keep it in anymore.
“You’ve just gotten free of that wretched place and you’re already planning to go back?!”
Emerie looks up at him, frowning. “Isn’t that your plan?”
What?
He sputters. “What?”
She takes a bite of her food and chews it slowly, forcing him to take a breath and sit down. Irritation simmers under his skin as she takes her time.
Finally, she swallows. Then she gestures at him with her fork. “We’ve come all this way to hopefully get these little parasites out of our heads, but I’m not an idiot, Astarion. As soon as it’s gone, you go back to being a slave to Cazador’s bidding.” She stabs her fork into her bowl, glaring at the food. “I don’t know about you, but I find that unacceptable.”
He blinks at her, nonplussed.
He’d had plans for how to convince the others to help him kill Cazador- preferably before the tadpole’s influence was no longer giving him the upper hand. He hadn’t dreamed in a million years that she would just volunteer.
She takes another bite of her food, waiting for him to respond.
He tries to pull himself together. “I mean… yes, that was my plan, too.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, like he’s the one being strange. “So you agree we have no choice.”
We. What a strange concept.
He searches her eyes for any hint of deception, but she looks over his shoulder and he hears soft footsteps.
“You’re certainly looking much better,” Shadowheart says, and then, archly, “You’re welcome.”
He sees Emerie fight back a smile. “Thank you, Shadowheart. You’re a lifesaver.”
Shadowheart laughs. “Fortunately for you, yes, I am.” Astarion glances at her in time to see her flick her braid over her shoulder. “I’m off to grab some food, but it’s good to have you back.” Her gaze flits over to Astarion before she continues in a wickedly amused voice, “Some of us were incredibly unpleasant to be around while you were away.”
She fucking sashays away, twitching her hips.
When he turns back to Emerie, she is grinning. “What?” he mutters.
Her eyes dance with mischief. “You missed me.”
He exhales a long-suffering sigh. “As I have already said.”
She laughs, and it’s a warm and joyful sound that he wishes he could hear more often. “It’s okay, Astarion, I won’t tell anyone.” She takes a bite, chews it, swallows, then says wickedly, “Besides, they seem to already know.”
He fights back the smile he can feel trying to escape against his will.
—-
In the darkness, Emerie curls up into Astarion’s back. He had fallen asleep facing the door while she played with his hair. She nuzzles into his bare spine, trying to still her racing mind.
She can almost hear Raphael’s voice. “Mephistopheles knew that the power of the ritual would be irresistible to Cazador, and he was right.”
“Why does this matter to me?” she had asked.
“Why, my dear, because your lover bears one part of the infernal contract between Cazador and Mephistopheles- carved into his very skin. Poor Astarion must be sacrificed in order for the ritual to be completed. And now, per the terms of our deal, you are bound by your own soul to not tell him the very secret he so desperately wants to know.”
It was, she realized, both a blessing and a curse to know the whole sordid tale.
Emerie now had the knowledge she needed to right a series of horrific wrongs.
She also couldn’t tell a soul.
She kisses Astarion’s spine, praying to any gods who might be listening that she would be able to make every horrible moment count.
Thinking of Victoria, safe, in the room next door with the owlbear cub, Mol, and Arabella, Emerie knows she made the right choice.
Notes:
If anyone at any point feels like the tags or warnings need to be updated, pretty please let me know.
Chapter 18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Emerie isn’t quite herself.
She’s putting forth a valiant effort, but Astarion has been doing the same for far longer (and, in his opinion, with better success,) than she. He watches her drift into silence, staring into space for long stretches of time, lost in her head. She moves when he moves, staying as close to him as she possibly can without actually touching.
Except when she does.
He picks up on the subtle changes in her breathing and heart rate now and then- like when she’s entering a room, especially if there are more than a few people- and she will find some way to brush up against him.
Astarion thinks he understands. After all, sometimes he has a hard time believing she is real as well.
The part of him that reacts with concealed alarm each time and tries to calculate her motives is hard to silence, but he tries. He has to remind himself regularly that he also craves the contact, the warmth, and the affection- and no longer simply for the sake of manipulating her.
At least, mostly not for the sake of manipulating her.
At this precise moment, that is exactly what he is doing.
She had gone through her things to take stock and had lamented the loss of her sketchbook.
Which, of course, wasn’t precisely lost, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Somehow, Astarion felt like giving it back would be a little like losing himself. Again.
He decides that a distraction would be for the best.
He holds up a length of rope from her things spread out on the table and raises a suggestive eyebrow at her. “What do you have this for, darling?” He pitches his voice low, knowing exactly how to make it sound how he wants it to.
She pauses what she’s doing, looking at him with slightly wide eyes. “That is definitely not what that is for.”
He sighs. “Well, that is a pity.” He pauses, then smirks. “I wouldn’t mind being tied up for you.”
Emerie’s lips part and her eyes widen even more, her face flushing and her breathing changing.
Excellent.
He steps into her, forcing her to step back into the wall. Her eyes are locked on his, exactly how he wants them to be. He lowers his mouth to her ear and murmurs, “Too bad that isn’t what it’s for.” He turns away and sets the rope on the table.
Astarion turns to the mirror on the wall, running his hand through his hair and pretending to fix his clothes, even though he can’t see himself. It’s part of the performance.
He turns around and her eyes are closed. She opens them a moment later, amusement and irritation warring for dominance on her face.
She glances back at the things on the table, then back at him. “Right,” she says, clearing her throat. “Then I’m keeping the rope.”
Well.
He feels the stirrings of arousal.
That backfired spectacularly.
—-
Halsin, Gale, Shadowheart, and the others had gone with some Harpers on some scouting mission to gather information. There had been no debate among them that Emerie should take the day to recover.
Nobody had even mentioned Astarion going.
She’s grateful she hadn’t had to ask him to stay.
While she feels fine, Emerie does feel the effects of her limited meals still. She also needs time to clean the clothes that have only been washed in streams and to resupply her things.
She also, apparently, needs to find some new drawing supplies.
It’s been a struggle trying to keep her mind off her slavery, her time with Cazador, and Raphael’s deal without anything to occupy her hands and attention.
It might also help her control her incessant need to touch Astarion. At least she would have something else to do with her hands.
He hasn’t seemed to mind, but she knows she needs to get herself under control.
She also needs time to sort out her magic.
Fifteen years is a long time. She’s terrified that she’s forgotten how to use her power.
She’s been able to cast some simple spells, but she hasn’t even tried to wildshape yet.
While Astarion is engrossed in a book, she tries. She closes her eyes, concentrating on finding the current of natural energy that blooms somewhere deep under her skin.
She pictures fur and claws and pictures the very essence of her self compressing to fill that form.
She feels the shift, and when she opens her eyes, all four of her feet are on the bed.
Everything appears larger, and colors shift on the spectrum, dulling to a series of blues, greens, and greys.
Astarion looks up from his book. He raises his eyebrows at her. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” he coos.
She stretches, flexing her paws to release her claws and dig them into the blanket as she arches her back. Then she rocks back and pounces, landing right next to Astarion’s hand.
His hand engulfs her head when he raises it to scratch her head.
Purrs rise in her throat out of instinct, and he laughs. It’s the purest, brightest sound she’s ever heard come out of him, and it makes her knees weak. She flops over sideways on the mattress, rubbing her back up against Astarion’s leg.
Astarion takes his hand away to flip the page of the book, but she catches it in her front paws in a lightning fast movement.
“Needy little thing,” he says, tugging his arm away. It pulls satisfyingly on her claws as he escapes her grip.
She shifts back, rolling to lay on her back with her head next to his hip. She’s pleasantly tired, but she at least knows that she’s still her. She laughs, but she feels relieved tears escape her eyes at the same time and she reaches up to cover her face with her hands.
Astarion, still reading, reaches down to run his fingers through her hair. “You know, darling, I don’t think that’s what is meant when one says they want an animal in bed.”
Her relieved laughter dissolves into a giggle.
—-
They head outside to cross the courtyard to the building housing the forge in search of more durable armor. Astarion has already made improvements to his armor, opting for more leather than cloth now. Emerie privately thinks that the dark leather is a good look on him.
Without the bracers, his arms are entirely bare due to the leathers lacking sleeves, and Emerie thinks that whoever crafted this particular armor knew exactly how best to show off the male form.
Astarion is a step behind her when they enter the forge, the grinding of the whetstone ringing loud throughout the building as Dammon sharpens a sword.
He stops when he sees them out of the corner of his eye, and he places the sword down on a stone bench before greeting them warmly. “Hello! It’s so good to see you!”
Kind blue eyes in a red-hued square face rake meet hers, and Emerie smiles too. “It’s good to see you, too. And your hammer. I was told we have you to thank for Karlach’s newfound ability to hug people without roasting them.”
Dammon’s rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and he says, modestly, “It was nothing.”
“It was everything to Karlach. She is over the moon.” Emerie shifts her weight. “We were told that you’re the man to see about finding better armor.”
Dammon nods. “Yeah, there’s a stockpile here. The Harpers brought some with them, and I’ve been repairing some that must have been left behind when this place was abandoned. If you’re looking for leather, there are crates over there.” He nods to the other side of the room, where several large crates sit, open and away from the heat of the forge. “Just let me know if you can’t find anything.”
“Thank you.” Emerie says, and Astarion nods at Dammon and follows her to the other side of the room.
It doesn’t take long for Emerie to find something serviceable, likely meant for a ranger. It will certainly hold up better against blades or arrows than the thin leather she had been using before. The Harpers outfit themselves for true combat.
She’s holding the piece out to double check the size when she hears a whisper of a whisper on the wind. “Listen.”
She straightens, startled.
A soft breeze curls through the forge, caressing her skin. “Look.”
Emerie looks around. Her eyes catch on a trio of people out in the courtyard.
Jaheira, the legendary druid, and Arabella’s mother are watching Arabella. The tiefling child’s eyes glow as vines erupt around her.
“Astarion, look.” She points to them and he turns.
He raises his eyebrow. “Well, that is interesting,” he mutters.
Emerie focuses to hear what the three are saying. As she listens, Arabella explains to Jaheira, “It all started when I tried to steal the idol of Silvanus from the druids back in the grove. It’s been getting stronger ever since.”
Her mother nods. “She saved our lives out there, but she is struggling to control this, whatever it is.”
Jaheira looks the girl over, both eyebrows raised. “Well, well, well. It’s been many years since I met one who was chosen by Silvanus himself to wield his power. You are going to be quite the powerful druid, child.”
Chosen by Silvanus, Emerie thinks, with wonder.
“The threads of fate weave in strange ways, little one,” Jaheira says. “I can teach you what I can, so long as I can.”
“Thank you,” Arabella’s mother says, feelingly. Arabella echoes her mother, looking at her own hands with more than a little shock.
The threads of fate weave in strange ways, indeed.
“Very interesting,” Emerie mutters. She looks at Astarion, “Come on, I still wanted to look for any abandoned journals or papers.”
He bows slightly, theatrically gesturing for her to lead the way. She gives Dammon a small wave as they leave.
They’re poking around in various rooms downstairs when they come across what must have, at one point, a study of some sort. Dusty shelves line the room and a desk is covered with faded maps.
Emerie picks up a book off a shelf and flips through it. It’s some kind of poetry book, but it’s too faded to tell what kind. Astarion is checking books on the opposite side of the room, flipping through them and then stacking them carefully on an empty shelf.
Emerie drifts over to the desk. She moves the faded parchments on top, finding nothing interesting or useful, and then starts pulling open drawers.
Several drawers contain only the husks of insects. One contains a selection of ruined quills and ink pots where the ink has dried and hardened to the glass. It’s this drawer that makes her eyes light up. In the midst of the now useless quills, there are several charcoal pencils.
She pulls them out, carefully bundling them in one hand.
The rip of paper has her glancing over at Astarion. He’s removed several pages from a small book, which he holds up. “It’s mostly blank,” he says.
Emerie smiles. “Perfect.”
—-
Emerie grabs a bowl of stew and a goblet of water from the bar on the way upstairs. She wraps two fingers of the hand carrying the charcoal pencils carefully around the goblet and uses the other hand to set a spoon inside the clay bowl and then grab it. Astarion almost offers to help, but decides against it. She seems to have it well in hand.
They head to the much quieter sitting area upstairs.
In a corner of the sitting room, where the wall has crumbled away leaving it open to the sky, Victoria sits on the floor with a few books.
She’s also holding what looks to be a stuffed toy owlbear, which she is showing to the actual owlbear cub.
“Look, it’s you,” her soft voice barely carries to the top of the stairs. The owlbear cub chirps and bats at the toy with a paw, making Victoria giggle. “No, silly, he’s a friend.”
Astarion blinks.
It’s unbearably cute.
The child has clearly spent far too much time around monsters.
Emerie crests the stairs behind him, then pauses, taking in the little girl talking to the owlbear cub. She looks them over with interest. He can see thoughts churning behind her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything, just continues on to set her things down on a table.
Victoria looks up at the interruption, startled, then visibly calms when she sees who it is.
“Hi.” Victoria says, voice still quiet and shy. It must take quite a bit of bravery to face all of this alone after being effectively trapped in a castle full of monsters. He’s had far more time and freedom to see the world, and he still struggles with being around so many new and strange people.
He feels an odd sort of kinship with the child.
He’s getting soft.
“Hello, Victoria. Have you eaten?” Emerie asks, sitting down at a table near the child.
The child nods, looking far too serious. “I ate with the others, but they’re playing with the cat.” She glances at the owlbear, askance. “But Pounce does not get along with cats.” The last bit is said with mild disapproval, like a disappointed parent.
Pounce? Astarion makes his way to the table where Emerie is sitting, dropping into the seat next to her.
Emerie tilts her head. “Pounce?” She asks.
Victoria nods, seriously. “It’s his favorite thing to do, so I made it his name.”
“It’s perfect,” Emerie says. “Astarion’s just been calling him ‘the little monster,’ so I’m glad he has a name now.”
Victoria looks offended. “That’s not a very good name.”
Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. “I never intended to be in the position of naming anything, so forgive me for my abysmal performance.”
Victoria giggles.
Emerie seems to be fighting back a smile. She’s not doing a very good job of it, either.
The owlbear cub, little beast that he is, chooses that moment to pounce on Astarion’s foot, large paws grasping him around the ankle as the thing tries to savage his boot with its beak. Emerie loses the battle against smiling and giggles too.
“That is not food,” Astarion tells the cub, reaching down to pry the beast off his ankle. It growls at him, playfully trying to swipe him with its paw. “We don’t savage people,” he tells the cub, setting it back down on the floor.
The cub bounces around the room, clearly unconcerned with the rules of civilized behavior.
—-
Astarion is sitting in bed, flipping through a book of poetry that had somehow survived this place. The candlelight flickers on his face, casting him in a warm glow.
Emerie sits cross legged in the middle of the floor. She had sketched for a while, giddy with excitement over the ability to use charcoal instead of ink. Now she sits on the floor to meditate.
She clears her head of everything but feathers, claws, and beaks.
She imagines her essence expanding to fill that form, carefully crafting it in her mind. The more she used a shape, the easier it became. The first attempt was always the trickiest.
And honestly, she’s never spent so much time with an owlbear before.
When she shifts, she feels herself grow in an instant.
“Hells.” She hears something clatter to the floor.
When she opens her eyes, Astarion looks impossibly small. His mouth is wide open.
It feels similar to a cat, but also to a bear. The beak is new. Emerie had never tried turning into any kind of predatory bird before.
She turns in a circle, which is difficult because her body practically fills the small room. Her claws click loudly against the stone floor.
Astarion looks her over, awed. “I didn’t think that was an option.”
Emerie opens her beak, a screech erupting from her chest. Well, that wasn’t the sound she was hoping to make, she thinks.
Astarion flinches.
She feels incredibly powerful. She could shred armies like this. She snaps her beak, just to feel it.
It’s satisfying.
She shifts back, knowing she can’t do much to learn how to be an owlbear in this tiny space.
Besides, Astarion looks a little frightened. His eyes are wide and locked on her.
“You’re staring,” she says, and his mouth clicks shut. She grins.
“Dear gods, I’m bedding a monster,” he says, and wicked amusement settles in her chest.
“It’s okay, Astarion, so am I.” She walks over to him, climbing onto the bed and crawling into his lap. She straddles him, and his hands come up to her hips. She leans in and playfully nips at his neck.
When she pulls back to look at him, his eyes flicker with some strange emotion, but he places one hand on the back of her head and tugs her down into a hard kiss. Her stomach flutters and her hands settle on his chest.
She feels in control of herself for the first time in a very very long time and it is glorious.
Notes:
Thank goodness for cozy chapters.
For those of you traveling for the holidays, please be safe! And for those of you who are walking into complicated, traumatic, or uncomfortable family situations, my heart is with you. <3
Chapter 19
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The others had gotten back late the night before. Astarion had heard them come in while he was still awake, Emerie asleep next to him. It was only when she was fast asleep that he felt safe digging the old sketchbook out of her pack to look at it.
It would be easier to look if she knew he had it, but he wasn’t sure she would want to let him see it. He was selfish enough to not want to find out.
Early in the morning, Wyll had knocked and poked his head in to inform them that they would be meeting over breakfast.
Astarion, already dressed for the day, is sitting on the bed where he’s just tugged on his boots. Emerie is on the other side of the room, brushing her hair out in front of the mirror.
Jealousy, dark and bitter, makes his vision go hazy. This woman is like the physical manifestation of every unanswered prayer of his unlife.
She was a slave. She was a slave who had had her body used and abused, but now she’s free.
She is kind- in the way that only someone who had known both kindness and suffering in equal measure and who had decided to show the world that kindness could be. He’s not sure when, or who, but someone had loved her the way people should be loved. It may have been her mother, or friend, or even a lover, but Emerie had learned simple gestures of affection and understanding somewhere.
Worst of all, worse than freedom, worse than the kindness and warmth, is the power.
She’d transformed into a fucking owlbear.
The only reason he hadn’t been terrified was because he knew it was her. Even still, it was a near thing. Then Emerie had transformed back into herself and acted like it was nothing.
Oh, to wield that kind of power.
The most power Astarion can summon is that power that is bestowed upon all of his race- one or two simple magics like creating flame. Everything else he has to make him a threat are skills honed over centuries in the shadow- and those skills don’t quite measure up to being able to rip people to shreds with a single swipe of a paw.
And to top it all off, this.
Emerie stands in front of the mirror making herself presentable and he aches to be able to do such a simple thing.
Astarion stands, trying to forget the turn of his thoughts. In the mirror, Emerie looks serene and thoughtful. He steps quietly across the room to stand behind her, reaching out to still the hand running the comb through her hair.
She flinches, hard, her eyes going wide as she drops the comb. He catches it deftly as she turns to look at him.
She relaxes. “You scared me,” she says, and he clenches his jaw against the reminder that it’s startling to her that he isn’t in the reflection in front of her.
What he says, however, is, “Let me help. We’re going to be late.”
She huffs. “Can you be late for something unofficial?” But then she turns back to the mirror, watching her hair move under invisible hands as he tidies it.
Her eyes track the movements, and he can see her in the mirror searching for where he would be if he were there. He doesn’t blame her for it- he’s done the same thing millions of times, after all- but it grates on his nerves.
“Would you go back, if you could?” She asks, and he’s about to ask where when she continues, “To before you were turned, I mean. Would you be mortal again- if you could?”
His hand stills, irritation blazing through him.
“It hardly matters what I would do. It isn’t possible.” His voice is low and tight, even to his own ears.
“But if you could?” Her insistence on an answer makes him want to snap. She turns to look at him. He hopes she can see the anger in his face. “Would you?”
He steps backward, putting space between them. He laughs humorlessly. “If we’re talking wishes and fantasies, I can think of far more interesting things we could talk about that are actually possible.”
She frowns. Her eyes search his. “I’m just curious.”
Every muscle in his body tenses. He snaps. “You’re curious? Of if I would like to be free of this curse? To be able to walk in the sun? Live?”
“Yes,” she says, and she doesn’t seem to care that he would love nothing more right now than to rip her throat out to get her to stop.
He glances at the mirror behind her and his chest aches. He closes his eyes. “What do you think?” he growls.
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
He scoffs. He walks to the door and yanks it open. “Of course I would.” And he resists the urge to slam the door when he leaves.
—-
When Emerie joins them in the upstairs sitting area, everyone is already arranged between chairs forming the edge of a triangle of round tables near the far end of the room. Halsin and Astarion sit at the farthest one, Wyll and Karlach at one of the others, and Shadowheart and Gale at the final table. Emerie slides into the seat between Shadowheart and Gale.
Astarion is scowling at the tabletop in front of him.
She knows she’d pushed him too far, but she can’t quite bring herself to regret it.
Halsin starts. “The music of the lute we found was enough to restore the Fist downstairs to consciousness. He was able to recall
enough information about where Thaniel is inside the Shadowfell for me to be able to locate him. It may yet prove perilous, however.”
Karlach snorts. “As if everything until now has been a walk in the park.”
Halsin’s lips quirk up, but he doesn’t quite smile. “True enough. If I am to retrieve Thaniel from the Shadowfell, I will have to open a portal to there. I have what I need, but I will need someone to protect the portal on this end.”
Wyll nods. “Which is where we come in.”
“Precisely,” Halsin says.
Gale crosses his arms and tilts his head. “You’re talking about a Plane Shift spell. That’s complicated magic, and dangerous as well. If you are unfamiliar with the location to which you are attempting to teleport, you could end up anywhere within a hundred miles.” Emerie’s scalp prickles with awareness. Interesting.
Halsin nods. “Yes.”
“And how familiar are you with the Shadowfell?” Gale asks.
Halsin laughs. “Familiar enough. Worry not.”
“And you just carry around a tuning fork to perform planar teleportation magic?” Gale asks, alarmed.
Halsin shrugs. “You never know when something of that nature might become useful.”
Gale raises an eyebrow but nods a little. “Fair enough, considering the situation. I’m in.”
Emerie feels like she’s missing information. She shifts in her seat. “I’m confused,” she says. “I’m all for a rescue, but who is Thaniel?”
Halsin meets her eyes. “Thaniel is the spirit of this land. He has been trapped in the Shadowfell for a century- since this curse took root here. I am hopeful that returning him will end the curse.”
Oh. “Right. I’m in.”
There are murmurs of agreement from the others, except Astarion, who simply nods. His eyes are clouded, as if he’s lost in thought. Emerie feels the slightest stirrings of guilt but looks away from him.
Halsin stands. “Meet me down at the dock by the lake. Be prepared. Who knows what kind of trouble such magic will draw here.” He leaves, heading down the stairs.
Emerie stands and stretches. The others do the same, except Astarion, who remains in his chair.
“I get the feeling that we are going to want armor for this,” Karlach says, shifting her weight. “I’ll meet you all downstairs in a minute.” She heads in the direction of her room, Wyll heading to his own room behind her. Their rooms are on the opposite side of the upstairs from where Astarion, Emerie, and Shadowheart’s are.
Shadowheart sighs. She inspects her nails. “It was too much to hope that this part would be easy, wasn’t it?”
“What would be the fun in that?” Emerie quips. “Aren’t you just thrilled that we get to live such interesting lives?”
The other woman rolls her eyes. “I’ve had enough ‘interesting’ for my life, thank you.”
“Hear hear.” Gale agrees. “Emerie, you should come with me to see Isobel. She can grant you a blessing that will make the shadow curse less treacherous.”
Shadowheart scoffs and then walks away.
Gale watches her go, then whispers, “Our Sharran cleric has some vexations with Isobel, namely her being a cleric of Selune. She is exceedingly powerful to be able to hold the curse off of this place.”
Emerie raises an eyebrow. Even more interesting. “Poor Shadowheart,” she murmurs. “Lead the way. I’m eager to meet this woman.”
—-
Astarion’s irritation is still simmering, but he meets the others outside anyway. He doesn’t pay attention to Halsin’s explanations of the plan beyond his expectation that nobody else touches the portal.
Easy enough.
Unfortunately, when the elder druid steps into the shimmering portal he summoned, shadows appear around the dock.
“Oh, of course,” he mutters testily. “How convenient.”
Shadowheart begins casting and he sighs before drawing his bow, for all the good it will do.
The others are a blur of spells, save for Karlach, who is a blur with her axe. He is vaguely aware of Emerie behind him. She’s called up some sort of vines to surround the platform, and he has to swallow his anger yet again in order to focus on the wraith bearing down on him.
How do you even stab a shadow?
And then Wyll yells, pointing up the hill, and they see a hoard of animated bodies coming towards them.
Well, fuck.
And then there’s a flash of light and Emerie shifts into the damned owlbear.
One leap from powerful thighs takes her off the dock and clear up the hill, where she flattens several of the oncoming enemies. Karlach whoops, elated at the efficient carnage.
Astarion has to force himself to look away, his throat tight.
It’s not long after that that Halsin returns, bearing the body of a boy in his arms.
—-
Astarion is avoiding her.
Which, Emerie supposes, isn’t the worst thing he could do.
She had bathed, changed, and now she is searching for Halsin. She finds him in the healer’s long room near the front of the inn, frowning at the boy laid upon the bed.
The forest spirit looked nearly like a normal child, but for the antlers upon his head. He is breathing, at least, but unconscious. It saddens her deeply to see a child in such a state- even if that child is a centuries old forest spirit.
Halsin looks up when she comes in but he doesn’t rise. “Do you have need of me?” he asks.
“Yes, if you’re willing.” Emerie pauses, looking over at Thaniel again. “I was wondering if you might teach me how to plane shift.”
His gaze sharpens on her. “I could, I suppose. For an experienced druid, it is simple enough, so long as you are familiar with your destination.”
Emerie smiles. “Thank you.”
—-
Emerie doesn’t see Astarion for the rest of the day.
She tries not to let it bother her.
She had tried to draw in the sitting area downstairs for a while, but the amount of people coming and going and sometimes brushing against her chair had begun to make her skin crawl.
She finds Karlach and Wyll upstairs playing a game of cards. Karlach waves at her as she crests the stairs and Emerie drifts over to them.
“How’s it going?” Emerie asks, inspecting Karlach’s hand of cards.
Karlach grins. “I’ve got him.”
She didn’t. She was bluffing. Emerie laughs.
Wyll sighs dramatically and folds.
“Hey, Karlach?” Emerie asks as they are dealing a new hand.
“Yes?” The other woman glances up at her. It’s the first time Emerie has ever been looking down at the tall woman. It feels odd, to say the least.
“Did you have any leftover infernal iron?”
Karlach nods, inspecting her new hand of cards. “Yeah, but I gave it to Dammon. It just seemed more efficient than lugging it around, since he’s the only one who knows how to work with the stuff.”
That’s practical. “Good point. Are you going to need more repairs?”
Karlach tilts her head. “It doesn’t seem like it. Dammon’s improvements have made a world of difference,” she says dreamily.
Emerie privately thinks that there may very well be something more going on between Dammon and Karlach. She grins. “That’s great, Karlach. Really great.” Emerie nods in the direction of her room and holds her book up. “I’m going to go put this away but if you want, we can all eat dinner together up here.”
Wyll smiles ruefully, tossing his cards onto the table. Emerie winces. It’s a terrible hand. “That sounds nice," Wyll says. “I’m losing more than I’m winning anyway. I can go grab your food, if you’d like.”
“Quitter.” Karlach is smirking.
Wyll winks at her. “I prefer to call it a tactical retreat.”
—-
It takes Emerie a long while to find Astarion. She tries the yard first, checking in and chatting with Dammon while she is down there. Nobody has seen him since they returned from the lake.
She knows he’s upset. Astarion doesn’t usually give his emotions away quite so much as he had when he yanked the door open this morning.
She does a circle of the barrier, but she doesn’t find him anywhere. She checks their room, the balcony, and the basement. Nobody she asks has seen him.
It’s Jaheira who suggests the roof.
The wall and roof at the front of the second floor have crumbled away in places, leaving a pile of rubble that forms a rough staircase. Emerie picks her way up the broken stones, her feet crunching on bits of chipped mortar and stone. At the top, the roof is a patchwork of tiles and holes and treacherous looking.
Astarion is lying down at the far end, staring up at the sky.
She thinks she can hear him sigh.
She finds a safe enough looking path and picks her way across the roof to him. She sits down nearby, stretching her legs in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He doesn’t look at her. “Whatever for?”
She sighs. It’s going to be that kind of conversation, then. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
He scoffs, then levels a baleful stare at her. “You didn’t.”
She tips her head back to look at the sky and sighs. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
A huff- “I have not.”
She almost laughs.
Emerie lays back, staring up at the sky. It’s almost all inky, swirling blackness, but she thinks she can see a hint of moonlight peeking through.
After several minutes, Astarion sits up and turns to her, clearly annoyed. “Why are you here?” he snaps.
Emerie turns her head to look at him. “I came to apologize.”
“And you have. Now go.”
“I thought you said you weren’t avoiding me.”
His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. “Believe it or not, darling, even your glorious presence gets exhausting.”
Ouch. She supposes she did goad him into it. She sighs. “Alright.” She stands up, but she meets his eyes before she goes. Her heart clenches at the empty look in his eyes. “Astarion? Just so you know, I think you’re perfect exactly how you are.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches and he looks away. Emerie takes that as her sign to go.
Notes:
IF YOU ARE READING AS A COMPLETED WORK: this is a good time to take a quick break, especially if you ignored the same message on chapter 12 😂
Chapter 20
Notes:
This one is really short, but I think it needs to be.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“What do you mean?” Astarion’s quiet voice washes over Emerie, in that drowsy half-sleep state. She feels him sitting on the mattress behind her, then she hears the thud of his boots hitting the floor.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she asks, groggy and confused. She also feels a small measure of relief- she hadn’t been sure he would come to bed with her.
He tucks himself into the bed behind her, his front flush with her back. His face is cool against her neck. “What do you mean, I’m perfect the way I am?”
There’s a touch of vulnerability to it.
Emerie is quiet for long moments, thinking of how to put it into words. She feels him exhale lightly against her neck. She realizes that he thinks she’s not going to answer, so she says, “Just… give me a second to think.”
His hand comes up to settle on her waist and he squeezes his fingertips lightly against her skin in acknowledgment.
Emerie tries to gather her thoughts, but as soon as she acknowledges one, it flits away. She sighs. “Ever since the nautiloid, everything has been overwhelming. I hadn’t expected…” She takes a deep breath. “I was trying to… leave.” That’s the savory way of putting it.
She continues, “But I didn’t expect to be captured by mind flayers, of all things. And then we escaped. Ever since then, everything has been overwhelming. Terrifying. I don’t know where I fit in the world anymore, and I don’t know how to be around people the way I did… before.”
She feels his fingers ghost down to her hip. She sighs. “But then you were there, and you were afraid too. I could see it, that night. And then… you were hungry. I knew what to do about hunger.”
His fingers twitch against her hip.
“And then there was the night in the tent. I’d thought for the longest time that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy those kinds of things anymore, but you… I…” Emerie huffs, trying to find the words. “I felt safe. Because I’d already been in your arms and you hadn’t hurt me.”
She feels him inhale. She continues, “You’re perfect, because you are what I needed. You are sweet to me when I need it. You reminded me that there is pleasure in the world, when I was convinced that only pain was left.”
She rolls over, suddenly needing to see him. He inhales raggedly as their eyes meet. He looks haunted. Emerie brings a hand up to Astarion’s face, cupping his cheek. “You’re beautiful. You’re sweet. You’re funny. You make me feel safe.”
She kisses him, softly, and he makes a wounded noise. She pulls back. His eyes are closed and he looks pained.
“Astarion?”
“Yes?” His voice is ragged.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes open and there’s something in them that tugs at her heart. He doesn’t answer, just crushes her to him in a bruising kiss.
—-
He feels…
He doesn’t know how to feel.
Astarion had simmered throughout the previous day with irritation and jealousy. It was justified, after all. Emerie had crossed a line.
But then she’d hit him with , “Just so you know, I think you’re perfect exactly how you are.”
It was enraging.
After a while, though, he’d had to know what she meant.
And then she’d ripped him to shreds.
“ You reminded me that there is pleasure in the world.”
He watches her pick her way through the ruins of a town within the cursed lands between the Inn and Moonrise Towers, where they are headed. He doesn’t know what to feel anymore.
“ You make me feel safe.”
Sweet, naive thing.
But gods, if he didn’t like hearing it.
Notes:
As always, thank you for being here 💛
Chapter 21
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s something softer about the way Astarion has been looking at her.
Emerie knows that something fundamental had changed between them after what she said to him, but he hasn’t mentioned it at all.
She hasn’t either.
It doesn’t seem to be a bad thing.
She wishes they didn’t have curses and mindflayers and armies and devils and gods to worry about. If they could worry about simple things, maybe they would have time to truly sort out what they were to each other.
As it is, they have spent the day chasing moonbeams.
Halsin’s theory that restoring Thaniel’s missing self to him would break the shadow curse has not proven true. The boy-spirit, whole and happy now, is not the key to breaking the curse.
Unfortunately, that means spending the night in the midst of the shadow curse. It’s not a pleasant prospect. Though not quite dead- there are plants that grow here and there- this place is practically devoid of life. The shadows are a living thing, and where the shadows lie thickest, horrible twisted creatures tend to lurk.
It’s a mockery of what a forest should be.
They find a ruined building with ill-defined rooms and they cast lighting spells on several stones to encircle the area. The walls that remain are barely hip height, but they are better than nothing.
They pitch tents for the sake of comfort.
Everyone is exhausted by the time they manage dinner and they all break off to sleep without much conversation. Already changed for bed, Emerie throws herself down on the bedroll and cushions in her tent.
Astarion follows, tugging a blanket over them as he fits himself against her back.
It’s nice that even in this cursed place, there are still some comforts.
Emerie huffs a short laugh as Astarion nips at the skin between her neck and shoulder. “Go ahead. Don’t let me keep you from your dinner.”
He nips her again, breaking the skin, and then he licks the spot. “Delicious,” he purrs, and heat blooms in her lower stomach.
She lets her eyes drift shut with a sigh, pressing herself back into him. He bites lightly at the skin higher on her neck, then again just under her ear, and she shudders.
“Astarion, please,” she breathes, goosebumps erupting on her arms.
He chuckles against her ear. “Please, what?”
“Stop toying with me.”
“Hmmm.” He nips her earlobe with sharp teeth, drawing a ragged exhale from her. He draws her tight against him with his arm around her waist and sinks his teeth into her neck.
He teases her with sucking kisses over the bite, alternating with licks. When he draws the first whimper from her lips, he withdraws. He sits up, tossing his own shirt off, then tugs her up enough to drag her shirt off her as well. He pushes her down onto her back and climbs on top of her, his body aligning with hers indecently.
She can feel him through both of their pants. He’s hard and long and she groans, desperately needing to feel more.
“Hush. You’re far too noisy,” he admonishes, grinning. When she brings her hands up to touch him, Astarion grabs them and pushes them up over her head. “No.” He dips his head to kiss her, playful and teasing. “Keep your hands to yourself, or we stop.”
She glares at him. “Why?”
He smirks. “Because I want to hear you beg.”
She whimpers.
Her skin is flushed all over already. Astarion dips his head and sinks his teeth into the unbitten side of her neck. “Oh fuck,” she breathes as he sucks at her skin greedily and thrusts against her with his hips.
He pulls back all too soon.
He looks down at her, considering, before he shifts lower.
Her heart pounds as he trails kisses down her chest.
When he takes her nipple into his mouth, she makes a high pitched noise. He draws back, looking up at her with hooded eyes. “Keep your voice down, or I will stop,” he drawls. “Understood?”
She nods.
He returns to her breast, sucking lightly, and then he bites down.
Oh gods.
The sharp pain and the pleasure combine to leave her a gasping mess. Astarion swirls his tongue around her nipple and the bite, and she has to dig her fingers into the cushion behind her head to resist the urge to grab his head- to push him away or to pull him closer.
She’s not sure which.
He pulls away and moves to the other side, giving the other breast the same treatment. Emerie whimpers and gasps, dizzy and needy, trying (and failing) to grind her hips into him for any kind of friction.
He pulls back with a smug grin, lips red with her blood.
She’s panting when he moves even lower. He rises up on his knees to tug off the rest of her clothing, but then he settles between her legs. She’s a panting mess, but he is entirely in control of himself.
He grasps her by the back of her legs, holding them firmly, and then bites into her thigh.
A high pitched whine escapes her at the intensity of the pinching pain followed by the obscene groan that escapes him as blood fills his mouth. He brings the heel of his hand up to press into the apex of her thighs, and the delicious friction makes her whimper.
When he pulls away and licks into her, she’s reduced to pants and moans. He has her held fast, and she can’t move to try to chase her pleasure as he teases her relentlessly. He alternates perfect pressure with teasing licks, driving her higher and higher into bliss while still denying her what she needs.
She’s on fire.
“Please please Astarion please,” she chants, dizzy and lost in the feel of him.
He chuckles darkly, bringing his fingers up to toy with her entrance while his other hand still holds her hip in an unforgiving grip. “Not yet.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth into her again.
He knows exactly what he’s doing to her.
He sinks two fingers into her, and it’s perfect and not enough all at once.
“Fuck… please,” she pants, digging the heel of her free leg into his back.
He withdraws his mouth, pillowing his head on her thigh and looking up at her dreamily. “You’re perfect,” he says, swirling his fingers inside her.
Oh fucking hells. Her heart stops. Suddenly, this feels like far more than sex.
Her mind swirls into delirium as he expertly and slowly coaxes pleasure from her, murmuring praises as she whimpers and begs until she finally flutters around his fingers, moaning as the orgasm crashes through her body in waves.
When she comes back to herself, he’s kicked off his own pants and laid back down beside her. He carefully rolls her so she’s on her side, slotting himself into her in a careful thrust. “Cast the spell.”
At first, she isn’t entirely sure what he means, but then he licks over the bite on her neck and she understands. She casts the restorative spell with a murmur.
“So fucking perfect,” he mutters into her neck, thrusting harder before he sinks his teeth into her again.
—-
Moonrise Towers is a hair-raising sight.
Mist swirls around the building, concealing the upper reaches of the towering stone complex in fog.
The water under the bridge is preternaturally still.
Despite the need for answers regarding the parasites, Astarion has to resist the urge to flee.
It reminds him in no small measure of the Szarr palace.
Inside, it smells like blood and death and decay.
Astarion makes a concentrated effort to not inhale at all, trying to block out the familiar smells.
It’s exactly like the Szarr palace.
The dread creeping up his spine turns into near panic when the goblin hurls the axe at Ketheric and Ketheric simply removes the axe buried in his own neck.
Undead.
It’s exactly like the Szarr palace- and Ketheric is Cazador.
Astarion is vaguely aware of a quick discussion that results in the group splitting into pairs to gather information. Emerie slips her hand into his and leads him into a hallway and into the first empty room she sees.
“Are you okay?” she asks, peering up at him.
He tries to focus. “I’m fine.” It doesn’t even sound convincing to him.
She bites her lip, then seems to come to a decision. She steps into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.
He can feel her heartbeat in his own chest.
Astarion wraps his arms around her shoulders and focuses on her breaths, counting them, trying to convince himself that this isn’t as bad as it is.
Honestly, it’s probably worse.
Emerie’s warmth seeps into his skin. It might be helping.
“What is it with evil bastards and creepy castles?” he hears her mutter into his chest, and it startles a laugh out of him.
“Indeed,” he says, pushing her back slightly by her shoulders. “It does give off a distinct air of arrogance and ego, doesn’t it? Cazador would be right at home.”
She snorts. “He would probably enjoy the throne.”
Astarion raises an eyebrow at her. “He has one.”
“Of course he does,” she mutters, turning to look around the room. Potions bubble at a stone table against the window and another door lies on the other side of the room.
That door opens, and a drow female steps through, pausing when she sees the two of them.
“Well, hello,” she says, inspecting them. “Can I help you?”
Emerie flashes an apologetic smile at the other female. “No, sorry. We got carried away. We’ll get out of your hair.”
“Wait.” the woman steps closer. She glances at the marks on Emerie’s neck, and then at his own neck. “You’re a vampire,” she breathes, looking at Astarion with awe.
He is suddenly extremely uncomfortable. That is not the reaction he expects when someone finds out there’s a vampire walking amongst them.
Emerie glances up at him. “So?” she asks the other woman, nonchalant.
The woman stops looking at him, and he feels a sense of relief. “I make potions using the sanguine arts. Blood can be an extremely powerful ingredient.” She glances at Astarion and then back to Emerie. “I could give you a potion that will enhance your power significantly, for a price. It’s extremely rare and valuable.”
Emerie’s brow furrows. “What’s the price?”
The woman looks at Astarion dreamily. “I’ve dreamed of being bitten by a vampire since I was a little girl. Have your pet feed on me, and the potion is yours.”
Astarion’s skin crawls. “Absolutely not,” he says, alarmed. He supposes that in Drow culture, women owning men is the norm, but this is insanity.
The woman chuckles. “Are you going to let him refuse?”
Emerie steps in front of him. “He’s not a pet, and he can refuse if he wants to.”
He glances at her, startled. He’d almost thought she would try to convince him to do it.
The woman raises an eyebrow. “Surely you understand my fascination. It looks to me like you… enjoy his attentions plenty.”
Emerie growls. “It’s really none of your business either way.”
The woman sighs. “Fine.” There is an air of disappointment about her as she turns away.
Emerie steps forward and says, “Wait.” Astarion stiffens, waiting for her to ask him to do it anyway. “What if I could offer you something equally valuable?”
The woman stops. “Oh?”
“The blood of the gods’ chosen holds a significant amount of power. It’s beyond rare, and it has to be willingly given.”
The woman turns, eyes wide. “You have some?”
Emerie offers her arm. “I can give you some.”
What?
“How do I know you are what you say?” The woman asks, wary.
“I was chosen by Mielikki herself. You’re welcome to test a drop of my blood, if you’d like to be sure.”
She was what?
The drow woman eyes Emerie greedily. “We have a deal.”
Notes:
For those of you who wanted it, there is an alternative version of chapter 15 posted in a separate work called "Fun House Mirror" :)
Chapter 22
Notes:
I did take two lines in here directly from the game. They just work too well.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Emerie gives the drow’s potion to Astarion, hoping it’s as powerful as the woman had indicated.
Emerie is doing everything she can to spell it out without breaking the terms of her contract.
Cazador held onto hope for years after he became a true vampire. He sought the ingredients for the cure- water from the Unicorn Run, where the gods are rumored to have created each race to walk Faerun, and the blood of Mielikki’s, Silvanus’, and Lathander’s chosen, willingly given- but the lust for power eventually overcame him and he began preparing for the ascension ritual instead.
She considers, briefly, that it may not have been the best plan to blurt out certain information within a building crawling with Absolute worshippers. She’s hoping, however, that Astarion will make the connection between the blood of the gods’ chosen and potions.
It’s a stretch.
But she desperately wants him to know what she knows.
Seven spawn, intimately linked to the contract by virtue of having it carved into their very flesh, and 7,000 souls sacrificed to Mephistopheles in return for unheard of power. Mephistopheles would receive an army, and Cazador would be nearly unstoppable.
It nearly breaks her heart sometimes to look at Astarion and know that if Cazador gets his hands on him, he’s doomed.
She can’t let it happen.
Astarion has been suspiciously silent, only raising an eyebrow at her when she met his eyes.
You’re perfect, he had said to her the night before.
It was an echo of what she’d told him at the inn. The words had wormed through her heart and set her soul on fire.
It meant something.
Astarion had brought her back to life. She had nearly given up before he had climbed into her bed and her heart all at once.
If she could repay him even a fraction of what he had given her, she would go to the ends of the world to do it.
She follows him, winding their way through the crowd towards where Halsin and Karlach are speaking with an orc.
The amount of people here, worshipping the Absolute- or worse, infected with mind flayer parasites- is incredibly unsettling.
Karlach waves as they get close. She and Halsin break away from their conversation to meet Emerie and Astarion halfway.
“The others are trying to find information about Wyll’s dad,” Karlach murmurs when they get close. “They went upstairs. I figure we give them about five minutes before we go after them.”
Emerie nods. “Sounds like a plan.”
The four of them drift towards the stairs without speaking. Emerie has a feeling the others are itching to leave as much as she is.
If anyone is going to know anything about the tadpoles, it’s going to be Ketheric Thorm. The fact that he is clearly undead makes her skin crawl. The fact that he reminds her eerily of Cazador is bad enough, but the fact that Cazador’s spawn are limited by their weaknesses is in stark contrast to the fact that the infected “True Souls” have no such limitations.
It’s horrific.
“I am eager to be free of this place,” Halsin mutters.
Emerie nods.
Gale, Shadowheart, and Wyll appear at the base of the stairs. Wyll spots them and jerks his head in the direction of the doors to leave. He looks haunted.
They exit the large room and descend a staircase. Nobody speaks until they’re well past the bridge that leads away from Moonrise.
Gale is the first one to speak. “There’s no sign of Wyll’s father, but we did learn that Ketheric sent a man called Balthazar to retrieve some kind of relic. His journal seems to indicate that the relic might have something to do with Ketheric’s invulnerability.”
Interesting.
“So we need to go find that relic,” Karlach says.
“And quickly,” Wyll says grimly. “So that we can find out where they’re keeping my father. If we can make Ketheric vulnerable, the Harpers should be able to help us rid the place of these damned Absolutists.”
“Right,” Karlach says, rubbing her upper arm. “Let’s get away from here and set up camp. We can plan when we’re further away. This place makes my skin crawl.”
—-
Astarion is still reeling with the shock of Ketheric’s invulnerability, the fact that they are still no closer to a solution to the tadpole issue, and the revelation that he’s been bedding a god’s chosen.
And feeding from her.
Which, in retrospect, might explain some things.
He had been aware that he had felt very different after drinking Shadowheart’s blood to when he had had Emerie’s. Emerie left him feeling particularly strong. He had chalked it up to simple preference.
He supposes he hasn’t tasted enough people’s blood to know the difference.
Suddenly, the fact that Emerie had voluntarily let him feed from her holds far more meaning than he had considered.
Willingly given…
He’d known it was a gift. He hadn’t realized how much of a gift it really was.
He watches her carefully while they set up camp. She’s distant and drawn- not nearly as warm and friendly as usual.
He waits until they’re as alone as they can be, in their tent before he asks the burning question. “So… Mielikki’s chosen. When were you going to reveal that little bit of information?”
She sighs. She’s sitting propped against the stone wall against which they had pitched their tent. They had settled for being slightly farther from the others than usual tonight. “It didn’t seem important before.” She twirls her pencil in her hand. Her eyes are distant, focused on the wall of the tent. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds, and I wasn’t able to use any of my powers until recently anyway.”
Astarion considers this. “Chosen,” he muses, “And still you ended up sold into slavery only to be rescued by mind flayers like the rest of us. That is some terrible luck.”
A harsh laugh escapes her. “Someone told me a very long time ago that it is more a curse than a blessing to be chosen.” She glares at the wall of the tent. “The gods are forbidden from meddling in mortal affairs, but they find ways. One of those is working through others.” Her eyes drift shut. “I was granted a boost in power. Things that take others decades to master came to me easily. I’m just now starting to realize the cost.”
He studies her. She’s clearly upset. The way she’s twirling the pencil in her hand betrays her agitation. “What’s the cost?”
She doesn’t answer for long moments. Astarion resists the urge to push, remembering that she always gave him the space to answer when he was ready.
She’s rubbing off on him.
He isn’t sure if it’s a bad thing.
She inhales raggedly. “I’m starting to think that all of this was the plan all along. I think I was chosen and doomed to be captured all at once.” She opens her eyes, and they are shining brightly. She looks haunted. “This curse-“ she gasps for air for a second before her eyes close, pained. “The shadow curse. The Absolute. All of it. I’m starting to think that I was put here and given a little power in order to help put it to rights.”
A tear trails down her cheek. Astarion moves without thinking, sitting next to her and drawing her against him.
“Just look at what Mystra is demanding of Gale,” she murmurs into his chest. “She chose him and used him and you can’t convince me she didn’t know what he would do. Now she wants him to kill himself to fix all of this.” She shudders.
Horror takes root in Astarion’s gut.
“Mielikki is a more forgiving sort,” Emerie whispers, “but I have to wonder if even that has its limits.”
He feels his brow furrow. “Did you do something?”
She flinches. “Yes.”
Well, then.
He presses a kiss into the top of her head. “You’re not alone in this,” he murmurs. “None of us are.”
Her shoulders shake with silent sobs.
—-
They make it to the mausoleum the next day. Emerie just wants to get it over with.
She feels marginally better today, all things considered. She’s still frustrated by her inability to simply tell Astarion what she knows, but she already has two pieces of the puzzle. They’re also getting closer to answers about the tadpoles.
Altogether, things could be worse.
Or, that’s what she thinks until she recognizes the man standing outside the mausoleum inspecting his nails.
“Raphael,” Gale greets him.
Raphael straightens, a crooked grin on his face. “Our hero thought but a treasure ahead- did not consider the peace of the dead. Through the dark he went creeping and awoke what was sleeping. A new grave they dug, which he himself fed.”
Morbid.
“A warning. How sweet. Don’t tell me you’re worried about us,” Shadowheart drawls, inspecting her own nails.
Emerie has to resist the urge to laugh.
Raphael smirks. “Merely protecting my assets.”
Emerie stiffens.
“I’ve grown quite fond of you all, in my way. I thought it was only fair to warn you.” He pauses dramatically. “And I came to offer a deal.” He looks straight at Astarion. “It has come to my attention that one of you requires a little translation of some infernal. If you do what I ask when you go creeping through the dark and awake what is sleeping, I will tell you what I know about your scars. It’s something of great importance you your master.”
Emerie’s heart sinks.
Just the scars.
She growls.
Raphael’s eyes light up, “Oh, little mouse, this will be fun.”
Astarion glances at her, then back to Raphael. “What do I have to do?”
“In the dark, there is a creature of the infernal persuasion, like myself. Simply kill it, and I will tell you that which you are dying to know.”
Dying. Her heart stalls in her chest.
Emerie grabs Astarion’s wrist. “Don’t.”
He looks at her, startled. “Why ever not?”
Raphael laughs. “Why ever not, little mouse? Are you afraid? Perhaps you don’t want your lover to know that you already have the answer he seeks. Or perhaps you don’t want him to know that not only did you sell your soul, but you may very well have doomed him- all to save one little girl.” He tuts. “Tragic, really.”
Emerie’s vision goes white. She feels Astarion stiffen next to her.
Well, shit.
She’d wondered what Raphael’s goal was in forbidding her to speak about the deal.
Now she knew.
Notes:
Finally some answers at least.
Raphael is the such a good villain because he's just a theatrical power hungry bastard who loves drama. I picture him sitting at home alone plotting this for days.As always, thank you for being here <3 Happy thanksgiving for those of you who celebrate it.
Chapter 23
Notes:
Maybe one day I’ll take the time to edit this monstrosity.
Not today… but maybe one day.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion isn’t sure he has ever felt such raging fury before.
No sooner has Raphael disappeared than he’s moving. Forearm to her throat, he pins Emerie against the wall near the entrance to the mausoleum before anyone else can so much as blink.
“What the fuck does he mean?” he snarls, inches from her face.
He feels her swallow against his arm, but when she opens her mouth, no sound comes out. He can feel her heartbeat in his other hand, wild and frightened like a rabbit in a trap.
Good.
She should be frightened.
“Astarion, let her go.” It’s Karlach.
But she knows. And she didn’t bother to tell him.
He growls. “Are you going to say anything?”
Her eyes flash with anger. “I want to! You don’t understand.”
He presses his arm harder into her throat, incensed. “Enlighten me, then.”
Her jaw works, but she says nothing. She closes her eyes, looking pained.
He sees red.
But then, as if from far away, he hears Wyll. “Your silence is part of the deal,” the man says, pityingly.
Of fucking course it is. And of all people, Wyll would fucking know.
Emerie exhales and he feels her breath ghost along his cheek. “Yes,” she says on a choked gasp.
Astarion releases her.
He pretends he doesn’t see her reach for him as he turns away.
You may very well have doomed him- all to save one little girl.
Because of course she would.
He can’t look at her.
He leads the way into the crypt, and he doesn’t particularly give a damn if anyone follows. He has a monster to kill.
—-
Emerie is terrified.
On one hand, Astarion is hurting, and it’s her fault.
On the other, she knows Raphael is only going to tell him half of the story. She can feel it in her bones.
It is killing her to not be able to say anything.
Thank the gods for Wyll.
At the very least, Astarion knows now why she hasn’t mentioned it.
He’s still furious. She can’t blame him.
He doesn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day. He doesn’t speak when they discover Isobel’s tomb. He doesn’t speak when they discover the entrance to the Sharran temple. He doesn’t speak when they accidentally set off the traps.
He doesn’t speak in the panicked healing that follows and the retreat to the previous room, where they decide to rest for the night.
He doesn’t speak when they decide on watches- Emerie volunteers to go first.
He doesn’t speak when they pitch tents for privacy.
Part of her- not a small part- is relieved he doesn’t bother pitching a separate tent.
Emerie keeps watch for hours before she goes to wake Karlach for the next shift, though she’s still not sure she will be able to sleep.
Astarion stiffens when she enters the tent. His back is to her, but he is laying on their combined bedrolls and cushions with both of their blankets on top of him.
She’s a little relieved, but she had been hoping he would have at least fallen asleep.
Her chest aches.
She changes, then slips under the blankets behind him, burrowing into his back.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
She feels him inhale and exhale, slow and steady. He reaches behind him and grabs her hand, tugging it over his waist and linking his fingers with hers.
He still doesn’t speak.
It’s something, though.
Her eyes sting. She’s not sure if it’s anger or relief or fear that bring out the tears, but she tightens her fingers around his and presses herself harder into his back.
They can do this.
—-
He can’t decide how he feels about her apology.
On one hand, it’s sentimental and irritating.
On the other, it sounded almost like she meant it.
Quite frankly, he can’t blame her for choosing her own life- or Victoria’s- over his.
It’s not like he hasn’t done the same thing to others hundreds of times before.
He had considered, briefly, sleeping on his own last night, but the thought of spending the night cold and alone didn’t appeal to him.
The very least she owed him was some warmth.
He hates this place.
There are rats everywhere.
He hates them far more than the undead bastards who keep popping up all over the place.
There’s a particular smell of corruption and death and rats about this place that feeds his worst memories.
He takes the first watch that night after meeting the disgusting stitched up pustule of a creature called Balthazar. He knows that if he does sleep it will only lead to nightmares.
At some point, Halsin comes to relieve him. The big bear of an elf doesn’t require nearly as much sleep as the rest of them.
Astarion slips into the tent he shares with Emerie. Her breathing is mercifully deep and even when he slips into the blankets beside her.
When he does sleep, he dreams.
Cazador features heavily in his dreams- he always does- but this time the bodies pile up next to Cazador as he offers to share a meal with Astarion.
He can taste the fur in his mouth as the rats pile up next to him.
When he finally wakes, panting, he can still taste them.
He shudders.
Out of sheer instinct and no small amount of panic, he reaches for Emerie and sinks his teeth into her neck.
He’s perhaps not as gentle as he could be.
She tastes incredible.
She jerks awake with a gasp, and he clasps a hand over her mouth. She tries to pull away and he growls instinctively, tugging her closer.
She relaxes into his grip in a disturbing display of trust.
It’s that thought that breaks through the haze of the nightmare and allows him to pull away from her with a gasp.
She rolls over, facing him, and the concerned look in her eyes as they search his own is going to ruin him.
He tugs her into a harsh kiss to try to stop it.
She fucking melts into him, a tiny whimper escaping her.
He’s heated and disoriented and he drinks her in, trying and failing to sip comfort from her lips.
All he can picture is a pile of bodies- all his fault.
When she slips her hand into the waistband of his pants, all he can think of is that pile of discarded souls.
He shudders.
He pulls away. “Stop,” he says, and to his surprise, she does.
He buries his face in her chest and she cards her fingers through his hair.
He hates her a little.
But only a little.
He loves the way her fingers feel against his scalp.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs into the darkness.
What?
Oh. Right. The deal she had made with Raphael.
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice muffled against her chest.
He can hear the snuffling of tiny feet in the darkness outside the tent. He tightens his arm around her waist and shudders.
Notes:
Well, that hurt.
I love you all <3
Chapter Text
After an hour- or maybe two- Emerie is willing to accept that she’s not going to be getting back to sleep.
She doesn’t think Astarion is either.
“We need to talk,” she murmurs. She needs to explain, at least as much as she can, what he needs to know.
She feels his breath against her skin- the first breath he’s taken in at least an hour. “Then talk,” he says, voice quiet and a little rough.
Easier said than done.
“I want to tell you everything,” she says, and excitement sparks through her at the realization that the words didn’t die in her throat. “I think… I think I can work around this. Thank the gods for Wyll.”
Astarion makes a noncommittal noise. Emerie curls further around him and nuzzles into his hair, breathing him in.
“Raphael isn’t going to give you the whole story. I think he’s toying with us- all of us, but specifically you and I- because he gets off on it. Hope and despair seem to be his thing.”
She absently runs her hand down his arm. “I think he sees a little of himself in you.”
He pulls out of her arms to look at her. “What do you mean?”
She wishes she could explain that the way Raphael had talked about Mephistopheles and the Crown had an eery similarity to how he had described Astarion and Cazador.
She looks Astarion in the eye. She will just have to work around the details. “Raphael wants power. He’s a cambion- and a powerful one. Which means one of his parents was very powerful.” Mephistopheles, ruler of Cania, is the second most powerful archdevil in the hells.
Work around the details…
Astarion’s brow is furrowed, but he’s listening intently.
“He’s going to try to manipulate you into doing what he wants to do. And he wants me to watch it happen and be powerless to stop it,” she says quietly. “I’m going to help you get the answers he will give you, but I need you to trust me when I tell you that…”
I want you to be able to live in the sun is apparently not something she can say.
She tries to find the right words. “I want you to be free. I want you to be you and free. I need you to believe that I’m doing everything in my power to make that happen.”
He searches her eyes. His are guarded.
Astarion pulls away and sits up. “Hold on,” he murmurs, reaching for his pack. He digs through it, grabbing something buried near the bottom.
She recognizes it when he pulls it out.
Emerie sits up, surprised. “My book.”
He nods, flipping it open. He flicks through the pages with familiarity. He stops on the one she’d drawn of him lounging in the grass, the day she’d stolen his shirt. She hadn’t been able to get the image of him out of her head.
He traces over the words she’d written on the page with a finger. “You know,” he muses, “I haven’t seen myself in nearly two centuries. I had forgotten what I look like.” His gaze trails over the page and then he looks at her.
May the flowers remind us why the rain was necessary.
Her heart pounds.
“So imagine my surprise when I found this.” He offers her the book and she takes it, carefully. “I need you to understand something,” he says, and the way he’s looking at her is going to drown her, she knows it.
“I’ve been around for centuries. I’ve known pleasure and pain and everything in between. I had given up hope of ever having anything more than the wretched existence I was already doomed to.”
Her heart aches. Her fingers tighten around the pages in her hands.
“But then we all ended up in the mind flayers’ grasp. Suddenly, I could walk in the sun. There was a world of possibilities out there that I hadn’t even dreamed of.”He tilts his head, “And there was you.”
He gestures at the page. “You gave me hope. When I bit you for the first time, everything felt different. It was a gift. But then you gave me affection. Comfort. Safety. I didn’t understand it at first, but that’s what it was.”
He reaches out and taps the open sketchbook. “And then you disappeared and all of that was gone, but I found this. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I could see myself- because you bothered to see me and put me on paper.”
A tear rolls down her face and she wipes it away.
“I trust you,” he says, and it’s the simplest and most complicated statement she’s ever heard in her life.
She looks down at the picture in her hands and runs shaking fingertips over it. She meets his eyes. “This.” She raises the book to indicate the drawing. “This is what I want for you. How you were, that day. I want you to be able to have that forever.”
His eyes widen. She hopes he understands.
She sets the book aside and climbs into his lap, burying her head in his chest. He loops his arms around her, settling his chin on top of her head.
“Doesn’t Mielikki have a… contentious relationship with the undead?” he muses.
Emerie lets out a watery laugh. That’s one way to put it. “I don’t rightly care. I’d like to see her try to take you away from me.”
He makes an amused sound. “Don’t we have enough to deal with without you picking fights with gods?”
She snorts. “It would hardly be the craziest thing to happen to us.”
“No. No, it would not,” he says, and they both laugh a little. Crazy just seems to be their world these days.
She looks up at him, “Did I tell you I got to meet your brother?”
He huffs. “I surmised as much, given how you were talking to Victoria. He’s hardly the most pleasant person, but Leon’s not a bad sort most of the time.”
She smiles, “That’s not what he said about you.”
“Of course not. I’m the worst sort, all the time.”
She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Actually, he told me you were sentimental, fond of poetry, and a royal pain in the ass.”
His eyes light up when he laughs. He looks surprised.
“I told him that he forgot dramatic,” she teases.
“Of course you did,” he mutters, playfully shoving her off his lap.
Notes:
I’m probably going to have to slow down a bit (even though I don’t particularly want to) because of the holidays and exams/papers coming up, but I wanted to at least leave this here because these two deserve to be a team.
As always: I love and appreciate you all. It’s wild to me that anyone cares about this exercise in self indulgence. <3
Chapter 25
Notes:
I had a very different goal in mind for this chapter, but Emerie and Astarion hijacked it for their own purposes. I’m not gonna question it too much because it feels right.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
This place is excessively large.
Astarion wonders how many decades it took to carve this godsforsaken pit of a temple out of the rock. He also wonders if it was an accident of fate that the Thorm mausoleum ended up on top of it.
He suspects that one way or another, it was not.
These days, Astarion is not sure of much, but he is sure that the gods are playing a cosmic-sized game of lanceboard and the inhabitants of Faerun are all pawns. He isn’t quite sure how the devils factor into the game, but he’s tired of all of them.
Shar and her gauntlet of ridiculousness can go to the hells for all he’s concerned.
It’s laughable, really, how easy the first trial is for him. If going unseen by shadows that growl and announce their presence is the low standard by which Shar chooses her Dark Justiciars, it’s no wonder they tend to wind up dead.
Emerie makes equally laughably short work of the second trial by turning into a crow and flying over the clouds of darkness.
Astarion isn’t feeling quite so raw today. Just knowing that Emerie wasn’t able to tell him what she knew had been enough to soothe the worst of the betrayal, but he had still been furious that she had tried to talk him out of making his own deal with Raphael.
Knowing that she cared and wanted him near despite his anger had helped.
He hadn’t been sure where they stood that first night in the mausoleum, but when she’d pressed into his back, all warmth and contrition, it had doused the lingering embers of his temper.
Hearing her reservations about Raphael last night had rekindled the small flame of hope she’d lit in him so many nights before.
She cared.
He didn’t quite understand what it was she thought Raphael was going to tell him or not tell him, but he knew it had to do with his freedom.
He also knew she was genuine when she said that was what she wanted. The way her eyes had lit up when she’d pointed to the drawing and declared she wanted him to have that. Forever.
It changes everything.
He had already trusted her in a way that he had never trusted another person. Now…
It’s something different.
Emerie is deep in conversation with Gale up on the staircase. The wizard is lively, talking with his hands, and Emerie is listening intently.
Astarion watches her.
When they had begun their… relationship, for lack of a better word, he had been under the impression that she valued him for sex. He had gone into this trying to manipulate her into being on his side for the sake of protection.
It has become more and more apparent to him that while his motivations have changed into purely wanting to be around her and her warmth and affection, she was never in it for just the sex.
And, perhaps, she would still care for him without it.
It's a strange and uncomfortable thought.
It takes Shadowheart and Karlach an hour or so to fight their way out of the third trial- they admittedly look a little worse for wear, but it’s still laughable that this is considered a difficult task for Shar’s elite warriors.
Of course, when the fighting erupts in the library, he considers that perhaps he should have been less hasty with his amusement.
—-
She’s bleeding. Gale’s bleeding. Even Karlach is bleeding.
Emerie pants as the final foe falls, her hand shaking around her sword. Her wildshape had only held up for half of the battle. Halsin had fared slightly better, but he also looks drained.
She heads straight for Astarion, healing the oozing gash in his forearm without a second thought. She reaches for him to check for other injuries, but he grasps her firmly by the shoulders and pushes her out of reach. “Darling, as flattering as your concern is, you had better take care of yourself first. You’re no good to anyone if you pass out.”
He may have a point. She looks him over dubiously anyway.
“I’m fine,” he says. “You, however, are bleeding. Fix it. It’s distracting.”
“I…” She looks down at the blood dripping off her hand and blinks. “Yeah. Fair enough.” She casts a healing spell to take care of the worst of the damage to herself.
Astarion shakes his head at her and heads towards the door where the others are congregating.
It takes everything out of Emerie, Shadowheart, and Halsin to heal everyone to something approaching an acceptable level of health. They decide as a group to set up to rest in the large area under the staircase.
Emerie is so drowsy by the time they’ve got the tents up that she stumbles a little on the way in.
Astarion, a step ahead of her, grabs her arm to steady her. “Alright, love?” he asks, and she blinks up at him dazedly.
“I’m fine,” she says, pulling away and stepping towards the stone wall that makes up the back half of the tent. She sinks down against it heavily.
She’s so tired.
He snorts. “Clearly.” She hears him rummaging around and she can’t quite bring herself to open her eyes.
It feels like moments later when she feels him unlacing her boots and tugging them off. She opens her eyes blearily and tries to help, but he brushes her hands away. She watches him tug off her boots, then socks, then he sits back on his heels to look her over.
She realizes he’s changed out of his armor.
She must have dozed off.
“We’re going to have to get you out of all that leather before you lie down,” he says, and she blinks, realizing that he’s right.
She stands, clumsily starting to unlace her leathers.
So tired.
She hears him sigh deeply, and then his fingers push hers out of the way and he’s unlacing her shirt with far more finesse than she had managed.
“Thank you,” she says to him, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. She watches his clever fingers unlace her leather leggings and she murmurs, “I love your hands.”
He laughs quietly. “So you’ve said.”
Her leggings drop and she steps out of them. He tugs her arms out of her sleeves and carefully finishes undressing her.
The thought of trying to put more clothes on is a daunting prospect.
Thankfully, Astarion seems to understand that. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.”
She all but collapses into their pile of blankets and cushions. He climbs in after her, tugging a few blankets out from under her to wrap around them.
“Thank you,” she says, fighting the heaviness in her eyelids. Even in shades of grey in the darkness, he’s so incredibly beautiful.
It’s the eyes, she thinks. Sweet and loving and sad all at once.
“You’re more than welcome,” he murmurs, gathering her against him.
It’s nice, but now she can’t see his eyes.
But the way his hand runs down her spine has her eyes sinking closed anyway.
She sighs into his chest, feeling herself drifting off. “I love this.”
Notes:
Me: Where did the plot go?
Me to me: They are the plot.
Me: Fair enough.
Chapter 26
Notes:
So this is where the last chapter was meant to go, but this was far more difficult to write and I stand by what happened. It's also short, but its two in one day (mostly because chapter 25 came much more easily than this).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When she wakes, Astarion is sitting cross-legged against the wall, reading.
Or- he’s staring into space with a book in his hands.
She stretches, working out the little bit of soreness from sleeping on stone.
Astarion notices. “Good morning,” he says. “Or… evening. I don’t think anyone else is awake.”
He looks tired.
Emerie frowns at him. “Did you sleep at all?” she asks, sitting up. She pulls one of the blankets with her, covering herself by tucking it under her arms.
She’d been too tired to change for bed last night. And he’d taken care of her.
“Not much,” he says, and pauses before continuing. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Mild surprise flickers in his eyes, but he says, “Yes. I think we should.” He looks down at the book and runs his thumb along the corner. “I… well. I was wondering, what is sex like for you? You know… after everything you’ve been through.”
After being a slave. She feels her brow furrow.
This is not at all the conversation she’d been expecting.
“I… what?”
He searches her eyes, and there is nothing malicious in his gaze. If anything, he looks… distant. Thoughtful. “I spent… a very long time using my… body to lure people back for Cazador,” he begins. He looks back down at the pages in his hands. “I have no memory of what sex or… intimacy were like without the compulsion being a part of it. And the part of me that was me always felt… guilt. Shame. Disgust. I hated myself.”
Emerie is transfixed.
She knows what he means. It was different for her. The shame, yes. But for her it was mostly rage and helplessness. Guilt wasn’t a part of it for her, though she can understand why it might be for him.
Her heart breaks.
“I… when we started… this. Or, when I started this, with you, I meant to use my body the same way. It’s all I know how to do.”
Intense guilt and shame washes over her, thinking of the night with the knife. She’s glad he’s still looking at the book. She doesn’t want him to see the horror in her eyes.
“It’s different with you, in many ways, but sometimes I still feel… well. All of those things. I don’t know how to stop feeling it sometimes. But I’d like to.”
Gods.
“Astarion?” Her voice is shaking. He glances up at her, eyes so guarded it kills her. She pulls the blankets back. “Will you come here?”
He does, slipping into the blankets and stretching out next to her. A light tug has him laying his head on her shoulder and she wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his hair.
He inhales, wrapping a strong arm tightly around her waist and burying his face in her.
“It’s.. different. For me,” she says, and she feels his fingers twitch against her back. “With you, I feel fine. You’re… nothing like… them.” She runs a hand up and down his back. “I can’t be around strangers. It’s terrifying. And when people… not you, but strangers, touch me, I want to rip my skin off.” She exhales raggedly into his hair. “I… understand. Why it’s different for you. I’m so sorry.”
He huffs against her shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
But she does, doesn’t she?
She’s been shamelessly taking pleasure from him while he’s been struggling.
“This is nice,” he confesses, and it’s that simple confession that wrecks her and makes the tears fall.
Words, confessed over a sketchbook, wind their way through her. Hope. Affection. Comfort. Safety.
She can give him that.
Isn’t that what he’s given her?
“This is nice,” she says, tightening her arms around him.
They’re silent for a while, but then he speaks again. “I think… I think I need more time. I need to… learn how to do this. The right way. Without… sex.”
“Okay.”
He tenses. “Okay?”
She tightens her arms around him. “Okay. Whatever you need.”
He pulls away a little to look up at her. He’s so heartbreakingly vulnerable she wants to look away, but she doesn’t. “Are you sure?”
She laughs a little, raising her eyebrows. “Of course I’m sure. Just tell me how to help.”
He considers her for a moment, then ducks his head back into her shoulder. “I was thinking, if you’re willing, that I could be in control of… any kind of intimacy. So I can stop us when it starts to feel wrong.” It’s hesitant and quiet in a way she’s not used to hearing from Astarion.
It sounds like a good idea. “That sounds perfect.”
He laughs softly into her chest. “Does it?”
“Mmhmm.” She presses her nose into his hair. “I’m yours. However you want me to be.” She’s surprised, even as she says it, how true it feels.
He tightens his arm around her. “Mine,” he muses. “I rather like the sound of that.”
Emerie does, too.
—-
He feels… calm.
Light.
It’s strange. It’s wonderful.
Astarion had been so afraid that he was going to mess this thing that he and Emerie had up.
Instead, it feels- impossibly- more secure.
His.
It’s enough to keep him from deliberately setting off one of the myriad of traps he’s spent hours disarming.
He’s fairly certain this is going to take all damned day.
Mine, he thinks, glancing over at Emerie who is reading one of the books from the shelves he’s already checked for traps.
Aside from his clothes, he’s never had anything that was his that he could remember.
It’s another fucking gift.
This time, he thinks she understands how much of a gift it is.
He’s standing to move to the next shelf to check for traps when he realizes something.
She hasn’t healed the bite marks.
His skin feels warm with the sudden awareness that she has the ability to erase the evidence of him feeding on her.
And she hasn’t.
He very nearly stumbles at the realization that- despite the newness of her declaration to him- she’s been his.
She’s been openly declaring it to the world- silently, but openly.
Since she stole his shirt, he realizes.
Notes:
This is one of the major steps I’ve been working towards this whole time and it feels so good to get here. It only took 50,000 + words to do it.
Chapter 27
Notes:
I’m skipping irl responsibilities because my spawn got me sick, so here we go
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The longer they’re in Shar’s temple, the more anxious Emerie gets.
Whatever infernal inhabitant Raphael had warned them about hasn’t shown its face yet. Balthazar hadn’t seemed to know anything about it either. Emerie has a terrible feeling about all of this, and she also can’t get out of her mind that she left Victoria at the Inn in the depths of the shadow curse.
Jaheira had promised protection for the girl, but it’s hardly an ideal situation. Emerie tries to remind herself that it’s still better than Cazador.
Probably.
She will just have to make sure they survive to get back to the inn.
She hopes Leon is okay. Given her experience with Cazador and the few things Astarion has said, she doesn’t want to think about what might be happening to him.
They have to get back to Baldur’s Gate before…
Well, before.
She suppresses the despair she feels at the turn of her thoughts. It won’t help.
They’ve claimed three Umbral Gems from the trials, as Balthazar had indicated they should. Shadowheart also claimed some Dark Justiciar armor and a spear that is clearly imbued with Shar’s power. Shadowheart is awed and clearly pleased with it.
Emerie hates it.
She can’t help but see the spear as a symbol of what Shadowheart might become if she decides to dedicate herself wholly to her goddess. All of the quiet support, compassion, and kindness would inevitably be erased from her friend.
Emerie had made a similar choice, once upon a time. It hadn’t been nearly so much of a sacrifice. Mielikki demanded very little aside from protecting children, the forest, and fighting the enemies of those goals.
Including the undead.
Emerie had never expected that to be a problem for her.
How could she have expected Astarion?
She certainly was not about to destroy him, no matter what Mielikki might demand of her.
She’s already sold her soul to a devil. What more could the goddess do to her.
Gale had been a fountain of knowledge about the Crown of Karsus. Unfortunately, Emerie thinks she might very well die before getting her hands on it.
Which would mean her soul would go to the hells to be used as Raphael sees fit.
Fortunately, her plans may yet work in her favor. If Mephistopheles had the crown before, perhaps he would be even more motivated to get it back than she had initially assumed.
She’s counting on it.
If she can break her contract, a world of possibilities opens up.
And, most importantly, Leon and Astarion and the others could cease to be undead.
She already knows where to get half of the ingredients. That can’t be an accident of fate.
It can’t.
They all have to live long enough for her to make the cure.
For Astarion. For Victoria. For Leon.
And even if she can’t break the contract, she can at least survive long enough to help them. She doesn’t have to give Raphael the Crown- her eternal soul is a small price to pay for their futures.
—-
Astarion had not expected to be down in this godsforsaken mausoleum this long. He wants to be done with this place.
When the displacer beast appears, he does not want to follow it.
It clearly wants them to, however, and the others clearly do not have the same well-honed survival instincts he does.
“I think it wants us to follow it,” Shadowheart observes, and he wants to roll his eyes. He doesn’t, mostly because he doubts anyone cares what he thinks.
The beast blinks out of existence and reappears on the other side of a broken stone staircase. It stops there, waiting for them to follow.
It’s a pretty thing. It’s all sleek black fur and monstrous claws and fangs and twitching tail and tentacles. It’s like a more sinister version of a panther, and a hundred times more dangerous.
Halsin, at least, hesitates. “I am not sure we should follow such a creature.”
Astarion privately agrees.
“What’s the worst that could be down there? We can handle it.” Karlach fingers the handle of her axe while she speaks. She’s so reckless that Astarion thinks it’s a wonder she has survived this long. It explains the massive amount of scars she carries, however. And she is the strongest of them by far.
He would probably hate her if she weren’t so damned kind and genuine.
Emerie sighs, rubbing her hand over her face. She looks to Wyll and Gale. “Do we go or not?”
Gale hesitates, looking concerned, but Wyll shrugs. “We may as well.”
Of course.
“Right, let’s go,” Karlach declares, jumping the gap and making the final decision for the group.
They’re hardly all about to let her go alone.
Emerie follow first, because of course she does, and he hears Halsin give a long-suffering sigh.
As the other member of their group with more than two centuries of lived experience, Astarion is privately glad to have someone else to suffer with him over the recklessness of these youths.
Because hells, are they reckless.
It becomes apparent to him shortly past the staircase that this is a colossal mistake. The reek of death is intense down here.
When they turn into the cavernous ruins of a room on the right, the first thing he sees is the pile of bodies in various states of decay.
Lovely.
And the displacer beast is sitting atop the pile, licking its paw.
It’s like a nightmare come to life.
“Well, this is cozy,” Gale remarks sarcastically, and Astarion actually laughs a little.
Shadowheart looks around the room warily. “This feels like a trap.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Is it the pile of dead bodies that gave it away, or the general smell of death?” Because honestly, of course it’s a trap.
Which is, of course, when the trap is sprung.
It’s a testament to how much they have all come to expect being fucked over by the universe that they all react fairly quickly to the first attack by the hulking red infernal and his invisible minions.
Wyll casts something that causes a wall of fire to erupt, which forces most of the minions to become visible. Astarion, reduced to his bow, daggers, and wits, is insanely jealous.
He has to remind himself that Wyll’s power came with a steep price.
It almost seems worth it.
The fight is intense. The infernal is incredibly strong, the displacer beast is as treacherous as it is beautiful, and the minions are awful.
Fortunately, they have two druids turned into owlbears on their side, in addition to magic and all of the fighting experience they have all gained.
When everything lies dead, Astarion is mildly injured. Karlach and Shadowheart are very injured. The two druids have the benefit of having been in wild shape, thank the gods, and are able to heal Shadowheart and Karlach.
The smell of sulfur disrupts the strong scent of blood, death, and decay in the room as Raphael appears.
“Well done. I see I was right to trust this task to you,” Raphael says, hand on his hip. He looks down at the infernal’s corpse, nudging it with the tow of his boot. “A hundred years in this place, and the orthon never managed to fulfill his end of our bargain. I am pleased that you all are far more efficient.”
Emerie appears at Astarion’s side, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from her. “If you made a bargain with him, why did you need us to kill him.”
Raphael laughs. “I grew tired of waiting. Do you know what happens to those who fail to fulfill their end of a devilish bargain?” he drawls, a wicked glint in his eyes. “As soon as you killed him, Yurgir appeared right inside my House of Hope. He is to be… reeducated.”
Reeducated is sometimes what Cazador called his punishments.
Raphael looks at Emerie mockingly. “It’s a fate, my dear, that you would do well to bear in mind. You have been quite naughty, haven’t you. You can, of course, continue to look for loopholes, but bear in mind that I will have what I am owed, one way or another.”
Emerie is stiff next to him.
Astarion huffs. “Well, I would like to have what I am owed, devil. We killed the orthon. You owe me information.”
Raphael chuckles darkly, “Of course. Let’s discuss your destiny.”
Emerie shifts her weight next to him. “Are you going to tell him all of it, or just the parts that suit you?”
Astarion glances over at her. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes blaze with fury.
He probably shouldn’t find it attractive.
Raphael grins at her. “I will tell the spawn what he is owed. No more, no less.”
Emerie growls.
—-
Emerie is not surprised at all that Raphael had only told Astarion about the significance of his scars and the ascension ritual.
It will have to be enough.
She hopes that Astarion will trust her enough to understand that he shouldn’t attempt the ritual himself.
7000 souls is a massive sacrifice, and for what?
She shudders.
She’s sitting in their tent, fidgeting with her pencil with her sketchbook open on her lap. She can’t focus though to draw anything, however.
The biggest problem with her plan to break her contract is that even if she can manage to plane shift her way to the hells, there is no guarantee that she will end up where she intends to go. Even if she does, her contract has her unable to even form the words she needs to explain to the archdevil what she wants.
And that’s assuming he doesn’t kill her for spite.
A part of her wants to make the attempt as soon as possible. If she can break the contract, she can simply tell Astarion what she knows.
Unfortunately, if it doesn’t go according to plan, she will be leaving him to face Cazador alone, without the knowledge she has.
She has to do it before she gets her hands on the Crown. Raphael seems to think that will happen sooner rather than later.
She can’t even tell the others about the crown, Raphael’s plans, or any of it.
Everything is a risk.
If she dies, all of this knowledge dies with her.
If Raphael gets the idea that she’s planning to go behind his back, she’s sure he will find a way to end her the way he had ended Yurgir.
She shudders.
It felt like a warning.
She wonders how closely he’s been watching them all. She hopes it isn’t closely enough to have put the pieces together.
Astarion has been quiet all evening, lost in thought.
Unsurprising, given what he’d learned today.
She imagines that knowing he’s marked to be sacrificed is bad enough, but to be sacrificed to give his tormentor unheard of power?
She has to resist the urge to hold him.
Thus the sketchbook.
She inspects him, lying on the blankets in front of her, hands behind his head and his eyes closed.
Emerie knows he’s not sleeping. He’s likely as lost in thought as she is.
She starts to draw him, trying to break the anxious spiral of her thoughts.
She’s only been sketching for a minute when he opens his eyes to look at her.
“What are you thinking about,” he asks.
Her pencil stills. She exhales. “You,” she admits, and he smirks.
“Anything in particular?” he drawls, arching his back slightly, and Emerie’s mouth goes dry.
She blinks, then looks down at the page in her hands. “No. Nothing in particular.”
“Hmmm,” he says, and she sees him move slightly. When she glances up at him, her brain stalls.
He’s unlaced his pants.
He makes full eye contact with her as he withdraws his cock from his pants. “Are you sure, love?”
Dear gods.
His hand lazily strokes his cock as he holds her gaze. Heat seeps through her body as she watches, transfixed.
When she meets his eyes, there is a wicked glint in them that makes her heart race.
A small noise escapes her throat instead of words, and he looks thrilled.
His hand moves a little faster, and she tenses her muscles to resist the urge to go to him.
They had an agreement, after all.
He’s in charge.
“Why don’t you draw this? I know you like drawing me,” he suggests, and she blushes at the idea of drawing him like this.
Her eyes drift shut as she tries to control her breathing. She is impossibly wet.
“Eyes on me, love,” he murmurs, and she’s helpless to resist. “I want you to watch.”
She squirms, watching him fuck his hand. She will never be able to look at his hands again without imagining this.
“Good girl,” he croons, and she thinks she might die right there. Her breath hitches, and she knows he notices. “I can smell how aroused you are, you know,” he says. “It’s exquisite.” His hand moves faster, and he moans a little.
She whimpers.
“What’s wrong, love?” he asks, and it’s mocking but playful, and she can’t help the way it makes her heart flutter.
“I… nothing.”
He laughs softly. “Liar.” The muscles in his stomach twitch, and she knows he’s close when his eyes drift closed. “Do you want to taste?”
Yes.
Her mind goes blank, but she drops the book from her lap and crawls over to him. She settles between his legs and puts her hand over his. He gasps when she brings her mouth to his tip, kissing it lightly.
He lets go of himself and cards his hand into her hair.
He’s cool and heavy on her tongue as she takes him into her mouth. When he groans, she feels incredibly powerful.
She moans around him.
“Hells,” he whispers, and it’s so incredibly satisfying.
She settles into a rhythm of stroking and sucking, alternating with loving licks to the head of his cock. She loves the way he can’t help but gasp for air that he doesn’t need.
Gods, but it’s a beautiful sight.
“Emerie,” he moans, and she feels him pulse in her mouth, cool and salty liquid coating the back of her throat and tongue. She swallows, pulling away from him.
She wipes her mouth on her sleeve and moves to curl up against Astarion’s side. “Thank you,” he murmurs into the darkness.
Somehow, despite her intense arousal, she is satisfied.
He’s so easy to love.
Notes:
I found out while writing this that you can turn into a displacer beast in game and I’m so excited. Also, I adore Yurgir as a character (Larian did such a great job with characters in this game) but he’s gotta die here unfortunately
Chapter 28
Notes:
I get to sit in waiting rooms a lot on Mondays and I have a hard time focusing on anything academic so this is what happens.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The four umbral gems take them far- impossibly far- beneath the temple and mausoleum to a shrine. Shadowheart spends a long while praying to Shar before determinedly announcing to the rest of the group that they are to swim through the water surrounding the shrine.
She looks fierce, but a little unsure. “She wants us to go down there. She considers me worthy.”
Emerie privately thinks that this cannot be good, whatever is coming. They still have to retrieve the relic, however, and Balthazar seemed to think it was here.
So they swim.
They end up in a fractured room with strange gravity- likely somewhere belonging to the Shadowfell, if Emerie knows anything- and they begin to descend the maze of rocky platforms before they all come to see what is beneath them.
“Damn it,” Shadowheart mutters when they see Balthazar below them, next to a woman in ragged clothes. “How did he get here?”
Karlach shifts her weight, pulling her axe free. “He was waiting for us to clear the way.”
Shadowheart clenches her jaw, but jumps down to confront Balthazar, who looks delighted.
Emerie freezes, seeing phantom hands reach out to grab the woman who appears to be trapped in a glowing green circle. The others, except for Astarion, jump down after Shadowheart. Astarion is still beside her, looking at her questioningly.
Her mouth has gone dry, shock stealing her words from her mouth.
The relic they were after- the Nightsong- is a person. A person who has been trapped down here, wherever here may be.
Emerie grabs Astarion’s hand, holding on for dear life while Balthazar taunts the Nightsong- Aylin- and reveals that she is the source of Ketheric’s invulnerability due to the soul cage Balthazar has bound her to.
Which means she’s been here for a century.
Emerie wants to vomit.
It’s bad enough to have your body used against your will, in her opinion. She can’t imagine having her very soul used against her will.
She clenches her eyes shut, horrified. Isn’t that exactly what is going to happen to her? Raphael has the rights to her soul, and she had willingly signed it away. It’s a trap of her own design.
Karlach, thank the gods, does not have the patience for Balthazar or the inclination to humor him further. Emerie imagines that Karlach is feeling a little raw herself.
As soon as Karlach swings her axe, Balthazar teleports out of the way, laughing. “You will die here, then, and I will have all the glory to myself.” And then he summons a dozen skeletons all around the platform.
“Well, shit,” Karlach says, loud enough to be heard throughout the room. Shadowheart shoots her a glare, but begins casting anyway.
Halsin, Wyll, and Gale all join the fray without hesitation. The former shifts into a bear, as usual. Gale and Wyll begin casting, blasting several skeletons back a step at a time.
“We have to help,” Emerie says, dropping Astarion’s hand.
He grabs his bow, an arrow on the string as fast as lightning. “On it,” he says, all business. “Go. Do your thing.”
So she steps away from him, giving him room, and she shifts into the owlbear before pouncing down to the others.
The scrape of her claws through bone is not nearly as satisfying as it ought to be. The part of her that becomes the animal yearns to tear flesh.
It’s not long before they have all but decimated the skeletons, leaving piles of ash around the platform. When Emerie turns to find where Balthazar has teleported away yet again, her heart stops beating.
He’s up on the platform with Astarion, who he has under a holding spell.
Emerie sees red.
Her blood flows hot and fast in her veins as she leaps up onto the platform, right behind Balthazar, who stumbles. She swipes at him, putting herself between him and Astarion, and screeches a warning.
That is her vampire and how dare he touch him.
The animal in her is enraged.
The ground around her fractures and ruptures into spikes, throwing Balthazar backward to the edge of the platform. The fear in his eyes is so satisfying as she takes the final swipe at him, flinging him off the ledge and into the abyss.
She feels fingers in her feathers, and she turns to inspect Astarion, sniffing at him. He runs his fingers down her neck, preening her. “Look at you, you beautiful, deadly thing.”
Emerie butts her head into his shoulder, gently, and he huffs a laugh.
“You really are the gift that keeps on giving,” he murmurs, carding his fingers through the feathers on her head. A burst of affection goes through her, and she nuzzles her face into him, circling him as she rubs up against him with a purr.
He laughs.
She stops after one circle, remembering that they have other problems. She peers down over the ledge, where Shadowheart is holding a spear out in preparation for stabbing Aylin.
No. No no no.
But Karlach is there, pleading with Shadowheart, and Shadowheart tosses the spear away, over the edge of the platform, with a sob.
Emerie is so fucking proud of her.
——
Astarion has to admit, when Emerie’s eyes turned red as the owlbear, he had a moment of true terror.
Glowing red eyes had generally been a very bad thing in his life.
Or, unlife.
For once, however, it appeared that glowing red eyes might mean good things for him. If the way Emerie had shredded the pustule of a creature called Balthazar was any indication, she was a tad overprotective of him.
Which, of course, was what he had been angling at all along. It shouldn’t thrill him to know she cared that much.
He is, however, a selfish creature, isn’t he?
The portal that Aylin had summoned took them to the surface outside the mausoleum. Shadowheart is a wreck, and the other women are consoling her. Gale has put quite a bit of distance between the three women and is leaning against a stone wall far down the path. Between the emotional scene with Wyll, Karlach, and Emerie trying to comfort Shadowheart, Halsin’s solemn and silent form across the path, and Gale further away, Astarion opts to keep Gale company.
He doesn’t think he’s the right person to talk to Shadowheart right now.
He had just watched her throw away her life’s dream and her sole purpose, and for what? Some aasimar who they don’t know and who holds the key to Ketheric Thorm’s invulnerability?
They should have killed her. It would have probably eliminated that issue.
Nevertheless, having an aasimar on their side may prove useful.
Emerie and Halsin seem to approve of Shadowheart’s choice. Astarion can’t tell it it’s good judgement or simply some druidic code he isn’t aware of.
Karlach, he figures, was just happy to demolish someone who deserved it. Karlach may be reckless, but she doesn’t have a strong moral code. It’s something Astarion can’t quite figure out.
He thinks he likes it.
It’s kind of nice being around people who are somewhat predictable and unlikely to stab him in the back- so long as he controls his less savory urges.
Gale is brooding, which is fairly expected with him. When he finally comes to the place where Gale has perched against the wall, he leans his back against it, facing the same direction as Gale. The shadow curse twists and writhes in the dead brush in front of them. They’re far enough away from the others that if monsters materialize out of the dark, it might be a real problem.
“So, Gale, how is your sad, hopeless pining going?” Astarion drawls.
Gale sighs loudly. “Can we not do this right now?”
Astarion inspects his nails, leaning back against the wall in a way that puts his body on display. “What? Not the right time?”
He can hear Gale breathe, as if he’s trying to find patience. “What is the point of pining for someone who wishes me dead?” Gale asks, and Astarion almost feels bad for bringing it up.
Astarion cuts him a sardonic look. “I agree. There are far better prospects who will treat you much better than Mystra, or whatever her name is. You need to find someone else.”
Gale huffs a humorless laugh. “To what end?” He looks up at the dark sky. “She stabilized the orb so that I may live long enough to use it to defeat the Absolute. No more, no less. I imagine that her mercy extends only so far as my usefulness. If I don’t do it, she will revoke her protection and I will be right back where I started. One way or another, I am a dead man walking.” He look so sad and it’s irritating.
Astarion cocks an eyebrow at him. “So am I, darling,” he says, pushing himself off the wall. “So we find another way.”
Gale looks at him- really looks at him- puzzled. “What’s got you so optimistic? You’re usually the first one to say we’re all in a hopeless situation.”
Astarion pauses, thinking. He shrugs. “If our dear Sharran- or no-longer-Sharran- cleric can defy her goddess, and our pretty little druid can defy hers, I think we can all summon up a little defiance. Put the gods in their place, that sort of thing. They’re awfully self-important for being so spectacularly useless.”
Gale actually laughs this time, and Astarion is slightly proud of himself for putting the smile on his face. “Perhaps you are right.”
“You sound surprised. I am capable of being right, from time to time.” Astarion pushes off the wall theatrically and walks away.
—-
They have to hurry to Moonrise, Aylin already having a head start. Hopefully, Jaheira got the signal from the aasimar that it was time to go storm the tower.
They have a monster to kill and prisoners to find and free.
Wyll is understandably tense, ready to be done with this already. Walking is so much more a part of this journey than anything else. At least the fighting is interesting.
Astarion slowly changes his pace until he’s beside Emerie, at the back of the group. When the others are just a bit ahead, he grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her against the building they’re passing.
She gasps when he bends over to kiss her, slow and deep. He pulls back a bit, looking into her eyes.
She looks pleased.
He kisses her again, harder, and she curls her fingers into the front of his shirt, clinging to him as he plunders her mouth. It’s not the careful kind of seduction he usually engages in.
He likes it.
Then he slides his hand up and slides his thumb along her jaw, his fingertips tangling in her hair, and she whimpers.
That’s what does it.
He pulls away, fighting the memories for a moment with his forehead against hers. She’s panting, but she wraps her arms around him.
He doesn’t think she even knows what stopped him, but she doesn’t question it.
“We have to catch up to the others,” she murmurs into his chest. She presses a chaste kiss into the little bit of skin on his chest that is left exposed by his leathers, and she pulls back at the same time he steps away.
“After you,” he says, bowing.
She quirks a smile at him and sets off. He follows.
One step at a time.
Notes:
One more week and I will be free of finals 💛 so far the studying has paid off.
ALSO I found a compilation video of a bunch of Astarion's "help" dialogues and it is an absolute joy. I regret not spending more time dying in my game.
Chapter 29
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In a lull in the fighting at Moonrise, Astarion pushes Emerie into a corner while she is healing him. His nostrils are flared, likely due to the smell of blood, and he looks distinctly predatory.
He kisses her soundly, taking his time as she fights for breath. One of his hands grasps her waist tightly, and the other comes up to cradle the back of her head. It’s slow and dizzying, and it’s a bit of a shock after the brutality of the fighting. The hard stone wall is a welcome support against her back. Emerie reaches up to cup his face, holding him to her as he changes the angle and continues to use his lips to drive her to madness.
She is panting between intense passes of his lips over hers, and acutely aware that it is getting in the way of more, since he is perfectly content to keep depriving her of air as he doesn’t need to breathe.
Gods, but it’s lovely.
He licks some of the gore off her cheek and she flushes with the awareness that she is covered in the blood of others- as well as some of his and some of her own.
His eyes roll back in his head as he exhales raggedly. “Exquisite,” he says, and when he finally looks at her, his eyes are burning.
Perhaps it isn’t all bad, being covered in blood.
“Go ahead,” Emerie says, and his eyes flare with surprise and… delight? But he hardly hesitates before licking the blood from her other cheek.
His tongue is cool against her skin, but it feels nice, in a strange way. When he works his way behind her ear and down to her neck, she moans. He pulls back for a second, studying her. “May I?” he asks, voice low and husky in a way that sends shivers down her spine.
He’s the cat and she’s the mouse and he is going to be the death of her.
She’s okay with that.
“Yes,” she whispers, tilting her head, and he doesn’t even hesitate for a moment before biting into the crook of her neck. Her eyes shut as she leans heavily into the wall.
She’s noticed he’s started to vary his biting locations- leaving most in very visible places.
It’s probably wrong of her to love being claimed so obviously and publicly. She could heal the marks, but…
Well.
She’s dizzy on him, the taste of him still on her tongue as he slowly moves his lips over the bite on her neck, sucking and kissing in equal measure.
It’s filthy.
It’s divine.
She whimpers as he bites down again, increasing the flow of blood, and he growls, pressing his thigh hard between her legs and crushing her against the wall.
She murmurs the restorative spell with her few remaining braincells, then drifts in a haze of lust and pleasure as he drinks his fill.
The peace they’ve created between them is a harsh contrast to the battle waiting for them outside this tiny room. She marvels at the realization that alone, together, it doesn’t seem to matter where they are- it is soothing.
Her brain practically melts when he makes a noise suspiciously like a purr when he licks the remaining blood from around the bite.
—-
It is fortunate that Jaheira brought healers, though it is a long trek back to the veritable army above the mind flayer colony below.
Wyll’s father is still missing, though they managed to free the rest of the prisoners- the ones in the cells above and the ones in the mind flayer tanks below. Including Mizora.
The devil was quite the problem for Wyll. Astarion can’t help but wonder if there was something more sexual about the relationship between the two, or if Mizora simply used coquettish body language with everyone.
If it were him, and he could demand Wyll’s… services, he can’t say he wouldn’t try it.
Perhaps it’s for the best that he doesn’t have that power. He knows what it’s like to be compelled to use your body- it’s a horror he wouldn’t wish on most.
Perhaps Ketheric. Or Gortash. Cazador. Certainly not anyone that Astarion would actually enjoy fucking.
He shudders at the thought, bile rising in his throat.
At least Ketheric is dead.
There’s a lot of confusion upstairs, but it does come out that the shadow curse is dissipating. Halsin looks ecstatic from where he is across the throne room, helping the healers patch people up.
Their losses were few, thankfully. Unfortunately, there are many who are gravely wounded. The smell of blood would be overwhelming if he hadn’t been fully fed so recently.
Emerie finds him, her eyes brightening when they meet his. “Hey. I think we are going to sleep here. There are quite a few rooms, though some of them are…” her nose crinkles up. “Less than acceptable for habitation. I found one for us though.”
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”
She grabs his hand and tugs, leading him toward a side door. “Yes.”
Down the stairs and around the corner, he begins to recognize where they are. He chuckles. “Feeling nostalgic, are we?”
She blushes a little, but tugs him into the room where he had bitten her hours before. She looks at him from under her lashes with nearly convincing innocence when she says, “I don’t know what you mean. It seems cozy.”
He raises an eyebrow at her and she raises hers back- a challenge.
He feels the urge to hunt, incredibly strong despite the fact that he is incredibly full. He draws his dagger.
Her eyes flare with heat and desire as she watches him with no hint of fear.
Naive thing.
He presses the dagger into the soft flesh below her chin and takes a step toward her. He carefully backs her into the wall, keeping the knife at her throat.
He settles his free hand against the wall by her head. He tips her chin up with the dagger, holding her in place so she is forced to look him in the eye. Wickedly, he asks, “Oh? You don’t know what I mean?”
He eyes flit down towards the knife, and she looks back up at him hungrily. “I see I’m not the only one feeling nostalgic,” she murmurs, and it surprises him.
He remembers how beautiful she looked holding him at knifepoint in his tent. He angles the blade so the length of it is against her throat, a sharp threat, and brings his mouth to her ear. “Have I ever mentioned how incredibly intoxicating you were that night?” he whispers into her ear. She shivers, making him grin. “It is truly one of my favorite memories- and I have lived a very long life.”
She makes a soft sound, utterly helpless and utterly intoxicated, if he’s smelling her right. It’s a little difficult under all the other scents coating her armor, but he knows her scent and body well enough to tell that she is incredibly aroused.
“What a naughty little druid you are. Do you like holding all the power? Or being helpless? Or perhaps both?” He pulls back to look in her eyes and she looks drunk, to his extreme satisfaction.
“I… mmm” she hums as he tips her head up further with the knife. He leans in, stopping mere millimeters from her lips.
He murmurs, “Would you like me on my knees, my dear? Do you want to be worshipped? Or perhaps you want to do the worshipping,” into her lips, before kissing her softly. He knows it won’t be enough, given how worked up she is.
Emerie moans, unable to press closer because of the knife. She brings her hand up to the back of his head, the other pressed uselessly against his chest. She certainly isn’t trying to push him away. She drags him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair, forcing the kiss to deepen. She groans when he complies, arching her back into him.
He pulls away soon enough.
She’s panting, and he is indecently pleased about it.
He withdraws the knife, stepping away from her as he sheathes it.
Astarion knows he’s leaving her wanting. He loves it. The thought of her walking around and thinking about nothing but him? Divine.
“Let’s go, darling. I may have eaten, but we have to feed you. You’re looking a little… faint,” he teases, turning for the door.
She makes a sound that is somewhere between an indignant squawk and a stunned squeak. He smirks, but she can’t see.
She does follow him out the door after a moment.
“Smug bastard,” she murmurs as she catches up with him.
His smirk widens.
Notes:
1. I wrote this with the last chapter but I had to sleep on it because it didn't feel quite right.
2. I do know we are on a yo-yo of what is and isn't working for Astarion. I know it isn't true for all survivors, but it feels to me like what the game was trying to get at with Astarion being overtly very sexual but also struggling with it and with boundaries. I'm pulling on a little personal experience here, but I know it won't be true for everyone. It's a difficult subject, but your feelings are valid, whatever they may be.
Much love to you all. <3 Take care of yourselves.
Chapter 30
Notes:
There are all kinds of POVs in this chapter. Why not?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Victoria is outside with Pounce when the darkness starts to seep away like blood over a smooth stone.
Sunlight filters in through clouds that had been invisible before.
It’s beautiful.
Victoria hasn’t seen sunlight in years.
Pounce, to his credit, merely tilts his head to the side before returning to trying to catch the waves as they hit the lake shore down by the docks.
Victoria loves the lake. She has read about rivers and lakes and forests, but she has never quite been able to picture them.
Now, with the light hitting the top of the little waves lapping against the shore, she is in awe.
It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
Except maybe Pounce.
For as long as she can remember, her stuffed owlbear has been her only friend. She calls it Daisy.
It is a poor substitute for real friends.
Pounce is a little bigger than Victoria is if she’s lying down. He’s warm and soft, and when he purrs his whole body vibrates. She loves him.
She also loves her new friends. Arabella and Mol and Mattis are so nice.
It’s hard, sometimes, to figure out what to say to them. They talk a lot. Victoria rarely has anything to add. She’s never done half the things they have, and they look at her funny when she talks about reading or blood or making up games to play by herself.
They have taught her new games. She’s starting to get the hang of some of them.
Her new friends seem to understand that Victoria isn’t quite like them, but they don’t seem to care very much.
She likes that.
Sometimes, though, she just wants to be alone.
It’s strange, she thinks, considering how much of her life has been spent wishing for friends. Now she has them, and sometimes all she wants is to be by herself again.
She tries not to think about it, lest some god hear her thoughts and take her new friends away.
She curls her bare toes in the gritty sand on the shore of the lake and marvels at the water.
She wishes she could show her father. She thinks he would like it.
It’s blue.
It’s the kind of blue she’s only seen in the mirror.
When she would ask her father why she was the only one who had a reflection in the mirror, he had always said it was because she was special.
Her new friends all have reflections too.
Pounce ambles over and butts his head into her chest, toppling her over backward. She lands in a seated position and she giggles as Pounce collapses dramatically next to her, rolling around on his back with his feet in the air. She obligingly scratches his stomach, causing the owlbear to purr.
She smiles.
She wonders what her father would think of Pounce.
She wonders what he would think of all of this. The smith- Dammon- is very nice. So is Arabella’s mother. The one who sings a lot, Alfira, is also very kind. She sneaks sweets to the kids when the cook isn’t looking.
Astarion is also nice, for all that her father always warns her against being around his brothers and sisters.
She thinks Astarion and Emerie and Shadowheart might be her friends, too. She hopes they come back soon.
It should be easier for them to find their way with the sun shining so brightly.
It’s… warm… where the sun touches her skin.
She unfurls her fingers, watching the light play along the backs of her hands with wonder.
It’s like the heat from a fire, but softer. Happier.
Leon is not sure how long it has been.
He thinks it has been just over a week- he heals quickly, so it is difficult to tell based on the injuries still marking him. He is not starving yet, at least.
In the early years, he would regularly go weeks without any kind of sustenance. He has not forgotten the intense craving for blood- or the way he would be punished when he did break through the compulsion to feed on the unsuspecting denizens of Baldur’s Gate.
It is why he put the spell on Victoria that would harm anyone who tried to feed on her. He was always terrified that one of his siblings might get hungry enough for the compulsion to wear off enough and they might try to take a bite out of the girl. Or that Cazador might get vindictive enough to kill her.
He made sure the spell was permanent.
The perks of being blessed by Lathander still came in handy sometimes- though had he not been blessed, perhaps Cazador would not have sought him out in the first place and Leon might have lived a long mortal life.
However, if not for Lathander’s favor, he would not have Victoria.
Despite the extreme terror of having his daughter under Cazador’s thumb, she had been the light of Leon’s life. He will never regret having her, no matter that a century of pain had preceded her existence.
He does regret what happened to her mother.
Cazador has not yet figured out that, for Leon, no form of torture will ever measure up to watching his loved ones suffer. No matter how long he spends in the kennels suffering Godey’s version of “discipline,” all he hopes is that the druid woman keeps her word to keep Victoria safe.
Leon knows from her memories that Astarion at least has the willpower to not be overcome with bloodlust. Leon had felt no small amount of shame seeing the memory of Astarion feeding on Emerie and seeing Astarion say that she was his first. Astarion is many things, but he has never been a liar.
And yet, he had not drained her dry.
It is a miracle, from Leon’s experience. It had taken years for him to develop the self-control to withstand the hunger. Cazador kept them well fed enough for the compulsions to apply, but hungry enough for the compulsions to be at least temporarily breakable when desperate.
It was sadism. Cazador relished having reasons to punish them.
Astarion, the one who most often inspired Cazador’s wrath, was the only one who had refrained from feeding on anyone- until now.
Leon has no idea what that means. Perhaps it was a form of Astarion’s rebellion to not give in to his nature. He had always been the most defiant of them all.
Leon does know that it means Victoria is likely safe, and that is all that truly matters to him.
Emerie still doesn’t feel at ease around other druids. She is irrevocably changed by her time in Calimport, and she isn’t sure where she fits into the loose order she had once felt so at home in. It isn’t that her beliefs have changed. She still believes in balance and the natural order and in protecting those things- but where it had always felt easy and bright before, it now feels like walking through fog.
All she had been able to do for so many years was protect herself, and she hadn’t even been able to do that very well.
The very thought of being a protector of others like children and the forest is utterly laughable when she thinks about it.
Who is she to protect anything? She couldn’t even save herself. The mind flayers did that. Then Raphael did.
Yet, here she stands, next to a legendary hero. Jaheira is famous even as far as Waterdeep, where Emerie was raised. It is a little strange that the older druid spends so much of her time in the city, considering the strong connection every druid feels to nature, but Jaheira is hard in the way that soldiers are hard. Few druids are like that.
Emerie isn’t sure how she feels about it. Perhaps she will find her own way, like Jaheira has done. Maybe she doesn’t have to try to fit back into her old life.
Jaheira is propped against the wall, standing with most of her weight on one leg. She’s flipping a dagger idly between her hands while she watches the Harpers and freed prisoners mingle while everyone waits for helpings of a morning meal cobbled together from the supplies left in the kitchen of Moonrise.
Emerie stands next to her, staying out of the way of the crowd.
Jaheira had greeted her with a curt nod when she had come over seeking refuge from the mass of bodies congregating around the food.
When Emerie sees Astarion, she perks up, hoping he might make his way over.
Jaheira notices the direction of her gaze. The other woman looks sideways at her, eyes lingering on Emerie’s neck.
“The vampire spawn shows a remarkable amount of restraint with you,” Jaheira muses. “I don’t remember much from my time as a spawn, but I do remember nearly killing my lover at the time. They were thankfully able to kill me first.”
She… what?
“You what?” Emerie sputters, reeling. She looks Jaheira in the eyes.
Brown. Utterly human.
“I got better,” Jaheira says, her deep melodic voice sounding amused. “My lover and friends were able to find a cure.”
Emerie blinks. She was a vampire? They killed her? They cured her? “A cure?” Her heart thunders in her chest. If Jaheira knows about the cure, then Emerie can skirt the most difficult part of her contract.
And if Emerie dies, someone else will be able to help Cazador’s spawn- including Astarion.
Jaheira nods, looking thoughtfully over at Astarion with Halsin on the opposite side of the huge room. “Yes. There was a ritual of some sort involving my body, the heart of the vampire who changed me, and Amaunator. All very tedious.”
Emerie’s heart sinks.
It’s not what she was hoping for.
But… it is something.
If nothing else, Jaheira can help Astarion if something happens to Emerie.
Emerie hesitates before saying, “I know we don’t know each other well, but can I ask a favor of you?”
Jaheira raises one skeptical brow at her. “I’m listening.”
“I…” Emerie glances back at Astarion. His eyes meet hers across the room, red and dark and deep, and her heart flutters. She smiles a little at him, then turns back toward Jaheira. “If something happens to me, will you help Astarion?”
Now both of Jaheira’s brows are raised. “You want me to help cure Astarion if you get yourself killed?”
Emerie nods, throat tight.
Jaheira inspects her, brow furrowing.
Emerie tries again. “I… there’s another way.” The words are difficult to choke out, as if the infernal magic binding her to her contract knows she’s saying too much, but she isn’t technically sharing what Raphael had told her. “But if something happens to me, he still deserves to be free.”
Jaheira inspects her. “You’re in love with him,” she says, simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the universe. Emerie’s heart pounds harder. Jaheira sighs. “I promise that if it is in my power, I will help your love.”
“Thank you,” Emerie whispers, a little shaken. She looks back at Astarion, marveling at how happy he looks while talking with Karlach and Halsin.
Jaheira cocks an eyebrow at Emerie. “You had best not make me live up to that promise.”
“I hope not to,” Emerie murmurs.
The only place where Raphael gets to rest is in bed with Haarlep.
Day after day and year after year he has been searching and scheming and setting the stage to be more than what he is. After all, what good is it to be the heir of one of the hells- and the dreariest one at that- when he could rule them all?
And, perhaps, beyond the hells as well.
It disgusts him that his father had been in possession of the crown for over a millennium and still could not figure out how to take the mantle of Asmodeus. The Supreme Master of the Nine Hells and Ruler of the Ninth is a formidable opponent, but not so formidable that Mephistopheles should continue to lose to him.
Raphael is agitated that despite his many centuries of attempting to find a way to steal the crown, the chosen of the dead three managed to snatch it up.
He is not, however, one to overlook an opportunity.
According to Korilla, the little druid and her friends are well on their way to retrieving the crown. They have retrieved the first stone. The girl’s contract is in the safe in this very room. Raphael will soon have all the power he craves.
If things go according to plan, he will unite the nine hells. He will also have several thousand souls for his army and a grateful vampire ascendant to pave the way for him to begin his takeover of the Material Plane.
Astarion is so very like him, after all, and he will owe Raphael when he receives the power from the ritual.
And Raphael will get to watch the little druid’s heartbreak when she realizes there is nothing she can do to fix it.
Delicious.
Haarlep does something with his mouth that makes Raphael’s mind go blissfully blank. It is a testament to the power of the incubus that that is the case.
As always, his thoughts fade into sweet oblivion as the incubus has its way with him. It is a welcome distraction from the plots inside of plots that have been occupying Raphael’s mind.
They’re going back to Baldur’s Gate.
Astarion has been planning for it, but it’s still a shock.
He’s terrified.
He knows that the tadpole has changed some things for him. Walking in the sun has been a joy he could hardly have dreamed of. He also knows that some things remain the same.
The hunger, for instance.
He wonders if Cazador can compel him still.
He does not particularly want to find out - though he supposes it is inevitable.
If he doesn’t face Cazador, he will never be free.
There is also the matter of the Rite of Profane Ascension. He’s been turning it over in his mind, and it has its appeal.
He would be more powerful- free of the drawbacks of being a vampire with all the benefits.
He could eat food and still indulge in a little blood if he chose.
He knows the power Cazador wields as a true vampire. As an ascendant vampire?
Such power would guarantee Astarion’s safety.
He meets Emerie’s eyes across the room. She had been talking to Jaheira, but now she’s winding her way through the throng of Harpers towards him.
Emerie seemed to be under the impression that there was another way to break his curse.
It seems that whatever deal she had made with Raphael made her unable to reveal it.
He thinks she means for him to not perform the rite- and to be fair, seven thousand souls is a steep price.
But hasn’t he indirectly killed a thousand or more? What is seven thousand more on his conscience- and for such power?
He had killed hundreds for the disgusting sustenance provided by rats.
So how could he say no to the rite?
Emerie comes up beside him with a, “Hey.”
“Hello, darling,” he says. He can see that she’s struggling with the crowd. The way she brushes her arm up against his and wedges herself between him and Karlach, who is talking to Halsin about ducklings, is a sign he’s come to realize means that she’s overwhelmed.
He wraps his arm around her shoulders, and she looks up at him, startled, but then she wraps her arm around his waist and leans into him.
He supposes he has never engaged in such blatantly affectionate antics in public. It’s no wonder it startled her.
It’s rather nice.
“Awwww look at it!” Karlach coos, reaching out to touch the tiny carved duck that Halsin has produced from some pocket.
It is cute.
Emerie gasps, leaning closer. “It’s so cute!” she gushes, and Halsin grins.
Halsin reaches into his pocket and produces a handful of carved ducks and ducklings in various sizes. “You can have one if you wish. I’ve made so many. Idle hands, you know.”
Karlach bounces on the balls of her feet. “Oh my gods yes!” She reaches out and takes a few of the ducklings from Halsin.
Emerie hesitates to do the same.
Astarion reaches out and plucks one from Halsin’s hand, holding it out to Emerie. “Here. You know you want it.”
Halsin chuckles.
Emerie smiles a little but takes the duckling.
It really is cute.
“Thank you,” she says, and he doesn’t know if she’s thanking him or thanking Halsin, but he doesn’t care either way.
“Look at his little tail!” Karlach gushes, making Emerie giggle.
Astarion isn’t sure when it happened, but he’s decided that he genuinely likes Karlach. She’s impossible to not like, really.
He’d had the strange impulse to shoot Gortash when Karlach’s voice had broken upon seeing him in the mind flayer colony below the tower. What that man had done to her was horrific.
And Astarion is starting to think that the others like him enough to feel the same about Cazador.
Perhaps facing his old master won’t be so bad after all.
Notes:
I did so much research on this since October and even roped in a friend of mine who is big on DnD vampire lore (it's fairly loose and often vague, to be honest.) I did find out that Jaheira knowing a cure for vampirism is canon.
Edited 2/15/24: if you’re reading this as a completed work, this is an okay place to take a break.
Chapter 31
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They finally have an idea of what they’re up against, and it’s far greater than just some strange mind flayer plot. The Absolute is an Elder Brain, controlled by the chosen of the dead three via the Crown of Karsus.
At least Emerie understands how the Crown plays into this now.
When they leave Moonrise, Jaheira and the Harpers go with them. It’s a marked difference from the small group they have been traveling in. On one hand, if they run into trouble they definitely have the manpower to deal with it. On the other hand, it’s slow going and crowded.
Emerie hates it.
She lags behind the bulk of the force, avoiding as much of the crowd as she can. Every so often, some person or another will drop behind to chat with her or with Shadowheart, who has stayed to the rear as well. Halsin had been with them for a time, but his patience for the slow pace and loud company had worn thin and he had announced that he would meet them at Last Light before shifting into a large bird and taking off.
Emerie can’t blame him. She wants to do the same.
“So,” Shadowheart says, cutting a sideways glance at her. “You and Astarion? It seems serious.”
Emerie looks over the group ahead of them, trying to see if she can spot a head of white curls. She doesn’t see him anywhere, not that that means much. Astarion has the uncanny ability to virtually disappear in plain sight when he wants to. “I’m not sure serious is the right word for it,” Emerie says. It’s true- whatever it is between them is very serious in a way, but it’s also a result of forced proximity, miscommunication, and a shared need to cling to something good in all this chaos.
Shadowheart makes a skeptical noise. “You’ve been sharing a tent for weeks. He was practically glued to you when you were injured. It’s serious.”
Emerie tries to keep her expression neutral. “If you say so.”
“He got over you keeping secrets fairly quickly,” Shadowheart says, refusing to drop the subject.
Emerie glances at her. “That wasn’t my fault.”
“Wasn’t it? You’re the one who made a deal with a devil. Not that I wouldn’t have done the same, given the state you were in, mind.”
Shadowheart pauses. “It was bad.”
Emerie sighs. “I know. I didn’t have a choice. Astarion understands that.”
Shadowheart raises an eyebrow at her. “He’s not exactly the most understanding sort, you know. But he seems to make an exception for you.”
Emerie rolls her eyes. “What’s your point?”
“Well, as the person who saved your life, I feel a little responsible for you,” Shadowheart begins. “And I can’t help but notice that you have been refusing to heal certain marks.”
Emerie flushes.
Shadowheart continues, slightly quieter so that her voice doesn’t carry. “Is it some kind of vampire kink? Are you going to help him do the ritual Raphael was talking about? Because seven thousand souls is a steep price.”
Emerie’s jaw drops. She sputters for a second before rallying. “Of course not!” she says in a harsh whisper. “I would never…” she trails off, incensed.
Shadowheart looks her over, assessing, and seems to be satisfied by whatever she sees. “Good.”
Emerie feels her eyebrows rise into her hairline. “Good? That’s all you have to say?”
Shadowheart sighs dramatically. “What, do you want an apology for me thinking you might do it? You have to admit, leaving the marks makes it look like you want him to own you.”
Emerie stops in her tracks.
Shadowheart glances back at her. “Well, it isn’t a bad thing, per se.”
Emerie is floored. While she had said to Astarion that she was his, she meant it in a very different way than what Shadowheart seems to mean. The other woman seems to mean that Emerie is property. She shudders.
She will never be anyone’s property again.
“I… no. That’s not it,” Emerie says to Shadowheart, beginning to walk again. They’ve fallen further behind the group, but the crowd of Harpers and others is still easily visible. “I leave them so he knows I’m not ashamed of him. What he is. And so he knows I’m not afraid.” She’s silent for a minute, gathering her thoughts. “The reason the hunter took me is because I had the bite marks. At the time, I couldn’t heal them because… well, you know. And then Astarion’s siblings got ahold of me. And it was very obvious from the marks that I was something to him.” She kicks a pebble at her feet, sending it careening off the path. “But that’s not his fault. It feels like if I heal them, it’s like I’m trying to hide what he is to me.”
Shadowheart hums noncommittally. “You’re insane.”
It startles a laugh out of Emerie.
Shadowheart is smiling slightly when Emerie looks at her. “Have you had a chance to talk to Aylin yet?”
Shadowheart shakes her head, her face turning pensive. “Not yet. I have to admit, I’m a little frightened of what she will say.”
Emerie nods. “I would be, too.”
Shadowheart watches the ground in front of her as she talks. “For so long, I’ve had one purpose- to serve Shar. And now that’s gone. And now I find out that everything I’ve ever known might be a lie.” She frowns, her brow furrowing. “It’s… I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Emerie reaches out and grabs her hand, squeezing it. “It’s going to be okay, you know.”
Shadowheart shakes her head. “I don’t know where I belong anymore,” she says quietly.
Emerie considers her for a moment. “Well,” she says, “For now, you belong with us. And when we’ve dealt with the brain, the parasites, the cult, and all of that, we can figure out the rest of it.”
Shadowheart laughs lightly. “Yeah. After all of that.”
Emerie shrugs. “That’s only three things.” She pauses, thinking. “Maybe four things.”
Shadowheart laughs again. “You really are insane.”
“Why, thank you for noticing!” Emerie says, grinning.
—-
The sun is shining.
Astarion had had the thought more than a few times that the last sunset he had seen might be his last. He’s actually pleased that he was wrong.
They haven’t found a solution to the tadpole issue yet, but he isn’t sure he minds. Granted, it’s all far more complicated than they had considered up to this point.
Astarion had thought Cazador was a power-hungry madman. Next to Gortash, Ketheric, and the other one, Cazador almost looks tame.
Disturbing.
He’s a little grateful for their megalomania since he is enjoying the benefits of the tadpole without turning into a hideous tentacled beast. Unfortunately, being completely controlled by the tadpole isn’t something he fancies.
There’s no avoiding the fact that they are going to have to do something about the elder brain.
He’s not sure how one would go about killing a giant brain, but he assumes someone will come up with something.
He glances over at Wyll, who has been broodingly silent since they discovered that his father was being puppeted by Gortash for political power. He feels a small twinge of sympathy for the man- it’s bad enough to have no control over oneself, but it’s likely worse to be forced to helplessly watch yourself undo your life’s work.
Astarion decides to interrupt the brooding. “So, Wyll, are you going to retire from heroing after all of this? Because I admit that while it’s been fun, I’m growing rather tired of the constant peril.”
Wyll looks at him, then smiles wryly. “Perhaps. I have to admit, this is far more perilous than my usual adventures.”
“Such modesty from the infamous Blade of Frontiers. Mizora doesn’t strike me as the altruistic type. I’m surprised you’ve cultivated such a fine reputation at the end of her leash.” Astarion had spent much of his life dreaming about the kind of adventures Wyll was famous for. As Cazador’s spawn, such things were not possible. He’s jealous of Wyll’s freedom to do more or less as he pleases, despite the cost.
Wyll hesitates before answering. “Mizora doesn’t care what I do, so long as I am available to do her bidding when she wishes. It could be worse, I suppose. Until I got to know Karlach, Mizora never asked me to do anything I wasn’t willing to do.”
Astarion looks the other man over. Wyll looks tired. “Even though it cost you your relationship with your father?”
Wyll sighs. “I know I did the right thing. It’s a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.”
Astarion hums noncommittally. It was pure sadism on Mizora’s part to forbid Wyll from telling his father the circumstances surrounding his pact.
“I imagine Emerie feels the same about whatever deal she made with Raphael,” Wyll muses. “I admit that I’m glad that whatever is between you isn’t as damaged as my relationship with my father.”
Astarion’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know you cared.” Because really, what is it to Wyll if he and Emerie are on speaking terms? Or, as it happens, more than speaking terms.
Wyll smiles crookedly. “You care for her. I never expected to see it from a Vampire spawn. It’s a nice reminder that sometimes good things come from unexpected places.”
Astarion scoffs. “How ridiculously naïve,” he says, incensed. “I’m a killer. I will always be a killer. It is my nature. I exist only to serve the whims of my master and to feed on others. Don’t start looking for good where there isn’t any, Wyll, or you’re going to end up with a knife in your back.” No good could come of Wyll’s asinine take, Astarion knows. If the others got it into their heads that there was something worth saving in every wretched monster they crossed paths with? Astarion represses a shudder. Even a few months ago, such weakness around him would have resulted in their deaths.
Wyll looks at him thoughtfully. “If you say so,” he says. He glances behind them, towards where Astarion knows Emerie is. “But you have to admit, you don’t seem to be in a rush to kill her.”
Astarion decides to find someone else to keep him company.
—-
Victoria, who had been a ghostly figure when they left, has taken on a fey-like quality in the setting sun. She’s running around in the yard in front of the inn with several other children, laughing while the owlbear cub bounces around trying to pounce on them.
Pounce, as his brother’s spawn had dubbed the creature, had twined around Astarion and purred when they made it back to the Inn earlier in the evening.
Victoria had hung back, but had shyly waved at Emerie when she appeared. Emerie had looked relieved that the child was fine.
Astarion supposes he understands. If he had sold his soul for someone and they up and died right after, he would be upset about it.
Now, as he exits the inn to enjoy the evening sun, Victoria stops suddenly when she sees him. It looks like she’s thinking hard about something. She seems to make a decision and she abandons the game she’s playing to come up to him.
“Hi,” she says, stopping several feet in front of him.
“Hello,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her.
“You were gone for a long time,” she says, and he supposes that for someone who has only been alive for only a few short years, a week is a long time.
Gods, what he ever that young?
“Was I?” he asks, unsure of how to interact with such a young and strange creature.
Victoria nods, then looks over at Pounce, who has one of the tiefling children pinned to the ground. “Pounce missed you,” she announces, and then she turns and runs away.
Strange little creature.
He makes his way down to the dock, where he can soak up the remaining rays of the sun in peace.
Peace, however, is an unattainable dream. His thoughts won’t settle, bouncing between one problem after another with no resolution.
The tadpoles, Cazador, the Elder Brain, Raphael, Emerie, the ritual, freedom, his family, and a hundred other smaller complications tumble through his mind. Everything is happening so fast and he simultaneously wants it all to slow down and for it to be over all at once.
Astarion can’t help but worry about what his life will look like when all of this is said and done- but that’s only if he survives.
It feels like a long shot.
He could run. Perhaps some strange magic on the other side of the world could rid him of the tadpole and Cazador would die to the brain and Baldur’s Gate would become a ruin like so many cities before.
The thought of always looking over his shoulder, however, is not an appealing one.
He supposes it’s better to face the problems he knows about than to run from them, whatever the outcome may be.
Besides, he thinks he deserves a little revenge.
The sun has set, and the moon and stars are out, brighter around here than they are in the city. The lake gives him a large open space through which he can see the heavens clearly.
It’s lovely.
He’s had a romantic fascination with the stars for as long as he can remember. Cloudless nights were a small pleasure in his otherwise bleak existence. He may have been cursed to not see the sun as a spawn, but the moon and the stars were still beautiful, in a colder way.
Dalyria had always mocked him for it.
Dal had never quite accepted their fate, always spinning wild theories about cures and medical solutions to their curse.
Decades as a spawn hadn’t cured her of that hope.
He wonders if that means she’s stronger than he is, or simply insane.
Even now, knowing about the Rite of Profane Ascension, Astarion doesn’t hold any hope for an actual cure. If life has taught him anything, it is that everything comes with a price.
Wyll, Gale, Karlach, Emerie, and Shadowheart are all prime examples of that.
Astarion is tracing the distance between the two constellations of bears high in the sky with his eyes when he hears footsteps in the distance. When he turns his head, he sees Emerie heading off into the woods beyond the side of the Inn.
She’s alone.
He stands, his stomach sinking as he remembers the last time she went off alone. He follows.
—-
She was trying to meditate on the roof when the breeze had picked up, whispering to her in a voice Emerie would recognize anywhere.
She supposes it was only a matter of time.
She listens carefully, trying to pick out individual words, but all she gets are vague impressions of “come” and “the forest.”
So, that’s where she goes.
It’s dark, but the moon is shining. After the depth of the darkness of the shadow curse, it’s practically bright.
She picks her way through the brush and half-dead trees for a while until she reaches a clearing that is well on its way to looking like a normal forest glade.
In the middle of the clearing stands a very tall woman.
The woman’s feet do not touch the ground, and she seems to have a slight glow about her. Her long hair is tangled with vines and a bow is slung over her shoulder. Emerie pauses as soon as she locks eyes with the woman, suddenly afraid.
Mielikki.
She knows her, even without ever having seen this aspect of her before.
“Hello, my child,” the goddess says, her voice deep and melodic, but quiet, like a thousand breezes wrap around it to carry it exactly as far as she wants it to go.
Emerie swallows, but says, “My lady,” and takes a few steps closer.
The goddess inspects her. “It has been a long while since you stepped foot into my domain, little one. I was beginning to fear you would not live to serve your purpose.”
An impotent and helpless anger bubbles up inside Emerie, and she tries to keep it under control. Her purpose- because of course that’s all she is to her Goddess.
Mielikki tilts her head ever so slightly. “You are angry,” she observes. “And yet you know that the gods choose mortals to do those deeds that we may not.”
Emerie clenches her jaw. She hesitates before she answers. “I knew. But I didn’t realize that I would be bound to serve the needs of the gods while my needs were ignored.”
Mielikki, tall, regal, and unearthly beautiful, sighs as if saddened. “I often wish that there was another way, but then I remember that the laws that forbid my interference also keep others in check who would do more sinister things with their power.”
Emerie blinks.
It almost sounds like regret.
“As I am sure you have recently discovered,” Mielikki continues, seeming to reference the plot of certain gods’ chosen to control the Elder Brain. “For that matter, there are many devils who are the same.” The goddess looks at her knowingly.
The fear begins to creep back in.
“Promising the Crown of Karsus to the son of Mephistopheles was a mistake, my child.”
Emerie’s heart pounds.
But the goddess tilts her head, then says, “Though I must admit, you did it in a way that kept your oath. The child was destined to die, you know. Saving her from her fate was impressive. You also managed to learn important information.”
Emerie is reeling, dumbstruck by the realization that the goddess seemed to approve of the deal she had made. “But… I… you…”
“It is not a coincidence that the cure you learned of involves the blood of the gods’ chosen,” the goddess says. “The threads of fate weave in strange ways, little one.”
Emerie thinks she might faint.
It’s an echo of what Jaheira had said to Arabella.
“I also do not lightly suffer the undead to walk in my presence,” the goddess says, looking into the trees behind Emerie.
When Emerie turns, she sees the telltale glint of moonlight against white hair, and fear shoots through her again like an arrow.
“Well, hello,” Astarion says with obviously fake calm. “Lovely evening for a walk, don’t you think?” He steps closer, and Emerie quickly puts herself between him and the goddess.
The goddess looks between the two of them, but her expression is unreadable. “An interesting choice of partner for one of my chosen, don’t you think?” Mielikki asks, and Emerie can’t help the indignant noise that escapes her any more than she can help the way her heart pounds feeling Astarion at her back. Whatever the goddess thinks of undead creatures, she has no right to an opinion on this.
“I don’t see how it should matter,” Emerie declares angrily. “So long as I am around to fulfill my purpose and I break no oaths, I think my personal life is my own business.” Emerie hears the vampire at her back inhale.
The goddess raises one perfect eyebrow. “Interesting, indeed.”
Emerie feels a cool hand on her elbow, seemingly trying to soothe her. “Well, I find this all very fascinating,” Astarion drawls. “I especially like that I get to be a part of the drama.” Emerie stiffens, but Mielikki simply looks amused.
“So long as you hold to your oaths, my child, Astarion has nothing to fear from me.” Emerie’s mind stalls and she exhales raggedly at the promise. It’s unexpected. She had thought that Mielikki might try to order her to end Astarion for good. “You will need to find a way to sever your contract with the devil sooner than later.” The goddess reaches out a hand and suddenly there is a large jar in her palm. “I trust you know what to do with this.”
Water. From the Unicorn Run.
Emerie steps forward and takes the jar in a hand that shakes.
“I would suggest getting the assistance of someone who knows the hells better than you do,” the goddess warns. “Cania is not a place that anyone wants to be lost in.”
And then Mielikkii disappears.
It seems that the goddess supports the wild plan Emerie had concocted.
Astarion, still behind her, exhales loudly. Emerie can feel his breath on the back of her neck. “I know you mentioned it, but the whole ‘chosen by a god’ thing seemed rather theoretical until now.”
Emerie turns around to face him, tucking the jar carefully into her side with one arm. “Yes, well, most of the time it is more theoretical than what just happened,” she mutters, her heart still racing in her chest.
Astarion pauses, looking into her eyes and seeming to search for the right words to say. “What… exactly did just happen?” he asks. “Because it sounded to me like…” He trails off, uncertainty coloring his expression.
She looks down at the jar in her arm, then back up at him and smiles shakily. “Like she approves?”
He looks down at her thoughtfully. “So, this secret Raphael is forcing you to keep has something to do with a cure?”
Throat tight, she nods.
“Well. Aren’t you just the gift that keeps on giving,” Astarion murmurs, pulling her into a hug.
Notes:
It may be because I wrote this after too many academic papers, but the struggle was real.
I hope you all are having a good December <3 Thank you for reading!
Chapter 32
Notes:
This is short, but it's necessary set up for the shit hitting the fan again.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wrapped up in Astarion’s arms, a thought winds its way through the bewilderment that Emerie is lost in. She tenses slightly, then stretches up on her toes to whisper in his ear, “Don’t say anything else about this until we’re sure nobody is listening.”
Raphael has been keeping tabs on them somehow, and it could ruin everything if he manages to find out what she’s planning. Astarion hums his agreement, then bites the tip of her ear lightly, making her knees go ever so slightly weak. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, or he doesn’t care if he does. He pulls away, looking down at her with that look he sometimes gets in his eyes. She doesn’t have words for it, but she thinks it’s something between affection and fear. “We should get back,” he says, gesturing for her to go ahead. “I don’t want to find out what monsters might still be out here waiting to make a meal out of some wayward couple.”
Emerie looks around at the suspiciously unthreatening clearing and thinks he may have a point.
—-
Back at the inn, Emerie is grateful to see that the others are still awake. She leads the way to Wyll, threading her way through the crowd without giving herself time to consider the press of the bodies around her.
Wyll, drinking a glass of something that is likely alcoholic with Karlach, nods to them in greeting. Karlach turns and waves, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey! I was wondering where you two ran off to. Come drink with us!”
Emerie smiles and shakes her head. “Sorry, no thanks. I was actually wondering if I could bother the two of you to talk about something. Preferably somewhere a little more private.”
Wyll raises an eyebrow, but stands from his stool and stretches slightly. “Alright. I should probably call it a night soon anyway.”
Karlach brings her tankard to her lips and throws her head back, draining her cup. She wipes her forearm across her face as she stands. “Yeah, alright. It’s been a few hours free of doom and gloom. We may as well get back to it, yeah?”
It’s said teasingly, but Emerie can’t help the feeling that she’s a little too on the nose.
“Upstairs?” Emerie asks, unsure of where else they might go to have any semblance of privacy.
Karlach nods. “My room will work. It’s farther from the noise, at least, and it’s got plenty of chairs if you’re careful how you sit in ‘em.”
Emerie smiles. “That sounds perfect. Lead the way.”
They follow Karlach up the stairs and to the opposite side of the building from the room Emerie and Astarion had stayed in before. Karlach’s room is definitely larger than theirs, with a balcony, table, chairs, and a bigger bed. Astarion whistles appreciatively. “Enjoying the finer life, are we?”
It’s a laughable comment, considering the distinct air of dust and neglect that lies over the room, but Karlach laughs anyway. “It’s better than sleeping in the mud, that’s for sure.”
They each take a seat around the rickety table, the chairs creaking alarmingly as they settle their weight on them. “Right,” Wyll says, “what’s this about?”
Emerie shifts uncomfortably. “First things first, is there a way to make sure we aren’t overheard? I have a feeling we’ve had some uninvited ears around lately.”
Karlach’s brows raise, but she looks to Wyll without saying anything. He seems to think for a moment, then waves his hand and a glow lights up the walls of the room. “That should be sufficient, I think.”
“Right,” Emerie says, and suddenly she doesn’t know how to start. She hesitates, but Astarion intervenes before she comes up with the right words.
“Our dear little druid’s deal with the devil seems to be a tad more problematic than anticipated,” he says, resting his arms on the table and leaning forward. “It seems she promised the Crown of Karsus to Raphael in exchange for her freedom. And something about her soul, Victoria, a ritual or two, and all that. That’s the gist of it, right darling?”
Emerie stares at him for a moment, then blinks. “Right. Yeah. More or less, that’s it.”
“Well, shit,” Karlach says, leaning back in her chair.
Wyll, to his credit, doesn’t betray any emotion. “I’m guessing you have a plan, or you wouldn’t bother telling us.”
Emerie shifts in her seat. “I was originally planning to sell him out and maybe make a deal with Mephistopheles…” Karlach‘s chair, which she had been leaning back on two legs, hits the ground with a loud thud. “But quite frankly, I don’t think another deal to get out of the first one is the best plan anymore.” She’s so grateful that they all have enough information now for her to just talk around the deal with Raphael in a way that they can understand. It’s quite an oversight on his part.
Wyll nods. “Probably not.”
“And after that talk with Mizora at Moonrise, I realized that Raphael may have made a huge mistake. What I need is a distraction and an expert on infernal contracts.”
Wyll frowns. “You need Mizora.”
“I need Mizora.”
Karlach swears profusely.
Notes:
I have to confess that Mizora may be my favorite BG3 villain. She's such a pain while still being oddly helpful at times and an absolute delight narratively (don't hate me I'm just a disaster, ok?) Raphael also has a special place in my heart, but I'd murder him a million times before I would go after Mizora.
You all make my heart so happy. <3 I hope you're having a decent week. Happy Wednesday!
Chapter 33
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When all is said and done and plans are made, it’s very late. The Inn is relatively quiet when Astarion and Emerie return to their room.
Astarion takes one look at the bed, their packs on the table, the clothes they slept in in the mausoleum that still, in his mind, smell like rats, and pauses. “Bath,” he says, needing to wash away the lingering feeling of death and decay and the reminders of Cazador. “If we go now, there likely won’t be anyone down there.”
Emerie, already halfway through taking off her boots, looks surprised. “Together? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
It takes him a moment to realize what she means, and it startles a laugh out of him. “Darling, as irresistible as I am, I trust you’ll restrain yourself. Besides, if we’re going to be dealing with devils and archdevils and traversing the hells, I at least want to go into it smelling better than a goblin’s stewpot.”
Emerie shakes her head at him but pulls her boot back on. “You have strange priorities. A bath does sound nice, though.”
They dig up their cleanest clothes and set aside the ones that need washing before heading downstairs. Astarion is a little flattered that she was thinking so much about his comfort that it was the first thing that came to her mind when he suggested a bath. He doesn’t know what to do with the warm feeling it inspires in his chest, but he doesn’t know what to do with most things involving her anymore.
She treats all of this like it’s so simple. The affection, the plotting to kill Cazador, the making deals with devils and gods- ultimately for his benefit, not hers, no less. And yet she asks for nothing from him.
He wonders, sometimes, if he might have had this with some of his victims, in another life.
She reminds him so much of some of them.
Over the years, he had become numb to the pain of what happened to his victims. He couldn’t hold on to the horror and survive at the same time. He hadn’t had a choice, and so it was just… easier… to detach. Forget.
Most of the time, anyway.
The feelings never quite disappeared entirely, but the numbness was easier and easier to find each time.
Emerie, in all her generous affection, often drags those feelings to the surface. The horror of knowing her the way he does, and of knowing that he had likely seduced dozens, if not hundreds, just like her, is like constantly prodding an open wound to see if it’s still there.
As much as he’d like to avoid it, sometimes he thinks he deserves to feel all of that pain.
It isn’t much of a punishment, since it comes with an equal helping of pleasure.
Sometimes he wishes he could just shut off one feeling or the other. He could take the pain without the pleasure, or the pleasure without the pain, but both together?
It breaks him.
When they get to the baths, Astarion is still lost in thought, but he sets about disrobing mechanically while Emerie starts the water. She hesitates after setting the soap on the ledge near the tub, biting her lip and looking at him apprehensively.
He sighs, annoyed. “Don’t look at me like that. Do I need to undress you?”
She shakes her head and thankfully seems to decide that he knows himself well enough to make his own decisions about whether or not they can take a bath together.
Then again, considering what they had done in here the last time, he supposes her apprehension isn’t entirely baseless.
Still, he isn’t some fragile thing who is going to fall apart if they happen to get carried away.
He lets her step into the tub first, and he gets in on the opposite side. He hisses when the overly warm water touches his cold skin.
It will be nice as soon as he gets used to it.
He slowly sinks into the water, his feet settling somewhere near Emerie’s hips. She has her knees drawn up, though she’s small enough and the tub is deep enough that the water covers everything but the tops of her knees.
Her eyes are closed, he notes with satisfaction.
He lets his own eyes shut, soaking up the warmth and the silence.
It’s several minutes before he feels the water shift, and then he feels small hands on his foot. He tenses slightly, his eyes flying open, but Emerie just draws his foot into her lap and digs her thumb into the arch of his foot.
His mind goes blank.
His head drops back against the side of the tub with a soft groan, and his eyes shut to focus on the heavenly feeling of her hands on him.
She massages one foot thoroughly, then the other, then starts on his ankles and calves.
It’s better than sex.
He has to stop himself from making obscene noises as she works the tension he hadn’t even noticed out of the muscles in his lower legs.
When her hands are still, he opens his eyes.
“Come here,” she says, tugging lightly on his foot.
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Trying to seduce me, are you? It might work.”
She smiles, but tugs on his foot again. “No, it won’t.”
She has no idea.
Because if she leveraged this for sex, he very well might give in.
He shifts, moving carefully to sit between her legs, and as soon as he is settled in front of her she brings her hands up to his shoulders.
He can’t help the soft whimper that escapes him when her thumbs dig into the muscle at the base of his neck.
He feels the puff of air from a silent laugh, but he doesn’t care.
She’d done this once before, and it had been wonderful then, even though he had been tense and uneasy throughout the experience.
Now?
It’s perfect.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” She asks, her hands slowly working their way down his spine.
Tomorrow. Mizora. A wild plan to break an infernal contract. “Not at all. Either it works, or something terrible happens. It’s about what I’ve come to expect, really.”
She laughs lightly, moving on to his lower back. He feels her forehead come to rest against his upper spine. “I’m terrified.”
It’s really the only reasonable feeling to have. “Good,” he says. “That means you’ll try not to die.”
He’s surprised by how much he means it when he says it. He wants her to live.
And not just because she’s the one holding the knowledge of a cure for vampirism.
—-
The first thing Emerie does in the morning is track down Arabella’s mother.
When she’s done speaking to the tiefling woman, she goes to find Victoria.
She finds Mol and Victoria in the large stable off the forge, the owlbear cub napping in a bed of hay in the stall behind them. The girls are sitting crosslegged on the floor, playing a game of cards.
“Mind if I join in?” Emerie says when Mol greets her.
“Sure! It’s more fun with more people anyway.” Mol says. “I’m teaching Victoria my favorite card games.”
Emerie sits down next to them. “You might have to teach me, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve played cards.”
Mol shakes her head disapprovingly. “Honestly, it’s like nobody learns the important things anymore. Alright, pay attention.”
Victoria shoots Emerie a look that seems to say can you believe how crazy this girl is?
Emerie grins.
The girls decimate her at the card game, though Emerie has to admit she isn’t trying very hard. It’s far too much fun to watch the girls dissolve into giggles as she dramatically loses hand after hand.
She’s fairly sure Mol is cheating, also.
After a dozen or so rounds, Mol spots Mattis across the yard and bolts up to try to convince him to join the game. Victoria watches her go with a small smile that warms Emerie’s heart.
“Victoria?”
The girl looks back at her, a little startled. “Yes?”
Emerie sets her cards face down on the dirt floor and sighs. “You remember how I promised that I would protect you the best I could?”
Victoria nods, looking wary.
“Right. So, I have to do some things that are… dangerous. Very dangerous. And there’s a chance that it might not go well. So I talked to Arabella’s mom this morning. If something happens to me, she’s promised to take care of you too.”
Victoria’s brow furrows. “You’re going to try to come back, though, right?”
Emerie’s heart clenches. “Yes. I’m going to do my best. But I want you to know that you’re not alone, even if something happens.”
Victoria looks down at the cards. “Promise.”
Emerie blinks, startled. “What?”
Victoria looks at her fiercely. “Promise you’ll come back.”
Emerie looks at the wisp of a girl, all of ten years old and brand new to the world, and doesn’t quite know how to explain to her that it isn’t that simple. “I promise. If it’s in my power, I’ll come back.”
“Good.”
Mol returns with Mattis, and a new game is decided on.
After half a dozen more hands, Emerie knows she’s going to have to bow out soon, but Astarion finds them and settles down between her and Victoria before she can make her excuses.
“What are we playing?” he says, as if he had been invited.
“Old wizard,” Mattis says, shuffling the deck of cards with a grin.
“Perfect!” Astarion says, and Emerie can’t help but smile.
Of course he likes cards.
It becomes apparent after two hands that he’s good at them, too.
On the third hand, however, Mol’s suspicious gaze turns accusing as Astarion wins yet again. “You cheated!” she says, sounding both angry and impressed.
Victoria has a small smile on her face as she glances at Astarion’s sleeve.
Observant little thing.
Astarion grins. “Prove it.” He tosses his cards down. “On that note, I need to steal the lady away.”
Emerie stands, brushing off her knees.
She pretends not to notice Astarion slipping a card into Victoria’s sleeve as Mattis and Mol argue about who should shuffle the deck again.
—-
When they get to Karlach’s room, Astarion notes that Karlach is conspicuously absent. Given her general feelings of contempt towards Mizora, that’s probably for the best.
Wyll is there, a carefully blank expression on his face as he sits at the table with the dusky blue devil.
Mizora takes Astarion and Emerie in with a sultry smile. “Well, hello. My pet tells me that you have need of an expert in infernal contracts.”
Wyll not so subtly rolls his eye behind Mizora.
Emerie steps forward. “Yes. I asked him to ask for your help with a little problem I’m having.”
“Oh?” Mizora says, leaning forward in a way that displays her body very distractingly. “You have my attention.”
Emerie takes the chair next to Mizora, leaving Astarion to take the seat against the wall. “I was wondering,” Emerie says, “How good is a contract that was signed with no witnesses?”
Astarion, shocked, realizes suddenly where this is going. Clever.
Mizora sits up straighter in her chair. “It’s hardly as good as the paper it’s written on,” she says, sounding interested.
Emerie just nods. “And if it was destroyed?”
Mizora grins. “No evidence, no contract. But you would have to find the contract in order to destroy it.”
Well, that might complicate things, Astarion thinks. Emerie’s expression, however, doesn’t change.
“So, for the favor I need- I need to get in to see Mephistopheles, but I have been told that portal magic is… tricky. I need guidance from someone who has been in his palace.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that Astarion blinks twice before it sinks in.
Of all the insane places to go…
Mizora seems to be equally shocked.
“I may be inclined to be helpful, but I am not going to draw the wrath of an archdevil onto myself,” Mizora says, archly.
“You don’t need to be involved at all, beyond helping me to get the portal to come out in the right place,” Emerie says, leaning forward. “I need Mephistopheles to distract Raphael so that I can get to my contract.”
Gods above.
She’s insane.
Astarion hears Wyll swear under his breath.
And, Astarion realizes suddenly, Emerie’s damned goddess knew what she was planning and gave her advice on how to do it.
Mizora cackles. “Oh, this is too good. Fine. I could do with some entertainment. Where are we doing this?”
Emerie produces two iron tuning forks from a pocket. “Here is good.”
Hells.
Notes:
I survived finals!
I kept telling myself that I would try to finish this story by Christmas, but I'm not sure it's possible. We'll see how it goes.
Chapter 34
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s fear, pure and unrelenting, driving her now.
What is she even doing?
When Emerie had originally concocted this plan, she still hadn’t yet decided that she wanted to live.
Now?
Now there are things for her to lose.
It’s easier to risk your life when you don’t care if you live or die.
She wonders when that changed for her.
It’s crept up on her, this drive to fight to see tomorrow. Emerie hadn’t made plans for the future for…
At least ten years. Maybe longer.
Somehow, in the last several weeks, she’s started planning to do things again. Help remove the tadpoles… help the tieflings… save Victoria… help Leon and Astarion.
It’s been ages since she’s felt hope for the future, even if it’s just a future for others.
It’s funny how it’s come in the midst of facing a potentially world-ending catastrophe.
She’s terrified that if she waits any longer, Raphael will find out what she’s up to through whatever method he’s been using to spy on them and he will stop her. It’s now or never, now that she’s made it obvious that she is going to try to destroy her contract.
“My, my. You are prepared, aren’t you?” Mizora says, amusement coloring her tone. “Fine, then. I’ll assist in casting the portal, but after that, you’re on your own. If Mephistopheles doesn’t disintegrate you on the spot, I may pop into the House of Hope to witness the aftermath.”
Emerie stands, grabbing one of the forks. “Right. Let’s do this.”
Astarion grasps her elbow, halting her movement. “How exactly does this work?”
“In theory,” Emerie says, stepping away towards the open space of the room, “I cast Plane shift, the fork focuses the spell on the hells, and I focus on where in the hells I want to go. With Mizora here to guide me, I should appear somewhere in Mephistopheles’ palace.”
Astarion frowns. “You should appear?” he asks, voice dripping with disdain. “You are out of your mind if you think you’re doing this alone.”
Emerie meets his eyes, startled. She hadn’t considered that he might object. “It’s too dangerous…” she begins, but Wyll interrupts.
“Exactly. Which is why you shouldn’t go alone.”
Emerie shakes her head, her heart pounding. It’s one thing to risk her own life. It’s another thing entirely to risk anyone else's. “Absolutely not. It would be better if we just lose one of us than all of us.”
Astarion’s eyes narrow. “If you even think it’s that dangerous, I wonder why you’re doing this at all. We’re all going, or I’ll knock you out where you stand.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Emerie pinches her nose and closes her eyes. She doesn’t have time to argue about this. Every second since she revealed the plan is another second Raphael might have to prepare for it. “Fine,” she says, annoyed. “We have to hold hands. Make a circle.”
Wyll reaches out and grasps her right hand, his palm closing over the metal fork. Astarion moves to complete the circle, linking hands with her and Wyll. “Right. Let’s do this.”
“Wyll, darling, do you really think I’m about to let you go?” Mizora admonishes. “I don’t want anything to lead back to me, after all, and you do still belong to me.”
Wyll’s eyes slide shut for a moment, and then he steps out of the circle, looking pained. “Fine,” he bites out. “Be safe,” he says to Astarion and Emerie.
Emerie feels for him. Astarion even gives him a vaguely sympathetic look.
Astarion and Emerie link hands, closing the circle with just the two of them.
Mizora makes a gesture, and Emerie can feel the devil’s presence in her head, an unwelcome ooze across her thoughts.
Emerie begins to chant the spell Halsin had taught her, focusing on the image that Mizora plants in her mind- a shadowy library, lit by torches bearing blue flames, towering shelves reaching impossibly high into the cavernous space.
She feels the power flowing through her, and between one breath and the next, an intense pressure fills her mind and body, and then it’s done.
They’re in the library.
It’s surprisingly warm, despite the stories she’s heard about Cania being a frozen hellscape. She supposes that Mephistopheles might prefer comfort rather than the icy torture inflicted on the souls destined for his realm. She lets go of Astarion, looking around. He whistles appreciatively at the cavernous space, full of books as far as the eye can see. When Emerie looks up, she sees that the shelves continue into the distance, appearing endless. She can’t see the ceiling- if there even is one.
Astarion looks around, appearing to judge the space free of danger. “It’s a good thing we didn’t bring Gale along,” he says. “We would never have gotten him to leave willingly.”
Emerie snorts. It’s true enough.
Astarion looks down the long aisle between the shelves. “How do we know where to go?”
Emerie shrugs. Mizora seemed to think this was the right place for them to go. “I guess pick a direction and we will see where it leads?” she says, unsure.
“What could go wrong?” Astarion drawls, and Emerie privately thinks that if he’s going to be snide about it, he shouldn’t have come along.
She is, however, grateful to not be alone.
They start walking in the direction that is better lit, for lack of any better ideas. Eventually, the shelves end and they come to a more open space. The blue light from the torches gives way to a pale light from tall windows that overlook an icy plain. Comfortable-looking chairs litter the area, each next to or in front of tables made of dark hardwood.
If not for the bleak quality of the lighting, it would be cozy.
“Well, this is nice,” Astarion says, running his fingers along the leather back of a very large armchair. “At least Mephistopheles seems to be a man of taste.”
“Does he, now?” A whispery voice says from somewhere to their left. Emerie jumps, hand automatically moving toward her weapon before she thinks better of it and drops her hand uselessly back at her side.
Astarion, to his credit, doesn’t flinch.
Mephistopheles is tall. He’s at least a couple of feet taller than Halsin, but his figure is lean and elegant whereas Halsin looks like he fights bears for a living. His eyes are pure white and unsettling. Glowing white irises barely distinguish themselves from the whites of his eyes. His skin is a dark and dusky blue, taking on an almost ethereal quality in the blue torchlight. His hair is long and dark as night. Everything about him gives off the air of ice.
Mephistopheles regards them coolly, a book open on the table behind him. “A mortal and a vampire, creeping around in my library? To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, and beneath the silky tone of his voice, the threat is clear.
“I…” Emerie finds her throat suddenly dry. “Excuse me, sorry. We came to speak with you about the Crown of Karsus.”
There is a slight rise to the devil’s brows. “The Crown of Karsus,” he muses, stepping closer and inspecting Emerie as if she’s a particularly interesting bug he is readying to crush. “A nasty piece of magic, that. I regret to inform you that it is no longer a part of my collection.”
“We know,” Astarion says, eyes shifting between Emerie and Mephistopheles with the barest hint of anxiety. “We recently had a run-in with a nether brain wearing the crown. It’s quite the tale, really, but it isn’t really why we’re here.” Astarion steps closer to Emerie, resting a hand lightly on the small of her back. “We also had a run-in with a devil by the name of Raphael, who has a particular interest in the Crown, according to my friend here.”
The devil steps closer, reaching one long-fingered hand out to grasp Emerie’s chin. “Interesting,” he says in that whispery voice that sounds like the wind over a snowy plain. His fingers are icy on her chin and she has to restrain herself from flinching away.
It’s all part of the plan, she reminds herself.
“And what manner of deal did the girl strike that she is desperate enough to risk coming here to see it ended?” Those all-white eyes are even more unsettling up close, staring into her very soul.
She swallows, then says, “I can’t say, but I could show you, if you’d like.” She forces herself not to look away from the devil’s eyes, knowing what is likely to come next.
“Interesting, indeed,” Mephistopheles says, and then Emerie feels her muscles turn to lead. From the way Astarion yelps, she assumes that whatever spell she is under, he is under too. A moment later, she feels an icy presence in her mind.
She feels Mephistopheles impatiently sift through the thoughts and memories on the surface of her mind until he comes to a thread- the Crown- and follows it.
His face is dispassionate, but he views the memory of the elder brain and the chosen of the dead three carefully, not speeding through it or trying to follow it to another memory. As he moves on from that memory, Emerie tries to focus on her deal with Raphael, but instead, her conversation with Mielikki rises to the forefront of her mind.
Mephistopheles’ gaze sharpens as he latches on to that memory. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
That memory bleeds into a snippet of the memory of Raphael theatrically informing Astarion about the significance of his scars.
Emerie thinks she detects a hint of irritation in the arch-devil’s unsettling gaze.
He certainly seems impatient, only watching the barest details of that conversation before ripping through her mind for other memories of Raphael.
It’s exactly what she was counting on.
By reputation, Mephistopheles is cool and calculated until angry, and then his temper is legendary. She had been counting on him just picking up the broad strokes of Raphael’s betrayal and not focusing on why she is so desperate to be free of the contract.
And it was working.
He lingered, fuming, on Raphael’s speech about uniting the hells under his rule that he had given her when he teleported her bloody body to the House of Hope to sign her contract.
Mephistopheles withdraws from her thoughts, dropping her chin and turning away. His growl is a terrifying thing, and Astarion’s support at her back is the only thing holding her up when Mephistopheles growls, flames engulfing his form as he transforms into a red version of himself, black ram’s horns erupting from his skull as wings sprout from his back, impossibly large and terrifying.
Those white eyes go entirely black, a red ring blazing in the center.
“That meddlesome fool,” he snarls, his voice now gravelly instead of smooth, crackling with the fires of the hells. “Arrogant meddlesome, fool. That crown has destroyed every being to ever wield it, mortals and gods alike, and he thinks to use it to usurp me?”
The devil laughs, and it’s a cruel, blazing thing that raises the temperature in the room by several degrees.
Emerie steps back into Astarion’s arms, and he steps backward, taking her with him and pulling her slightly behind him. She’s panting, terrified and relieved in equal measure. Those black eyes settle on her, then Astarion. “He told you how to circumvent the ritual, the petulant brat.” The devil’s nostrils flare, eyes blazing impossibly bright. “You were supposed to be mine.”
Astarion yelps as his shirt disintegrates to ash, his scars lighting up bright red. Emerie looks on in horror as the devil snaps his fingers, and she and Astarion are teleported to a different room.
—-
It burns.
When Cazador had carved the scars into his back, he had rubbed some kind of potion that seemed to be laden with salt into each mark, laughing when Astarion screamed. If Astarion moved to much or screamed too much during the carving process, Cazador would heal the newest mark and start over. The potion seemed to prevent healing, circumventing a vampire spawn’s natural accelerated healing process.
It was, as far as Cazador’s tortures went, not the most terrible, but the lingering burn would never fade from his memory.
This burn is the same.
He wonders what kind of hellish concoction Cazador had used when carving the contract into his back.
He’s vaguely aware of something hard and cold under his knees. When he had hit his knees, he isn’t sure.
He doesn’t think he cares, either.
He hears murmuring through the ringing in his ears, a comforting sound that he strains to focus on, forcing his lungs to pull air in and push it out to give his body something to do other than to feel.
He’s counted ten full breaths when he feels the warmth under his forehead and feels the pressure of arms on his back. It hurts, but it’s also comforting to know that he’s not alone.
He remembers always being locked in a room alone to lick his wounds.
He shudders, fingers tangling in the cloth he can feel against his fingertips.
“I’m here. It’s okay,” he hears as the ringing in his ears subsides.
Emerie.
“I’m fine,” he manages, pulling away to look around. Her arms drop from his back and he lets out a relieved breath as the pressure eases off the still stinging scars on his back. She’s on her knees in front of him. They’re in a small room that appears to be entirely made of ice.
Emerie watches him, her hands on her knees, concern evident in her eyes. “Where are we?” he says, and she shrugs.
“Doesn’t matter. We won’t be here long,” Emerie says, pulling the iron fork out of her pocket.
He huffs a pained laugh. “Fortunate for us that you’re so prepared.”
She bites her lip as her eyes rake over him again. “I didn’t think that would happen,” she mutters, reaching a glowing hand out for him.
He nearly flinches, but holds still as the spell washes over him, taking care of the lingering sting from his scars.
“I can’t do anything about the shirt, I’m afraid,” she says, and it’s then that he looks down and realizes that his shirt is gone.
He shakes his head. “Of all the things we should be worrying about, my shirt ranks fairly low on the list. Are you ready to go?”
“Not yet,” Emerie says. “I figure we should give it at least ten minutes for Mephistopheles to break down Raphael’s door, or whatever the archdevil equivalent is.” She bites her lip again, inspecting him. “I have half a mind to take you back to the inn,” she murmurs.
He scoffs. “Do you have the energy to cast that spell even one extra time? No. I’m going with you.” He sits back on his heels, leveling a glare at her. It’s as if she thinks he’s some fragile creature to be protected.
The very obvious reluctance in her eyes both flatters and annoys him at the same time. She cares.
Well, if he can let her walk into danger, she can do the same for him. He stands, holding a hand out to help her up.
Her palm is warm against his and he is reluctant to let it go, but he does, dropping her hand as soon as she’s on her feet. He looks up at the glacial ceiling that emits a steady pale blue glow. “I suppose I should be grateful,” he muses, taking in the bleak surroundings. “If not for the mind flayers kidnapping me, this is where Cazador was going to sell my eternal soul.” Emerie stiffens, and he gives her a mischievous glance. “Not really my style, is it?”
She closes her eyes and exhales and long-suffering sigh before opening her eyes again. “You’re right. This is not nearly ostentatious enough for you.” She shoves his shoulder lightly. “Come on. We may as well do this now. I’m sure you’ll love Raphael’s place.”
He holds out his hands for hers. “Whenever you’re ready, my love.” And he pretends he doesn’t notice the sudden flush in her cheeks before she links hands with him and casts the spell to take them to the House of Hope.
Interesting, he thinks, as the room disappears around them.
Notes:
You know that feeling when you have a plan and it all finally starts to come together?
Yeah, me neither.<3 You all make my heart happy. Thanks for being here!
Chapter 35
Notes:
CAPS LOCK OF SERIOUSNESS.
TRIGGER WARNING: on screen sexual assault. I’ll mark it with a bunch of ****s for anyone who wants to skip it. I’m not about to let anyone run into this blind.
Be kind to yourselves. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They appear in a bedroom with large openings to balconies on two sides and plenty of lounging furniture, long and decadent curtains, pale stone, and a warm breeze flowing through it all. It looks vaguely familiar to Emerie.
There is also a huge bed on one side of the one whole wall, and on that bed is a very nearly naked Raphael, dressed in a strap of leather ensemble that leaves little to the imagination.
Emerie freezes, realizing that her plan to distract Raphael has obviously not gone quite the way she had hoped.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, pushing himself up on one arm to look them over with a grin, “What do we have here?”
Astarion, his mind clearly working more quickly than Emerie’s, looks the cambion over, eyes lingering on the huge wings that Raphael has only shown them once in person. “Hello there Raphael,” Astarion drawls. “You’re dressed rather provocatively, don’t you think? Are we interrupting some special occasion? We could always come back later…”
The figure on the bed cackles, throwing his head back as he laughs. “I am not Raphael,” he says, his form shifting into a female version of himself, then back to Raphael. “I am Haarlep, and you are not supposed to be here.” He looks them over, sitting up fully on the bed and swinging his legs over. “I recognize the half-elf, though she looks much more fun than the last time she was here, bleeding all over the place.”
Emerie doesn’t remember Haarlep at all. All she remembers was sitting at a table in this room, dizzy, and signing the contract Raphael had explained in her cell. She had passed out shortly after when Raphael had teleported them to Leon’s room to get Victoria.
“You, however,” Haarlep says, eyes roving over Astarion with interest, “You are something new entirely. A vampire spawn in my bedroom.” He tilts his head, eyes blazing with lust. “How delightful,” he purrs seductively.
Astarion is relaxed next to her, but she can detect a slight change in his demeanor. “An incubus,” Astarion drawls. “Fascinating. Unfortunately, my dear, we are here on business. Is the master of the house around?”
Haarlep’s eyes sharpen, his teeth flashing in a feral grin. “The master is otherwise occupied, but I don’t think you’re here to see him at all, are you? No. You’re here to steal a contract. You’ve gotten farther than most, I’ll grant you, but you’re not likely to succeed without help.”
Emerie takes the bait. “And are you willing to help?”
Astarion looks at her sharply, clearly disapproving of giving away their actual purpose to this creature. Emerie doesn’t care. Haarlep had already guessed why they were here, and they may be running out of time.
“I could be… persuaded,” Haarlep drawls, leaning back on his arms in a way that puts his body on display. “But I suggest that one of you go out into the hall and keep watch. If Raphael were to find you here, my help won’t do you any good at all.”
Astarion frowns, looking down at Emerie. “Don’t even think about it.”
Emerie exhales, fear for his safety as well as hers making her desperate. “Can you go keep watch? I will be careful, I promise.”
Astarion searches her eyes as if trying to read her thoughts. “Fine,” he bites out. “But only because you’ve gotten us this far already, and I know you’re going to make sure this works.”
It sounds almost threatening, though she thinks it’s driven more by concern than anything else.
It’s hard to tell.
She nods, and he hesitates for only a moment, glancing at the Incubus on the bed before heading to the opening on the opposite side of the wall from the bed.
She hopes this won’t take long.
“So,” she says to Haarlep, “How can I convince you to help me find my contract.”
Haarlep inspects her with a predator’s gaze, standing and stepping closer. “I’ll tell you where it is for free. It’s in the safe in this very room, behind that portrait.” He gestures to the large portrait of Raphael next to the bed. “But the key,” he runs fingers tipped in long nails from her throat to her chest, making her shudder. “That, I will require payment for.”
Emerie swallows, looking up into the blazing eyes of the incubus. “What kind of payment?”
The Incubus looks her dead in the eyes and purrs, “Take off your clothes.”
****************************
Her mind goes blank for a moment.
He can’t possibly mean…?
Then again, he is an incubus.
“I… no,” Emerie says, her skin crawling at the thought of strange hands touching her body.
Haarlep takes a step back, tilting his head while he inspects her. “Interesting,” he murmurs. He sniffs, then gets a wicked look on his face. “Perhaps this form isn’t to your liking? How about something more familiar.”
In the span of a few seconds, the incubus shrinks and shifts and the face in front of her becomes Astarion’s.
The smile is wrong; it’s a little too crooked and the glint in his eye isn’t as mischievous as it is sinister.
His hand reaches out to touch her, drawing her carefully against his body by her wrist. Her hands come up to push against the warm chest, so familiar and still so wrong.
“No,” she croaks, and it’s halfhearted at best. She is already lost in eyes that are so alluring and familiar and beloved that she’s frozen, unable to resist as he leans over to whisper in her ear, “Are you sure, darling? I’ll be ever so good.” And the voice is so right, and everything is hazy.
The Astarion that isn’t Astarion trails his lips from her ear to her lips. The slow seductive caress of his mouth against hers makes her sigh and instantly all her worries melt away. She’s dazed and thoughtless and she melts against him, unable to resist as he breathes her in, all heat and smoke and fire against her lips.
And not Astarion.
Astarion isn’t heat. He doesn’t taste like smoke. He certainly isn’t fire.
She tenses up, pushing against the hard chest she’s caged against, but one strong arm of the incubus holds her fast while the other creeps up and cups one breast, running its thumb over it.
She gasps into the unwelcome kiss, her mind going blank again with fear.
She’s frozen.
She’s frozen.
With her eyes open, she can see the beloved face- but it isn’t him.
And yet her eyes drift shut and the incubus’ power drains her of the will to resist.
Why is she fighting it?
She doesn’t want this.
Does she?
She said no, didn’t she?
Did she?
Did she?
****************************
Astarion feels the foundation of the house shake as soon as he’s in the hallway.
He wonders what kind of sound dampening spells are on the bedroom to block out the sounds of fury coming from down the hall.
He finds himself on a balcony across the hall from the bedroom. It overlooks a destroyed room that vaguely resembles the room Raphael had teleported them to the first time they met, the banquet rotten and skeletons perched in chairs around the table. His skin crawls, wondering if that would have been their fate had they eaten the feast Raphael had offered.
He’s suddenly grateful that normal food doesn’t tempt him.
On one end of the room, wreathed in writhing flame, Mephistopheles stands. His black eyes are icy and absolutely terrifying in his severe face. Pinned against the opposite wall by ropes of fire is Raphael, wings and horns and all.
He can see the resemblance.
Mephistopheles is undeniably more terrifying.
Next to the archdevil, Raphael almost looks small and harmless.
Based on the scorch marks on the wall and floors, this confrontation has been going on for several minutes.
“Oh, you worthless brat, how shall I punish you? I could leave you in the darkest pits of Cania to freeze, but it doesn’t sound nearly so satisfying as slowly roasting you alive and letting your screams ring out across the hells.”
Raphael glares at the archdevil, as if he has a chance in hell of surviving this. “Do your worst,” Raphael spits, rage making his face hideous. “But always remember that you had the crown for centuries and were never brave enough to use it. I, at least have the guts to try.”
Mephistopheles laughs. It’s cold and cruel as his eyes flash from black to white. The flames holding Raphael to the wall flicker with blue. “I thought that these centuries would have taught you your own folly, boy,” Mephistopheles says, and Astarion hears Cazador in the way he says boy. “All these years and you never figured out why I refused to use the crown. Perhaps you are as stupid as Asmodeus always said.”
Mephistopheles walks around the table towards Raphael, his form slowly shifting into the dusky blue figure that Astarion and Emerie had met in the library at Mephistar. “You would deserve the torture the crown inflicted on you if you ever got to wield it,” Mephistopheles says, noticeably calmer. “Unfortunately, I won’t let that happen.”
Raphael thrashes against the blue flames holding him to the wall now, fear filling his eyes.
“I think a few centuries in a pit of nightmares might do you some good,” Mephistopheles murmurs, and he raises his hands and the flames holding Raphael to the wall turn to chains.
Astarion flinches as Raphael starts to scream, but with a snap of the archdevil’s fingers, Raphael and Mephistopheles disappear.
Emerie’s plan had been a success in one way, at least. Even if they don’t find the contract, Astarion doesn’t think Raphael will be in any state to collect on it for a very long time.
He tries not to think of the uncomfortable similarity between Raphael’s punishment and his own year locked in the coffin.
Astarion makes his way back across the hall, there being no need for a lookout anymore, and makes his way into the room.
He finds Emerie splayed out on the bed, her shirt lost, a very male figure kissing his way across her chest.
The little air in his lungs escapes forcefully as he recognizes that Haarlep has taken on his own form.
Astarion is smaller than he thought he was. He’s barely a few inches taller than Emerie, but those inches feel like more when he’s in his own skin. The scars on his back are certainly not pretty, but they aren’t nearly as gruesome as he had feared.
He clears his throat. “Am I interrupting? It feels strange to watch myself in bed with someone, I have to admit.”
Emerie’s chest heaves with every breath, but Haarlep sits up on his knees, turning his body enough to look back at Astarion. “She seemed to find this form more pleasant than the other.
Astarion looks into his own face for the first time in centuries.
It’s close to what Emerie had drawn, but not quite the same. She’d made him look softer, somehow, and the ink and charcoal didn’t do anything to show colors.
His eyes.
He’s horrified to see they are the exact same shade as Cazador’s.
Those are the eyes Emerie is so enamored with?
The woman in question seems to come back to herself, scrambling out from under the incubus. She shudders, pulling her knees to her chest. That’s when he notices the tears that stain her face.
He isn’t sure what happened here, but he is sure that it wasn’t good.
“Darling,” he says, walking closer to the bed. “Your scheme seems to have paid off a little too well. Mephistopheles has spirited our dear Raphael away for what sounds like centuries of punishment.”
Haarlep, still clad in the leather ensemble from before and still wearing Astarion’s face, turns his body so that he’s on his back and propped on his arms. “Interesting,” he mutters, looking between the real Astarion and Emerie. “I suppose that means my exile here is at an end.”
Astarion feels his eyebrows raise. He wonders what the incubus did to be sentenced to warm Raphael’s bed. He inspects the form in front of him, noting that aside from the eyes, he looks mostly like he expected. The details of his face are fascinating as long as he ignores the color of his eyes.
Haarlep notices the stare, noticeably arching his back to pose. “I suppose I can call our bargain fulfilled, in light of my newfound freedom,” Haarleps drawls. He produces a key from thin air. “Here you are.” He places the key on the deep red sheets and promptly vanishes.
Emerie, still breathing hard, unfurls herself from the position she’s in and grabs the key. She hands it to Astarion. “He said the safe is behind that painting,” she says hoarsely, pointing at the painting in question.
It’s a gaudy thing, a triumphant portrait of Raphael that is far more flattering than the reality of the devil.
“Are you alright?” he asks, concerned.
She nods, but she doesn’t look at him. She finds her shirt among the sheets and tugs it back on. “I’m fine. Just ready to get this over with.”
If she had looked more willing, he would have found Haarlep’s choice of form flattering. As it is, he’s left with the distinct impression that whatever had happened after he left, she had been a very unwilling participant.
If he knows anything, she won’t want him to call attention to it.
He turns away, giving her a moment to collect herself. He removes the painting from the wall. The safe is behind it, and the key fits easily into the lock.
There are several papers inside, but the one he’s looking for is right on top. Emerie’s signature is large at the bottom of the page, and it looks like her blood might have dripped onto the very official looking document as well.
He removes her contract with one hand, rifling through the others with his other hand.
He removes the second one as well, Mol’s signature clear on the page.
They’ll definitely have to destroy that one as well. After he reads the details, of course.
He rolls Mol’s contract up and slips in into his shirt. Emerie’s he holds up as he turns back toward her. “Do you want to do the honors?” he asks, and she shakes her head again.
“Go ahead,” she says, and he sees a flicker of relief in her eyes as he rips the paper in two.
He tears it into several smaller pieces for good measure.
“Hmm,” he says, looking at the pieces in his hands. “I think maybe we should burn the pieces, just to be sure.”
A spark of humor chases away the bleak look in Emerie’s eyes. “Just to be sure,” she says, and a ghost of a smile crosses her face as his hands go up in flames.
It’s a small magic, but it’s effective.
“Let’s go home,” she says, holding out hands that tremble slightly.
He doesn’t point out that neither of them have a home.
Notes:
*deep breaths*
Well, I did the thing.Note on the shapeshifting: I love what Larian did with Haarlep, but I went with a more classic version of an incubus for my own purposes with the shapeshifting.
Chapter 36
Notes:
This probably deserves a trigger warning for being the aftermath of the previous chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wyll and Karlach are waiting for them sans Mizora when they appear in Karlach’s room. They appear to have been playing cards, but they abandon the cards and their chairs quickly when Emerie and Astarion appear.
The room spins for several moments as the exhaustion of casting the plane shifting spell catches up with her.
She’d pushed her limits in more ways than one.
“You’re alright!” Karlach says, and Emerie gets the distinct impression that if there were more room, Karlach would be hugging her right now.
She sways, but Astarion steadies her in strong arms. She rests her forehead on his chest for a moment, thick velvet that smells strongly of sulfur and smoke. She chokes on a breath, pulling away from him abruptly.
It’s definitely not his shirt.
“Where did you get the shirt?” she asks, taking in the overly rich red velvet number trimmed in gold.
It suits him, but she hates it.
He looks down at himself and blinks. “This? I liberated it from Raphael’s wardrobe. I didn’t fancy creeping around his house half naked.”
That’s… fair. She’d forgotten about what happened to his shirt. Guilt chokes her when she recalls what happened in Mephistopheles’ library.
She sways again, and Astarion reaches out to grab her forearm to steady her.
“So, it went well, I take it?” Wyll asks, looking between the two of them warily.
Her skin crawls as she remembers how well it nearly didn’t go.
Astarion smiles tightly. “It all went according to plan, if that’s what you mean. I think the traveling might have been a bit much for Em, though.” His hand is firm under her arm.
“It’s definitely not a usual sort of magic, is it, traversing the hells? I’m surprised you’re in one piece,” Karlach says, shifting her weight. “Bloody useful trick, though, I have to admit.”
Emerie laughs lightly, dizziness washing over her again. “One I hope to never repeat. I need to sleep.”
Wyll, bless him, nods. “Go to bed. We can talk tomorrow.”
Emerie doesn’t think she wants to talk about it ever, but she nods her agreement anyway.
“Right,” Karlach says. “Need help getting there? You look like you’ve been to hell and back.” She looks a little sheepish after she realizes what she just said. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Emerie grins. “Something like that. I think we’ve got it, though.” She looks at Astarion who merely raises an eyebrow at her and gestures for the door.
She tries not to lean too much on Astarion as they make their way to their room. It doesn’t seem right to need his support after she dragged him through the hells and back.
Any relief she might feel at it being over is outweighed by the sheer exhaustion and uneasiness she feels.
She needs a bath, but she knows she won’t make it that far.
When they’re safely behind the closed door of the room they’ve been sleeping in, Emerie promptly strips off her clothes, leaning heavily against the table as she does. She can’t get out of them fast enough, despite the exhaustion she can feel in every muscle of her body.
She tosses them into a pile by the door.
She’ll have to burn them.
She’ll never be able to wear them again without feeling Haarlep’s hands on her.
She doesn’t look at Astarion while she locates anything else to wear and tugs it on.
When she’s changed, she feels marginally better. When she turns toward the bed, she freezes when she sees Astarion sitting there in the velvet monstrosity he’d taken from Raphael’s house.
“I…” her mouth is dry. She clears her throat. “Could you take the shirt off?” she asks. She hates how small her voice sounds. At his questioning look, she tries to explain. “It smells… wrong. Not like you.”
Something changes in his eyes, and she knows he understands.
She doesn’t want him to.
It makes her nauseous.
He sighs, but strips the offending garment off and tosses it into the pile with her clothes. “It would probably get ruined with all the nonsense we get up to anyway,” he says, and she appreciates the way he doesn’t address the obvious reason she might not like him wearing it.
Astarion pats the bed next to him and she takes two steps before she crawls into the bed and collapses against the pillows.
Astarion pulls the blanket over her, but doesn’t join her.
That’s fine, she thinks. He probably needs time.
The guilt she feels over Mephistopheles and the deal with Raphael and falling into bed with Haarlep makes her throat tight and she can feel tears in her eyes. She closes them for a moment to try to hold them back.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she feels the mattress shift as if Astarion has turned his body.
“What?” he says, and he sounds genuinely confused.
“I’m sorry,” she says a little louder. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
She feels his hand card into her hair, but her eyes are too heavy to open.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmurs, running his hand through her hair.
He’s lying, she knows, but she’s too tired to think about it anymore.
—-
He can hear the moment her breathing changes and sleep claims her.
Astarion isn’t sure what she thinks she’s apologizing to him for. She’d gone to the hells and back, quite literally, for him.
And also a little for the sake of the rest of the world.
That doesn’t change the fact that it’s his fault in the first place that any of it had been necessary.
He is very aware that the contract with Raphael is directly his fault. If Emerie hadn’t been so obviously bitten by a vampire, she wouldn’t have been dragged to Baldur’s Gate. If she hadn’t been dragged to Baldur’s Gate, Cazador wouldn’t have gotten his hands on her. If it hadn’t been so obvious to Cazador that she knew something about Astarion because she was wearing his clothes- and he’d been horrified to hear that detail from Shadowheart- then she wouldn’t have been half dead when Raphael went to offer her a deal.
How could she have anything to be sorry for?
As far as he’s concerned, she had not only survived by making a deal with the devil, but also learned important information about Cazador’s deal with Mephistopheles, something about a cure, and she’d come up with a scheme to get out of the damned contract in the first place.
And it had worked.
Astarion stands, going to rifle through their things for a change of clothes. He pulls the sketchbook out, hesitating for only a moment before letting it fall open.
He thinks that maybe she feels guilty about falling into bed with a doppelgänger of himself, but he knows how incubi work and he knows her well enough to know that she hadn’t wanted it. He knows the sounds she makes when she’s aroused, how she smells, and the way her heart beats.
He knew her well enough to sense her panic as soon as he’d walked into the room to see himself ravishing her. If he hadn’t been so shocked, he isn’t sure what he would have done.
As it is, at least she’d still had her pants on.
He knows, however, that there’s little rhyme or reason to how violated one feels after something like that. He’d been used countless times in degrading ways and been unbothered, but the wrong sound or touch would sometimes make him feel more disgusting than a roach.
The man he sees in the sketchbook is a far softer version of the man he’d seen earlier in bed with Emerie.
Perhaps that is a reflection of how she sees him instead of what he really is.
He flips back a page or two, to the sketch she’d done of his angry face.
Suddenly, knowing that the eyes in that face are Cazador’s eyes, he hates it.
He shuts the book, leaving it on the table while he looks for a shirt.
Astarion knows he’s not ready to sleep. He also knows that Emerie will be asleep for a long time. She always sleeps like the dead after significant amounts of casting and he has a feeling that teleporting through three planes of existence is going to require even more recovery than usual.
He pulls a shirt over his head and picks up the rolled up contract that had fallen out of the other shirt when he tossed it and then he quietly leaves the room.
—-
He finds Mol outside with Mattis. They are whacking each other with little swords that he is surprised are wooden. The way Mol and Mattis are already running a fairly successful criminal empire, he figures they probably have real weapons stashed away somewhere.
Given Dammon’s soft heart, they may even have real weapons that were made just for them.
He watches them for a minute with his arms crossed. They aren’t clumsy, but they’re still just kids whacking each other with sticks.
Maybe if Astarion mentions it, Wyll will teach them a thing or two.
“Mol,” he says loudly, and the children pause their mimicry of militarism.
“Yeah?” Mol says, wiping her forehead with the back of the hand still holding the wooden sword.
Not great blade discipline, but it’s not really his place to teach her.
Astarion holds out the rolled up contract. He had considered reading it, but had decided against it. Whatever was on it was no longer relevant. “Emerie got her hands on this,” he says, and the girl takes it from him.
She unrolls it and looks shocked. “How did you get this?” Mol asks angrily, looking at him with accusing eyes.
Astarion uncrosses his arms. “Like I said,” he says breezily, “Emerie found it. Raphael is going to be indisposed for a few centuries, if my sources are correct.” He waves a careless hand. “We figured you’d like to know your options have changed. I’m sure Emerie or Karlach will help you with whatever it is you were making devil deals for. They’ve got a soft spot for little people and not much sense to go with it.”
He turns to go, leaving her to contemplate her future in peace.
He’s only taken a few steps when he hears a distant splash and giggle that has him changing directions toward the lake.
When he gets around the southern wing of the inn- and its generous to call it a wing, really, but it’s the best word he can think of- he sees the owlbear cub chest deep in the lake, swimming at the water, while Victoria watches from nearby. She’s up to her calves in the gentle water, a smile lighting up her pale face.
Fascinating.
He has few memories of the wisp of a girl that haunted Cazador’s palace. A few years ago, Leon had been out of favor with Cazador and had had to sleep in the dorm with the other spawn. His daughter had stayed with him.
It was a dangerous arrangement, given the unpredictable nature of some of their siblings.
Astarion spent about as much time in the “kennels” as in the dorm, due to his general lack of restraint when speaking to Cazador.
He’d always struck a delicate balance between survival and rebellion.
When Victoria came into the picture, Leon had become the perfect Spawn in every way, catering to Cazador’s every whim without complaint. It would have been nauseating if Astarion hadn’t understood the haunted look Leon would get any time Victoria was in a room with Cazador or the other spawn.
Leon’s weakness for his daughter was painfully obvious.
Victoria was mostly a quiet thing by the time Astarion had spent any amount of time with her. He imagines that it was something she had learned painfully quickly in order to survive.
The Szarr palace was no place for children.
Spending time around the tieflings has made him uncomfortably aware of what normal children act like.
Victoria has always been more of a ghost.
He makes his way down to the shore, stopping short of the highest point that the water laps the shore.
“Hi,” Victoria says, but she continues to watch the little beast try to swipe a fish out of the water. “Pounce found a fish and now he won’t stay out of the lake.”
The owlbear submerges his entire head, looking around under the water like a dog searching for treats. Bubbles break the surface above where his beak is.
Victoria giggles.
It’s such an innocent sound.
“He’s going to smell terrible tonight,” Astarion observes. He makes a face at the thought of wet owlbear in a bed. Victoria sees the face and giggles again.
“Arabella knows a spell to dry things off,” Victoria says. “We figured it out after he jumped in all the beds and got them wet.”
Useful.
“Arabella sounds like a good friend to have if you’re going to keep the little beast around,” Astarion observes. Victoria merely nods.
Pounce chooses that moment to lift his head and shake himself off vigorously, spraying Victoria and Astarion both with water.
“Hells. I just put this on!” Astarion snarls at the little monster, who doesn’t even look at him before swimming further into the water and diving.
He comes up with a fish.
Astarion raises an eyebrow. “Just because you can feed yourself now doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”
Victoria grins. “Pounce likes you,” she says.
Astarion resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Did he tell you that?”
She rolls her eyes, but grins. “No. But he does. I can tell.”
Astarion raises an eyebrow at her. “And when did you become an expert on owlbears?”
The owlbear in question brings his catch to the shore and rips it in half before proceeding to eat one entire half by throwing his head back and swallowing it whole.
Victoria makes a face.
“I’m not an expert on owlbears,” Victoria says archly, “but Pounce is my friend. Besides, Halsin says you’re the one who brought him inside the first time.”
That’s… true enough, he supposes.
She glances up at him.
“You’re the one who gave me my toy owlbear.”
He looks down at her, confused for a moment.
The memory comes back to him, faint and tainted by the circumstances around it.
Victoria had had nightmares. It was, according to Dalyria, very common in children. Astarion rather suspects that Victoria had it worse than most because of her living circumstances.
Leon told the child plenty of horror stories about what might happen to her if she went into the wrong rooms. It was to keep her safe, but it probably wasn’t healthy.
Not that Astarion could be considered an expert on health.
Leon and Petras had gotten into a shouting match over the girl crying during the day. It had annoyed Astarion. Petras, idiot that he was, didn’t seem to realize that he was frightening Victoria further.
It was irritatingly counterproductive.
When he’d gone out that night to hunt for Cazador, he’d found a cart selling trinkets and things with a small display of stuffed creatures for children. He’d liberated the owlbear toy from the cart because he had heard a girl about Victoria’s age begging her mother for the thing.
It was a horrible night. Astarion had almost forgotten the damned thing in the guest room.
Leon had looked at him funnily when he’d tossed the toy to Victoria on his way to bed.
“I don’t remember that,” he says to Victoria.
Pounce decides to leap back into the lake, fish eaten, resulting in Victoria and Astarion being splashed with water.
Astarion looks down at his now drenched clothes, irritated.
He sighs. “I’m going before the little beast gets any more fun ideas,” he says. “Don’t fall in the lake. You can’t swim, and I know a few people who would be upset if you managed to die.”
He leaves the girl and the cub to it, going to find Gale to see if the wizard knows any drying spells.
—-
After several hours of spending time in the upstairs sitting area with the others, Astarion slips back into his room to sleep.
Emerie stirs when he sits down on the bed to take off his boots, and he hesitates slightly when she opens her eyes.
She backs up against the wall to make room for him, so he slides under the blanket and lies down so that he’s facing her.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, even though he isn’t particularly inclined to venture back out.
“No,” she says. She hesitates briefly, searching his face for something. “Are you?”
He is, but he doesn’t think she’s in any kind of state to make a meal of. “I’m fine,” he says, and she seems to accept it.
He closes his eyes and it’s a minute or two before he feels a warm hand trail down his face, from his forehead to his cheek and then his chin. He opens his eyes to watch her as she moves her hand down to his neck.
She has a strange look in her eyes.
Emerie brings the hand up to run through his hair. The light tug of her fingers working through the curls is nice.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, because he’s not going to make the mistake of thinking he knows her mind ever again.
She hesitates, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes, but then she sighs. “I was thinking that even though he looked like you, Haarlep didn’t actually look like you.”
He frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
She shrugs, but doesn’t elaborate.
Minutes later, just as Astarion is starting to doze off, she speaks again. “I didn’t want it, you know.”
He opens his eyes again, confused.
Her brow is furrowed. She’s focused on her finger tracing patterns on his sleeve.
“You didn’t want what?” he asks, not sure he wants to know what she means.
She didn’t want this?
She hesitates, glancing up into his face before looking back at her hand. “The bed. The incubus. Him pretending to be you.”
Oh.
“I know you didn’t.”
Her hand stills.
Astarion isn’t sure why it’s important to her, but she clearly wants him to know.
He exhales, then carefully pulls her into him so she’s lying on his chest. “Darling, if I know anything about you, it’s how you look and sound and smell when you’re enjoying yourself. Trust me, I know.”
She buries her face in him and it sends a burst of affection through him. She’s such a strange creature, taking comfort in him.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and he barks a laugh.
“I said it before. You have nothing to be sorry for, love.” If anything, he’s sorry.
“Okay,” she whispers, and she doesn’t sound like she’s sure, but that’s okay. “Can I kiss you?”
He’s startled by the request. Then he remembers the deal they’d made.
“Of course,” he murmurs, and she pushes herself up from his chest and moves up a little before she presses a soft kiss into his lips. It’s gentle and sweet and it tastes like an apology, which makes his dead heart ache.
He reaches up to grab her neck, gently pulling her closer to deepen the kiss.
—-
Astarion smells right.
There are lingering hints of sulfur, but the warm and bright scent beneath it is him, and it helps to banish the memory of unwelcome lips on hers.
She’d really like a bath, but she’s still far too tired.
Astarion transforms the kiss into something different, alternating gentle and hard kisses that steal her breath. When she pulls back to breathe, he nips at her lip as if her need for air is a punishable offense.
She wants to lose herself in him.
When he moves down to her neck, kissing and sucking and nipping at sensitive points, she waits for the inevitable bite but it doesn’t come. Instead, he turns her into a panting, wanting mess.
She slides her hand under his chin, forcing his head back up so she can kiss him, tangling her tongue with his and trying to imprint the taste of him in her mind.
He moans a little when she bites his lip.
She brackets his jaw with her hand and uses her thumb to tilt his head back further and bites at his throat.
He swallows, and she feels herself smile. She bites down harder at the crook of his neck, and he makes a small noise, his hands grabbing at her waist.
“Is this okay,” she asks, sitting up a little.
“Yes,” he says, heat in his gaze and in his voice.
“Are you sure?” she asks. They did have a deal, after all.
“We’ll keep our clothes on,” he says, and she figures that’s enough of a line in the sand to work with.
He clearly seems to think so, too, using his weight to flip them so she’s lying down and he’s pinning her to the mattress with the length of his body.
It’s so wildly different from the way she’d felt under the Astarion who wasn’t Astarion in Raphael’s bed.
She uses her legs for leverage to grind against him, and when he moves down to suck at her neck again, she tangles her hand in his hair.
“Do it,” she challenges, and he hesitates until she growls at him in frustration. He chuckles, nipping at her neck lightly instead of biting her.
She craves the way he holds her when he’s drinking her blood.
The tug of war of their kisses takes on a frantic pace, her fingers tangled in his hair and his collar, both of them trying to devour the other.
He’s going to win, by virtue of not needing to breathe.
She is panting heavily when he rolls off her, covering his face with his hands and groaning.
“Are you okay?” she asks, and he nods.
“Yes. I’m fine.” He drags his hands down his face and lets them fall to his sides. “I need a drink.”
She laughs.
If he’s as worked up as she is, she understands.
He looks so bewitching when he’s relaxed. She can’t take her eyes off him.
“You’re perfect,” Emerie says, reaching out to tangle her fingers in his sleeve.
He huffs out a small laugh. “You’re insane. I like it. I benefit from it. But you’re insane.”
Emerie untangles the blanket and spreads it back over them both. “If this is insanity, I’m beginning to think I’ve been missing out my whole life.”
Astarion shakes his head, but pulls her into his arms. “You’re delirious. Go back to sleep,” he says.
She still feels echoes of Haarlep’s mouth and hands on her, but they’re phantom things compared to the present feeling of Astarion holding her like she’s something more than a body to fuck.
Maybe that’s why it’s different with him.
Notes:
These last two were rough for me emotionally.
Thank you all for being here and for the kudos and comments. <3 It's very appreciated. I hope you are all having a lovely week and staying safe.
Chapter 37
Notes:
This one is much less heavy than the last two, thank goodness. The heavy stuff will return soon enough.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion is awake when Emerie opens her eyes. From the pale sunlight streaming in through the hole in the roof, it’s morning.
She had been exhausted after bringing herself and Astarion back from Avernus. She had slept the afternoon and evening away, but still managed to sleep most of the night as well.
Her back and muscles are stiff from spending so long in bed. She stretches, bringing her arms over her head and arching her back a little to relieve some of the tension in her spine.
“Good morning,” Astarion says, closing his book. It’s an unfamiliar tome, and Emerie can only make out the word “magicks” on the part of the spine not covered by Astarion’s hand.
“Morning,” Emerie says, and then, “Where did you get the book?”
“Ah.” Astarion looks down at the book and then back at her, lifting it a little. “It’s Gale’s. I’m trying to see if there is anything in here that I can pick up.”
Emerie raises an eyebrow. She knows Astarion can use magic, but she’s only ever seen him use the small magic that many elves are graced with by birth. His, interestingly, is fire. Her own is creating little dancing lights. She had been able to cast it as a small child and it was as easy as breathing. “I didn’t realize you were interested in Wizardry.”
Astarion shrugs. “I’ve been interested in learning for a long time, but I was only ever given the chance to learn things that were… useful for my situation. Charming people, minor disguising spells, that kind of thing. Nothing that is helpful for fighting avatars of gods, devils, shadow monsters, goblins, or anything else we might have to kill.”
Emerie grimaces, both at the reminder of what he had to do for Cazador and also at the frustration in his voice. She doesn’t think that he will appreciate it if she mentions that he’s incredibly efficient at killing with a bow, and he certainly knows his way around knives as well. She’d watched him creep up behind several goblins who were engaged in fighting Karlach or Wyll and efficiently slit their throats back in the goblin camp when they were not speaking all those weeks ago.
At the time, she had found it begrudgingly impressive.
“Find anything that seems useful?” Emerie asks.
“Yes and no.” Astarion tosses the book toward the end of the bed and swings his legs over the side. “I’ll have to try some of them to see if they are even possible. Most of the spells in that book would take years to work up to.” He stands and walks toward the stacks of clothes they have on the table.
“Well,” Emerie begins, scooting over so that she can clumsily get out of bed. She stretches again, working out more of the stiffness in her muscles. “If you need someone to practice on, I would be happy to help.”
His eyes dart up to meet hers, alarm clear in his face. “Absolutely not. I’m trying to learn to kill people.”
Emerie grins. “I know. And most of the more dangerous spells you can throw at anything, but there are some holding spells, silencing spells, and such that require a human target.”
Astarion visibly relaxes a little. “Right. That would be good. Thank you.”
He starts getting dressed for the day and Emerie has a sudden thought when she’s straightening up the bed and picks up the book. “Astarion? Does Gale know you have this?”
He stills for the briefest of moments before continuing to lace up his leathers. “I have no idea what Gale knows or doesn’t know. He’s a veritable Encyclopedia.”
Emerie laughs.
Clearly he didn’t have permission to borrow the book.
She hopes he doesn’t try to sell it.
She’s still smiling when she gets herself put together, ready to face whatever the day might throw at her.
—-
The inn is like a kicked hive today.
The Harpers are packing up the supplies that have spread out over the inn during their weeks of using it as a base. The tieflings have less to pack, but they are also preparing for the rest of the journey to Baldur’s Gate. It will be a much less perilous journey for them this time with the Harpers armed to the teeth. The oxen survived, and Dammon has been steadily repairing wagons since he managed to get the forge up and running.
Karlach seems particularly enthused about Dammon being a part of the group that they will be journeying with to get to the city. Astarion had overheard Shadowheart and Emerie teasing Karlach about the smith, and the details they’d referenced were enough to make someone blush.
Not Astarion, but someone.
Gale would probably be scandalized, at the very least. He had a feeling that Gale wouldn’t like to know that tiefling tails had uses that were not immediately apparent. Gale’s particular brand of prudishness makes Astarion feel so old.
The six of them who had been infected with tadpoles find themselves with little to do for the day. They’ve become experts at packing and unpacking daily, and they don’t carry nearly so much as the tieflings who have uprooted their entire lives or the dozens of Harpers who have the excess of supplies that is only practical when traveling en masse.
Emerie had gone early to talk to Jaheira, and now that they have eaten lunch, Astarion finds himself following her to the office that Jaheira had been operating from.
Emerie had the jar of water from Mielikki in her hands.
Emerie knocks on the door, and Jaheira’s voice calls, “Come in!”
Emerie pushes the door open, and when they are both inside, she shuts the door carefully.
Arabella is seated in a chair in front of a desk that is so weathered that it may as well have been constructed of driftwood. Jaheira, displaying more confidence in the structure of the furniture than Astarion would feel, is half perched on the front of the desk with her arms crossed, as if she had been having a serious talk with the little girl.
Emerie crosses the room and sets the water on the top of the desk. She shares a serious look with Jaheira, who looks at the jar with interest.
“Hey, Arabella,” Emerie greets the child, grabbing the other rickety chair near the desk and turning it so that it faces the girl before sitting in it. “I have a bit of a favor to ask you, but I want to talk to you about some things first.”
Arabella looks nervous. She’s perched on the front of her chair with her legs propped up on her toes, like a bird about to take flight. She nods anyway, looking between Jaheira’s stern figure and Emerie’s slightly friendlier one.
“Your powers, Arabella, that you got from the idol? They’re a blessing from Silvanus. I assume he’s spoken to you?” Emerie asks, and the girl suddenly stops fidgeting.
“…yes,” Arabella says quietly. “But I don’t think I’m supposed to…”
Emerie waves her hand in dismissal. “No, you don’t need to tell me. I only mentioned it because you need to know that whatever power you get from Silvanus is dependent on his goodwill, so you have to do as he wishes to an extent if you want to keep them. As far as I know, he’s pretty fair for a god.”
Arabella considers this and nods. Astarion wonders what requirements Silvanus would have of the child. From the way Halsin talks, it’s probably along the lines of respecting nature’s gifts or some such thing.
“Being chosen by a god is a gift in many ways, but usually if they grant that kind of power it’s because you will need it or they will need you to use it on their behalf. It’s important for your sake that you learn how to control it.” Emerie and Jaheira share a look.
Jaheira clears her throat. “Remember that your life is still your own, child, no matter what.” It is abundantly clear that Jaheira is a mother by the way she speaks. “Silvanus may have chosen you to act on his behalf, but he can’t force you to do anything against your will.”
Astarion wonders how it’s fair that Cazador has more power over him than even gods have over their own subjects.
Arabella shifts in her chair. “Are you sure?”
Emerie nods. “I’m sure. I was a little older than you are when Mielikki chose me. I never met another who was chosen by a god until recently, but the ones I have met recently all are in control of themselves. One of them even did something that upset his goddess and got his powers taken away and he’s still perfectly fine.”
Astarion thinks that’s a tad revisionist considering the potentially catastrophic nature of Gale’s affliction, but Gale did technically do it to himself.
Arabella at least looks relieved.
“Anyway, as Silvanus’ chosen, you have more power than most at your disposal and you can do things like grant blessings and power to others, but it’s best to be cautious when doing so. You’ll be held responsible for how those powers are used. It’s very useful, though, when needed. Your blood also carries divine power when it’s given willingly.”
Astarion listens intently, seeing where this is going. Emerie looks at Jaheira again and then back at Arabella. “I will be here if you ever need to ask me anything. Silvanus and Mielikki are friends, and she can always contact me if you pray to her. Unless you do something to anger her, she is always quick to respond. But I would like to ask for a favor from you.”
Arabella leans forward slightly, holding onto the seat of her chair. “I can’t do much yet except summon vines and water.”
Emerie nods. “That’s pretty good. What I need though is easier than that, but it’s not something that you should do lightly and you should understand what I’m asking.”
Arabella sits back a little, but is still listening. Emerie sighs.
“What do you know about Vampires?” she asks the girl.
Arabella looks a little nervous. “I know they drink blood. I know that Victoria’s dad is one.” She hesitates, glancing nervously at Astarion and then looking back at Emerie. “I know that he is one.”
“Astarion is a vampire spawn, not a true vampire. As it Victoria’s father,” Jaheira says. “I, too, was once a vampire spawn.”
She was what?
“What?” Arabella squeaks, eyes wide.
Astarion looks at Jaheira’s very brown eyes and tries to recall if he had ever noticed fangs.
He’s fairly certain she doesn’t have any.
Emerie doesn’t look the least bit surprised.
“I got better,” Jaheira says, and it’s a little mischievous and ever so slightly disgruntled and Astarion wonders if old age has finally caught up to the woman, because that should not be possible.
“Right. Jaheira was cured through a ritual that is difficult and long and involved a lot of pleading with Amaunator.” Emerie glances up at Astarion and then looks back at Arabella. “Vampires and vampire spawn are dead. The only cure for the curse that makes them drink blood and burn in the sun is death or interference from the gods. The gods don’t generally look favorably on vampires or vampire spawn, so it doesn’t happen very often.”
Emerie pauses, biting her lip. “There’s a way around that, though.”
Astarion would hold his breath if he needed to breathe.
“When the gods choose to give mortals their power, we have some divine traits. They are muted, but there. The arch devil Mephistopheles knows this.” Emerie’s jaw clenches. “He told a Vampire a very long time ago about a way to break the curse. It involves the blood of three of the gods’ chosen. Gods who have a domain over life. He didn’t tell that Vampire that the blood had to be willingly given, or maybe he didn’t know, so the vampire tried taking the blood by force a very long time ago and it didn’t work.”
Emerie picks up the jar on the desk. “This is water from the Unicorn Run. If it’s mixed with the willingly given blood of three of the gods’ chosen, it’s supposed to have enough power to cure a vampire.”
Astarion is reeling.
She had hinted at it. Mielikki had even mentioned it.
He didn’t think it would be so…
Simple.
It’s not actually simple, really, given how rarely the gods work through mortals, but these days it feels like the gods are meddling quite a bit. Gale, Emerie, Arabella, Ketheric, Aylin- though she’s aasimar, not mortal- Gortash… and that’s not even mentioning Shar directing Shadowheart to kill Aylin or the archdevils Zariel and Mephistopheles’, Raphael and Mizora, and whoever keeps appearing in his dreams.
Given the current state of the world, it’s simple enough.
Astarion suddenly finds himself unable to keep a firm grip on which way is up or down. The world is surreal and wrong and he needs to be outside where the ground and the sky make sense.
He stumbles on the first step to the door, and he hears Emerie call his name distantly, but he flaps his hand at her to try to tell her to continue without him and he makes his way outside.
Outside is actually worse.
He feels like he could fall into the sky easily.
His feet, however, stay firmly on the ground and he is able to find his way to the low wall that he’d retreated to all those days ago when Raphael had revealed that Cazador had Emerie.
He collapses against it on the other side and closes his eyes against the dizziness of a world that no longer seems to follow even the most basic laws of nature.
—-
Emerie wants so badly to follow Astarion when he stumbles out of the room, but she has to finish things here.
Then she can find him.
She takes a deep breath, centering herself so that she can focus.
Arabella looks at her and then the jar. “So you want some of my blood,” she says, and she doesn’t look frightened despite the concern in her voice.
“If you’re willing, yes. But you are more than welcome to say no. I won’t think any worse of you for it. It’s not something that you should just do because someone asks you to.” Emerie doesn’t want the child to think that she is in any way obligated to help.
Arabella sets her jaw. “Alright. Will it hurt?”
Emerie feels a tension she hadn’t even been aware of leave her. “It might hurt a little, but we can heal it. Here.” she sets the jar down and carefully removes the lid. She removes the knife from her belt sheath and slices it across her fingertip, letting a few drops of blood fall into the jar.
It’s not even enough blood to change the color of the water.
Emerie murmurs a healing spell and the skin knits back together. She shows Arabella. “Easy,” she says, heart pounding.
Jaheira interrupts, standing from where she is perched on the desk. “Are you sure, child?”
Arabella looks at her. “Do you think I should?”
Jaheira nods, but what she says is, “It could be a very good thing, but it is up to you. I’m here to make sure no one talks you into doing anything that you don’t want to do.”
Arabella shifts in her seat. “Are you going to help Victoria? She misses her dad.”
Emerie’s heart clenches and she fights the sting in her eyes. “Yes. Victoria isn’t safe as long as her father is a vampire spawn. I’m going to help him as soon as I can.”
“Okay then,” Arabella says. She stands and holds her hand out for the knife.
The child makes quick work of pricking her thumb with the knife, and Emerie quickly casts the healing spell as the blood drips into the jar of water.
Her eyes sting more.
“Thank you,” she says to Arabella, trying to hold the emotion out of her voice.
“Sure,” the child says, then turns to Jaheira. “Can I go play? Mol and the others are looking for treasure in the dungeon.”
Jaheira laughs. “Go. If you find anything good, let me know.”
Arabella takes off out of the room, leaving the door swinging open as she escapes.
“That girl makes me feel old,” Jaheira says feelingly, making Emerie laugh.
“Me too,” she agrees, and Jaheira rolls her eyes.
“I don’t want to hear you say that for another century at least, and maybe not even then.” She snorts. “Old.” She shakes her head and leaves the room.
Emerie looks down at the jar in her hands that holds most of the ingredients for a cure for vampirism and nearly cries.
They’ve almost done it.
She wants to find Astarion, but she thinks that it might be better to let him find her. If she’s emotional about this, she can only imagine how he might feel.
—-
The back side of the wall is exactly in the early afternoon sun. Astarion doesn’t know how long he has been sitting there when the world starts to make sense again, but the sun has warmed his face thoroughly and he spends a little longer soaking it up before the damned owlbear bounds around the wall and lets out a restrained screech before barreling into him.
“Hells,” Astarion mutters, using his hands to restrain the large mass of writhing fur and feathers in his lap. “Calm down, beast, or I’ll bite you.”
The owlbear cub blinks at him, but settles and starts purring.
He’s incredibly heavy.
“Well, it seems you’ve been eating well at least,” Astarion says, carding his fingers through the cub’s feathers, neatening them. “You could do a little better with grooming, though.”
The cub chirps at him happily, rubbing his head into Astarion’s palm.
It’s cute.
He thinks the little beast might be growing on him.
“I told you he liked you,” a child’s voice interrupts, and Astarion looks toward it to see the little wisp that is Victoria stepping around the wall to come closer.
She looks healthy.
She’s gotten some half decent clothes from somewhere. She’s wearing a clean shirt and a leather vest that looks both functional and somewhat stylish. Her boots are much better for the conditions than her bare feet, and the dark leggings make her look almost like a child who spends a lot of time outside.
She’s still incredibly pale, like himself, but she’s got a little color in her cheeks.
Her hair is braided back in a way that makes him think Shadowheart may have done it.
Looking at Victoria, Astarion realizes that the jar of water that Emerie has might be the thing that gives the girl her father back.
He is not the only one who will benefit from this.
Astarion clears his throat. “Yes, well, the little beast has good taste.”
Victoria smiles. Her eyes light up when she smiles.
She’s lost the haunted look that she always had before.
He wonders suddenly if he might be as changed as she is by his freedom from Cazador.
Victoria reaches out and scratches the owlbear’s feathers on the top of his head, ruffling the same spot that Astarion had just smoothed. The cub chirps at her happily, seeming to enjoy the attention. “I was going to take him down to the lake,” Victoria says.
“Be my guest, Astarion says, removing his hands from the cub.
Victoria laughs. “That won’t work. He does what he wants. Sometimes I can get him to follow me for a fish, but I don’t have any.”
It’s the most words he has ever heard her say at one time.
Astarion wonders what Leon would think of this little creature that has overtaken his waif of a daughter. He thinks that Leon would be proud.
The girl tugs at Astarion’s heart in ways he had forgotten he was capable of.
It’s because she reminds him of himself, he realizes.
“Right, then. Come on, little monster,” he says to the owlbear, starting to stand and forcing the cub out of his lap. “Let’s go down to the lake while you still can. We won’t be here tomorrow.”
“His name is Pounce,” Victoria corrects.
Astarion sighs. “Come on, Pounce, before your little mistress makes me find you a fish.”
The cub follows him down to the lake, Victoria skipping slightly with them.
It’s strange.
The water looks so calm and inviting in the sunlight. Or, it does until the cub pounces into the lake, splashing water everywhere.
Astarion had remembered the last time he was at the lake with the cub, so he manages to avoid being in the line of fire when the water goes everywhere.
—-
When Emerie still hasn’t seen Astarion by the time everyone starts coming inside for dinner, she goes looking for him.
She finds him at the lake, sitting on the dock, dangling his feet in the water.
His boots are sitting at the shoreline with another smaller pair.
Victoria is about ten feet away, leggings rolled up to her knees as she splashes in the water with Mattis, the owlbear cub bounding between them chasing water droplets.
Their laughter brings a smile to Emerie’s face.
She makes her way down to the dock, slipping her own boots and socks off and going to sit next to Astarion.
“Hey,” she says, hanging her legs over the side and letting her feet slip into the water. It’s cool against her skin, and a bit of a relief after being in boots all day.
“Hello,” Astarion murmurs, leaning back on his hands. “How are the preparations going?”
“I think everyone is more or less ready for tomorrow,” Emerie says, leaning back on her own hands. “It’s calmed down since this morning, anyway.” She looks sideways at him, trying to read his mood. He’s focused on the horizon, where the other shore of the lake is barely visible. “How are you?”
He shrugs. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been out here a while.”
“Yes, well, I figure I should enjoy the peace while it lasts. We have a veritable army of enemies waiting for us in the city,” he replies, and she realizes that he has a point.
She breathes out heavily, wondering how much more peace they might have left. “Fair enough,” she says, and they drift into a comfortable silence.
The sun is starting to dip below the horizon when Emerie feels him shift so that their sides are pressed together, his arm draped over her shoulder.
“So,” he says, sounding hesitant. “You and Arabella. Do you happen to know a third person cursed by the gods who fits the bill?”
Emerie looks up at him, finding a light amusement and hesitant hope in his crimson eyes.
“I do,” she says, “But it’s a little more difficult than Arabella and I.”
He blinks at her. “You do?”
“Yeah.”
“…Who?”
Emerie sighs, looking down and kicking her feet in the water. “Leon.”
His ragged inhale is the only sound he makes for a long time.
Notes:
For those who are interested, chapters 2 and 3 of Fun House Mirror have quite a bit of Victoria POV and some Leon that never made it in here. You aren't missing out if you skip it. None of it is necessary to this story.
I hope you are all having a lovely December and if you aren't, I hope it gets better soon. <3 Thank you for being here.
Chapter 38
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Emerie is sprawled out on the floor in their room, drawing, when he asks.
She has conjured little lights that float in the air above her, doing more to light the room than a candle ever could. She’s about halfway through trying to capture the way the sun reflected off the lake when Astarion’s voice breaks the silence. “How much time did you spend with Cazador?” When she looks up at him, startled, his expression is carefully blank over the top of his book.
They haven’t really discussed it before now, beyond the vaguest questions and explanations. Neither of them had pleasant memories of Cazador.
“Enough time,” she says, going back to her drawing. “Why?”
He shakes his head, apparently satisfied with that answer, and turns the page of his book.
His eyes aren’t moving across the page.
Emerie pushes herself up to stand and goes over to sit next to him on the bed. “Why?”
He flips the page even though he could not possibly have read the last one.
She considers whether she should or not before she places a hand on the page. He looks at her, mildly annoyed. “Do you mind?”
Emerie removes her hand. “Just ask what you want to know.”
His eyes narrow. “I did,” he bites out.
She searches his eyes, but she doesn’t know what she expects to find. “Okay,” she says, and his eyes narrow further.
She looks down at the page. “Hold person. Interesting.”
He scoffs, but takes the reprieve. “It seems simple enough.”
Emerie stands. “So try it,” she challenges, and when he meets her eyes there’s a spark of irritation and something else between them that keeps her transfixed.
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he turns so that his feet are on the floor and makes a subtle gesture while murmuring the spell, and Emerie feels nothing.
She lifts her arms. “Nothing,” she says, and his jaw clenches.
He tries again, but his hand moves more assuredly than before and she feels herself rooted to the spot, as if she’s cocooned in a very heavy blanket.
Astarion raises an eyebrow at her. “Well?”
She smiles slightly. “Care to set me free?”
He looks her over lazily. “I don’t think so.” He stands, taking a single step to close the distance between them. His eyes are shadowed when he runs his hands up her arms and then traces the marks on her neck with his fingertips.
Goosebumps erupt on her arms and down her back at the gentle touch, and her eyes slide shut as she focuses on the sensation. He steps around her, and she feels one hand move around her neck and into her hair. He brings himself flush against her back, drawing her hair away from her neck and over one shoulder.
She can feel his mouth behind her ear when one hand comes up under her chin, holding her still. Unnecessarily. “Do you want me to bite you?” he asks, and his voice is low and seductive and almost cold in the way it was early on, when they were still practically strangers.
But he’s still the person who she wakes up with nearly every morning and the person who holds her when she’s hurt and the person who patiently listens to her when she needs to talk. “Yes,” she sighs, and his hand tightens ever so slightly on her throat, his other clamped on her wrist.
“Why?” he asks, and her mind stutters and stumbles over the thought that she doesn’t know why.
It’s more than just a necessity- she enjoys it, after all, but she can’t put her finger on why she does.
She’s clearly silent for too long. He bites down on her neck, just enough to cause a little pain without breaking skin. Emerie finds herself exhaling loudly at the sensation, a warm and boneless pleasure sinking through her at the feeling of him pressed against her everywhere, his body a solid wall behind hers.
“Did you like it when Cazador bit you?” he asks, and it’s that carefully impersonally seductive tone that she suddenly realizes is a calculated method of putting her off her guard.
She’s horrified at the thought that he’s comparing this to what Cazador did to her.
“No,” she says vehemently, nearly angry.
Cazador hadn’t asked, for one, and she wouldn’t have let him if she had had a choice.
It had also been brutal and painful and cold, and she had felt the life draining from her with horrifying efficiency. When she thinks about it, she can still feel the sticky sensation of her blood on her skin, the cold of the dungeon, and the horror of knowing she was helpless.
Her muscles tense, though the holding spell doesn’t allow her to pull away.
Astarion, despite her answer, continues. “Why not? You seem to enjoy it when I do it. We aren’t so different, Cazador and I.”
All of the air rushes from her lungs. “What?”
His fingers trace their way up her wrist, and the hand at her throat releases her. “I’ve been thinking about it since the incubus. I saw my eyes, in his face. I saw Cazador’s eyes in my face. You enjoyed it when I bit you, even the first time. I didn’t give a damn about you then.”
His voice is so cold.
But it’s still not Cazador’s.
Because Emerie knows Astarion. She can remember the fear and the vulnerability in him that first time- the guileless way he had stumbled over explanations of what he was and what he wanted.
It had changed, by the second bite, but he had still been…
Astarion.
He had been trying to manipulate her by the second time, and looking back she can recognize the signs, but he hadn’t been toying with her just for the sake of toying with her.
He had wanted her to care.
He had wanted her to care because he was afraid and alone and he wanted someone to fight for him if it became necessary.
She feels the grip of the holding spell release her, and she turns forcefully in his arms. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses, looking up into eyes that are cold and emotionless and, yes, the same color as Cazador’s.
But they aren’t Cazador’s eyes.
These eyes are sometimes playful and mischievous, sometimes calculating, sometimes warm and inviting, and other times heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Not malicious.
Not coldly amused by her pain.
“You are not Cazador. You have never once looked at me like Cazador did. Never. You are you and I…” Something flickers in his eyes. A chink in the armor.
She loves him, but that’s not what he needs to hear.
Because it hadn’t been love that drove her to let him bite her.
She closes her eyes, trying to find the right words. A growl escapes her as she turns away from him. She sits heavily on the edge of the bed, facing him. He’s standing stiffly, mere feet away, but it may as well be an entire world away given the emptiness in his eyes.
Emerie runs frustrated fingers through her hair and then takes a deep breath. “It’s funny, you know. When I first saw Cazador, the first thing I thought was that his eyes are the same color as yours.” His eyes are locked on hers, but nothing changes in his expression. “But they aren’t your eyes. And I have never looked at you and seen Cazador. Haarlep may have taken your form, but I still didn’t look at him and see you.”
Something changes in his eyes, some spark of acknowledgment that what she is saying means something to him.
“Cazador would not have stitched me up when my arm got hurt. Cazador would not have waited for an invitation to bite me again. Cazador wouldn’t make me feel safe in his arms. Astarion…” she trails off, biting her lip, unsure of what to say.
Astarion comes to perch on the edge of the bed as well.
He’s closer, physically, but he’s still a million miles away.
Emerie stands, stepping into his space and forcing him to look up at her. “What are you afraid of?”
There’s that flicker of vulnerability again, but his jaw clenches. “You think I’m afraid?” he asks, sounding annoyed. His hands grasp her hips, firmly holding her away from his body, but she takes his face in her hands and bends over to kiss him, pushing his shoulders back until he relents and lays back on the bed. She climbs on top of him, straddling his waist.
When she pulls away to sit up, knees on either side of his waist, he is watching her intently.
“You could be Cazador, if you wanted to. But the Astarion I know isn’t like him at all. I’m not the woman from Moonrise who was obsessed with blood. I’m not someone who falls in bed with anyone with a pretty face- and if I was, I would probably have been done with you after you called me a worthless whore.”
A softness returns to his gaze. “I didn’t say that.”
Emerie snorts. “No, you said, ‘a pretty face with only one skill.’”
Astarion has the decency to look embarrassed. “I was wrong. And I am sorry.”
“I know you are,” Emerie says, running her fingers along the side of his face. “Which is why I’m wondering what you’re doing right now.”
He shakes his head, nudging her off him with a hand on her hip. She moves to the side, then scoots up the bed to where she usually sleeps and snuffs out the lights.
She can still see him, but at least it gives him a semblance of privacy. Emerie pulls the blanket over herself and lies down with her back to Astarion, giving him space.
—-
It’s all too much.
The tadpoles, the mindflayers, the worrying about what will happen to him without the tadpole, Emerie, the cure, Leon, Cazador, his face, the elder brain…
It’s too much.
His life has been turned completely upside down in the span of just over a month and it’s all so unexpected and strange and terrifying and he just wants to survive this.
It’s not a bad thing. Being free of Cazador is everything. He just never expected it to happen.
He had given up on it.
And now it’s not only his current reality, but it might actually be his future reality, and he doesn’t know who he even is.
He hasn’t truly made his own decisions in well over a century.
He’s still afraid, all the time, that he’s going to do something wrong and everything will come crumbling down and it’ll be his own fault.
He doesn’t know how to cope with that.
He doesn’t know how to cope, knowing that if he could finally see himself in the mirror, Cazador’s eyes might look back at him.
But.
Emerie seemed to think that was wrong.
And maybe she’s telling the truth.
He’s met hundreds of people with the same exact blue eyes or green eyes and it didn’t make them the same.
They didn’t all look the same. They didn’t make the same expressions. Some were hateful and some were gentle and some were tired and vacant.
And he thinks he knows it’s not about his body or his bite with her, but he still doesn’t feel sure about any of it and it’s terrifying.
What if just Astarion, without any of the rest of it, is too broken and just… not enough.
He doesn’t know how to be enough.
The world is too much and he doesn’t know if he’s enough.
What Astarion does know is that Emerie isn’t falling asleep. She’s waiting for him.
He moves up the bed, into the space she had left for him, and slips under the blanket with her. His body fits perfectly against the back of hers, and he wraps an arm around her, burying his face in her neck.
Her breathing changes.
She isn’t subtle with her reactions. He knows her heartbeat and her breathing and he knows she isn’t afraid of him.
Her breath catches when he bites into her neck, breaking the skin.
He’s been thirsty all day.
She’s fully relaxed as he drinks from her, greedily swallowing mouthful after mouthful.
Astarion knows she’s going to do it, but he still feels pathetically grateful when she casts the restorative spell, and he can’t stop the pure warmth he feels any more than he can make his heart start beating.
He pulls away when he feels sated, and that’s another strange feeling after centuries of raging hunger.
His emotions are all over the place.
When Emerie turns in his arms, and her eyes meet his, and she looks so concerned and affectionate, he can’t hold himself together anymore.
And she knows.
She curls around him, her nose and mouth pressed into his hair, and her arm wraps tightly around his shoulder while her hand rubs his neck.
If he clings to her as they fall asleep, nobody else will ever know.
Notes:
Astarion's got some stuff to work through, but it'll be worth it.
I never dreamed anybody would care about this at all when I posted it (despite my massive anxiety about writing) and it's a little surreal to me that it's at over 1000 kudos. Absolute insanity. Thank you all so so so much.
This week has been a rollercoaster for me. I somehow landed my literal dream job and hit 1000 kudos on this fic, but my oven decided to unalive itself on Christmas Eve (which may be the worst timing ever), and we are all sick. As a chronic illness girlie, being sick is par for the course, but I'm side-eyeing the oven for the theatrical timing.
Chapter 39
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Come morning light, Astarion still feels a little raw, but Emerie doesn’t mention any of it. If she glances at him more than usual and finds reasons to touch him more often, he isn’t going to mention that either. Their silent agreement to not acknowledge anything from the previous evening suits him just fine.
Their recent nomadic ways have made it routine to pack everything they own or might need, so it takes almost no time at all for them to meet the others outside.
He snags some kind of roll off a tray on the way out of the inn and hands it to Emerie, who gives him a look that is part surprise and part gratitude and it really shouldn’t make him feel the things it does.
But it does.
He tells himself it’s efficient. She makes sure he is fed, so he should make sure she is fed.
It benefits him, after all.
He’s sure she sees it as some kind of selfless, caring gesture.
From the look that Karlach gives him, like a puppy that’s done something cute, she also sees it as exactly that.
He ignores that look in favor of addressing Shadowheart, white haired now but still an absolute bear in the mornings. “So, Shadowheart, are you ready to go home?”
She glares at him, but he knows her now and so her glares mean nothing to him. “I’m not looking forward to it. Are you?”
He’s the one who brought it up, but the question brings a list of his fears to the forefront of his mind. Despite that, he shrugs nonchalantly. “It will be nice to find somewhere to sleep with clean beds and good wine.”
Shadowheart nods seriously. “And coffee.”
Astarion makes a face at her. He doesn’t understand why anyone drinks the bitter beverage.
Karlach, however, grins at Shadowheart. “Maybe you’ll even be pleasant to be around before noon,” she teases, and Shadowheart narrows her eyes.
“Perish the thought,” she mutters, tossing her braid over her shoulder.
—-
It’s several hours later when Astarion manages to make his way over to Jaheira in the long procession of travelers. She’s finally alone for the first time all day.
“So,” he says, drawing even with her. “You were a vampire spawn. You didn’t see a reason to mention that sooner?”
She glances at him with raised brows, clearly amused at his audacity. “Why would I? A bunch of parasite carrying adventures with a vampire spawn in their midst, claiming they’re free of the control of the Absolute show up, and you expect me to start sharing secrets?”
Astarion privately acknowledges the wisdom of keeping them all at arms length. “Is it a secret?” he asks. She had volunteered the information in such a matter-of-fact tone that it seems like the kind of thing Jaheira doesn’t consider important.
“It isn’t common knowledge, and it is not something I speak about idly,” Jaheira says.
He glances at her, trying to read her expression, but it is neutral. “So, what changed?”
Jaheira shrugs. “You killed Ketheric. That is enough proof for me.” She gives him a knowing look. “I remember very little from my time as a spawn, but I do remember the hunger. The lack of control over myself. Does Emerie know how much control it takes for you to not bleed her dry?”
Astarion falters for a step.
“I doubt she would allow it, if she realized it was dangerous,” he says scornfully.
Jaheira ignores his tone. “How long have you been seeing each other?”
The change of subject is so abrupt, he’s momentarily startled. “A few weeks, I suppose,” he says, and she looks at him with eyes that he thinks see a little too much.
“So why does it matter to you to have her permission? I didn’t realize vampires were so picky.”
He doesn’t respond, not sure what to say.
Astarion has certainly considered feeding off plenty of people along the way without permission, but it hasn’t been truly tempting, no matter how hungry he gets.
Emerie isn’t a risk the way others could be.
And there’s something about the thought of being pressed up against a strange body that just…
It does not appeal to him. At all.
Jaheira continues speaking after a moment. “You care for her.”
He does, but he snorts at the observation. It sounds so very naive. “Do I?” he says sarcastically. “Or is it just easier to have my meals come to me instead of having to hunt for them?”
She ignores both his words and his tone, and simply says, “I told Emerie about my time as a spawn because she’s in love with you, and she deserves to know that you do not have to continue to be a vampire. And that you don’t just care about her for being a willing victim.”
Astarion bristles at the word.
She isn’t a victim. Not of him.
Is she?
She’s in love with you.
“She isn’t.” He isn’t sure if he’s saying she isn’t a victim or she isn’t in love with him, but either apply.
“She is,” Jaheira says, and he isn’t sure which she means either. “That girl went to the hells and back for you. You cannot possibly be so stupid that you don’t understand why.”
Well, when she puts it like that.
Maybe she is in love with him.
She’s just sweet and naive enough for it to be true.
And isn’t that what he wanted, from the beginning? To trick her into being in love with him?
The thought leaves an ashy taste in his mouth.
Astarion suddenly remembers the way Emerie had looked at him when he’d called her my love.
He walks away from Jaheira, no longer interested in finding out more about her time as a spawn. The woman is clearly insane, and a busybody to boot.
—-
Emerie keeps Shadowheart company throughout the morning, insulating her from anyone else who makes the mistake of trying to converse with the moody cleric.
Shadowheart slowly wakes up, and by the time they all stop for lunch, she’s at least awake and mildly pleasant.
Emerie hasn’t seen Astarion for hours, but with the way he is able to disappear in plain sight, she isn’t too worried about it.
She is, however, startled when his arms encircle her from behind while she watches with amusement while the children try to feed the owlbear cub.
There are a few fires going, but the dozens of travelers are all more or less in the same clearing, waiting for food. A few of them who have to ability to create water have filled large pots with liquid, and everyone takes the time to refill bottles and water skins to drink.
Emerie turns in Astarion’s arms, her hands coming up to his chest, and greets him. “Hey, stranger,” she says, smiling.
His eyes are lighter than normal, the sun brightening them. He bends down slightly to kiss her, his arms tightening around her slightly, and her breath stalls in her lungs.
The kiss is neither chaste nor lewd, but somewhere between the two that makes her ache to lose herself in him.
Someone wolf whistles, and she pulls back, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.
He’s never kissed her in front of anyone before.
There’s mischief in his eyes, and he ducks back down to kiss her again, harder, flicking his tongue across her lips before pulling away with a satisfied smirk.
“Must you do that right here,” Shadowheart complains, and Emerie would turn around to say something to her- an apology, maybe- if her knees didn’t feel weak and Astarion wasn’t the only thing keeping her on her feet.
“You’re just jealous that I got to her first,” Astarion says, mischievous and amused.
Shadowheart mutters something that doesn’t sound kind, and Astarion’s smirk widens.
He looks back down into Emerie’s eyes, and her heart flutters at the way his gaze softens slightly. “Did you miss me?” he murmurs, and it’s silly because they’ve only been apart for a few short hours, so she laughs lightly.
“Of course,” she says, and she feels his fingers twitch against her back as his grip tightens ever so slightly for a moment.
When she pulls away and goes to find a place to sit near Shadowheart, he stays close, and if her heart beats a little faster than normal when Astarion's fingers tangle with hers, nobody but him will ever know.
Notes:
I hope everyone had a nice Christmas (if you celebrate it) and I’m sorry so many of you are also sick :(
Thank you all for reading. <3
Chapter Text
The amount of people around Emerie all day hasn’t bothered her as much as it usually does. She thinks it might have to do with her growing ease with her companions. She’s comfortable with Halsin, Karlach, Shadowheart, Wyll, and Gale, and one of them is always with her even when Astarion is not.
It’s nice, not being on edge all day.
Emerie has been thinking all day about the moment that Astarion had crept up and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She hadn’t known it was him at first, but it still hadn’t triggered that old fear and the hyper-aware discomfort that always followed when she's touched without expecting it.
She wonders if it’s healing or a failure of her own self-preservation.
She’s let down her walls with Astarion- and also to some extent with the others- and she doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
It feels good.
She hadn’t questioned it when Astarion had kept her under the holding spell while he was being broody. She hadn’t thought twice about the way he’d held a knife to her throat at Moonrise. Her skin doesn't crawl when he touches her, despite the fact that he is unpredictable on a good day.
She trusts him.
She wonders, sometimes, if that’s a problem.
It doesn’t feel like a problem.
It really doesn’t feel like a problem in their tent when he takes her sketchbook out of her hands and pins her to the bedroll, using his lips and hands to steal the thoughts from her head and the breath from her lungs. She’s dizzy and drunk on him, and it’s so wonderful that she doesn’t care that it’s probably calculated on his part and that he has a much greater effect on her than she does on him.
The predatory glint in his crimson eyes should be a warning, but instead it makes her feel safe.
She wonders, sometimes, how many of his victims had been as desperately hypnotized by him as she is.
She’s a little stunned when he slowly undresses her, but she hardly protests. A brief, “Are you sure?” isn’t a protest, and the way he kisses the question away isn’t much of an answer either.
She would have followed him straight to Cazador, just like his victims had.
She would do worse, having seen him break down and pick himself back up, and having held him in her arms when the world is too much for him.
He’s dangerous.
He’s especially dangerous when he sips the helpless sounds she makes from her lips and uses his hands to drive her to madness.
When his hand slips down her body and parts her folds, he resorts to gentle strokes that feel almost reverent, and he gathers her wrists in his other hand and holds them over her head.
Astarion doesn’t give her the freedom to speak, licking into her mouth lazily and then backing off, alternating gentle caresses of his lips with filthy, drugging kisses that stifle her moans.
She’s a mewling, whimpering mess beneath his fully clothed body when he slips his fingers inside her.
It’s probably for the best that he is silent- and keeping her mostly silent- considering how closely packed the tents are tonight. She can hear the occasional footsteps of someone leaving a tent or coming back to one, the restless nature of travelers in a strange place likely getting the better of them.
But oh gods the expert way he curls his fingers inside her and the obscene way he kisses her makes overwhelmed tears leak from her eyes, and she would be sobbing and begging if he let her.
He adds a third finger and she whimpers, overwhelmed and helpless, and she feels him exhale raggedly against her lips. She’s panting, and the way he pulls back and looks at her-
It looks like adoration.
She would be lost in his eyes if he didn’t duck his head to nip under her ear, the scrape of his teeth sending goosebumps across her skin, and she shudders when he nips her neck a little lower, then again, then the crook of her neck, and then he swirls his fingers inside her and she can feel herself about to break.
“Look at you, you lovely thing,” he murmurs, and she’s lost, her eyes sliding shut and her back arching, pressing herself up into him and fluttering around his fingers. Her whole world narrows to him, his weight on her and his fingers and she shatters, and he kisses her hard, stifling her moans.
He lets go of her wrists, his hand sliding into her hair, and her hands come down to tug his head to hers, tangling her fingers in his hair and he groans softly, but pulls back and slips his fingers out of her.
Emerie is already so far gone when he licks his fingers clean, his eyes dark and mischievous, that her brain simply ceases to function.
She reaches for him, but he shakes his head and collapses onto the bedroll next to her.
By the time she catches her breath, he’s already pulled a blanket over them both and settled down as if to sleep.
He doesn’t object when she buries her face in his chest. “Thank you,” she whispers.
He laughs softly. “My pleasure, love,” he says, and her heart skips a beat.
—-
She’s in love with him.
It’s been on Astarion’s mind all day. He’s been going over and over every moment they’ve had together and watching her and there really is no other conclusion that makes sense.
If she was just using him, at least half of the things she’s done no longer make sense.
Nothing short of love would have driven him to an arch devil’s door.
With the boundaries Astarion has placed on sex, it can’t be anything other than love that keeps her in bed with him, feeding him, and comforting him.
The more he’s thought about it and turned it over in his mind, the more sure he is that Emerie can’t have any other motive.
It shouldn’t please him, but it does.
He can remember a very long time ago when he had still had fantasies about love and comfort. He’d wanted it more than he’d wanted anything.
Over the decades, bitterness had crept in and all he could hope for was survival. He’d even stopped fantasizing about being free, most of the time.
Now?
Freedom was a reality. Safety was…
Safety was less of a reality, but it was more real than Astarion could have ever hoped for. Now it was something he planned for.
And love?
It was his, if he wanted it.
He had been nearly sure by the time they’d retired to their tent that Emerie was in love with him.
He knows her. He knows what she’s most afraid of. He knows what would break her.
At least, he knows what would break her if anyone else did it.
The way she’d looked at him when he pinned her down, helpless against him?
She’s in love with him.
If Astarion understands anything, he understands complicated feelings about sex.
Whatever Emerie might feel with anyone else, she clearly feels safe with him.
He runs his hands over her back after she rolls over. Lines of scar tissue cross each other under his hands, and she sighs contentedly, and he knows.
Because the evidence under his hands and the way she can’t bear to have anyone else touch her all add up to one thing.
She can’t be as naive as he’s been painting her.
And if it’s not naivety that drives her to bare her neck to a predator, there are only a few other options.
The way Emerie had thoroughly disabused him of the notion that she might have a vampire fetish eliminates one.
And she isn’t stupid, which eliminates another.
When he digs his thumbs into her shoulders the way she’d done to him, she mewls softly and her back arches, and he knows.
Notes:
Allllll feels this time.
I hope you are all doing well (or recovering) <3
Chapter 41
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Every step they take brings them closer to the city.
It isn’t far. Jaheira had mentioned something about it being less than a week away from Last Light, and Astarion has a sinking feeling with every step.
He has to go back. He knows that.
But there are so many things he doesn’t want to see again.
It’s home, he supposes. It’s where he’s lived for centuries now, but it’s not a good kind of home. Compared to the very vague and shadowed memories he has of his childhood in a small forest settlement, it’s a horrible home.
He always wonders if that’s a memory he invented in his mind.
Sometimes he thinks that he doesn’t have a firm grasp on reality, and that Cazador’s cruelties have turned him into one of those crackpots that stand in parks and on street corners screeching about the end of days. The only thing that comforts him when he starts to question his sanity is that he doesn’t think the truly insane question theirs.
Nevertheless, he knows he’s not quite right in the head anymore.
With every step toward Baldur’s Gate, Astarion feels both hope and dread growing inside him until he’s practically twitching with the conflicting feelings. On one hand, he might finally get his revenge against Cazador and they might defeat the elder brain and they might be free of all of this mess sooner than later.
On the other hand…
It could all go horribly wrong and they could all die- or worse.
If he turns into a mind flayer, would he even have enough of himself left to know?
And if they fail to defeat Cazador…
Could he bear centuries more at his master’s hands?
He can only hope that he’s finally pissed Cazador off enough for the bastard to truly kill him.
Astarion is aware that he’s brooding. His companions seem to know it too. They ignore him entirely when they come to walk with Emerie, and he’s grateful to be left to his thoughts.
How in the hells are they supposed to get to Leon without killing Cazador first?
Does he even want a cure right now?
There are advantages to being a spawn. He’s much harder to kill, since he’s already mostly dead. His speed is an advantage.
He doesn’t know what might change if he lives again. It’s been too long and he is used to the way his body works. So long as he isn’t under Cazador’s thumb, it might be an advantage.
The sun thing and the bloodlust thing aren’t great.
The way his body can’t warm itself and can suffer eternally are pretty terrible as well.
How many times has he been jealous of someone who died to a simple stab wound, when he’s endured the pain of being stabbed over and over with the horrible knowledge that he will never die from it.
It is a curse.
But it’s a curse he knows. He suddenly has so many options that he’s afraid to make the wrong choice.
Who is he, when he’s not just trying to survive?
They stop for lunch for the living outside of some ruins. Wyll and Shadowheart and Emerie want to go have a look, so Astarion finds himself picking through abandoned and crumbling dwellings with them.
He makes a face when they enter a house that is an absolute disaster, above and beyond the way ruins are already a disaster. It’s littered with dishes and easels and a few rotting canvases.
“They were clearly artists,” he says, staying close to the entrance. “You can tell by the way it’s a mess in here.”
There’s a slight shift in the air and Astarion manages to dodge the object that Emerie throws at him, her glare slightly playful. “What did you say?” she asks, and he suddenly remembers that she’s also an artist.
He smirks and waves a hand around the place. “Is this what I have to look forward to if we ever get a moment of peace? Dishes and art supplies everywhere?”
She blinks at him stupidly, but then he watches her bend over and grab a paintbrush that she throws at him as well. He dodges it and laughs.
Wyll chuckles from the opposite doorway.
Astarion bats his eyelashes at Wyll. “Do you see what I have to deal with?” He sighs dramatically. “She’s such an angry little thing, sometimes I am truly afraid for my life.”
Emerie makes an indignant sound and it shouldn’t be so funny, but it is.
Shadowheart, somewhere behind him, drawls, “Poor Astarion, stuck in a cage of your own making. You could end things with her, I suppose, but I’d feel safer if you wait until after we’ve dealt with our little brain issue.”
Emerie’s mouth drops open. “Whose side are you on?” she mutters, picking her way through the mess towards Astarion. “You.” She pokes him in the chest with a single finger. “Have no right to criticize a mess, considering how you get blood on everything.”
“That was one time,” he protests, aghast at her even mentioning the bloodstained pillow.
He kind of likes the stains, to be honest.
Emerie rolls her eyes at him. “If you say so, my love.” And she walks away, head held high as she moves to a different room of the ruined house, leaving him blinking at her.
“I think she won,” Wyll observes, and Shadowheart practically cackles. “At this point, it’s on your head. You know her well enough to know what to expect.”
Wyll might have a point.
—-
Is this what I have to look forward to if we ever get a moment of peace?
Dear gods.
Emerie is still flustered by the implications of that statement hours later. It sounds like Astarion is still planning to be together, even when all of this is over.
They haven’t actually discussed their future. They’ve planned nothing beyond killing Cazador and destroying the brain so that they can be free of the parasites.
Her heart flutters whenever she meets his eyes, so she tries to keep her gaze away from him, glancing away quickly if their eyes do meet. She knows he notices. She knows he can hear her heartbeat when they’re alone, but she hopes that everyone around her helps to drown it out.
Given the light in his eyes and the subtle warmth when their eyes do meet, she thinks Astarion knows what she’s thinking about.
She finds herself free to watch him in the evening, when everyone is setting up camp and gathering to cook for the evening.
Astarion has given in to Pounce’s attentions. The cub prefers Astarion’s company to anyone else except Victoria, and it’s pretty adorable even when Astarion tries to avoid him.
It’s doubly adorable when he doesn’t.
Astarion is sitting on a large but low rock near the river, the cub sprawled out next to him while he reorders its feathers patiently. Victoria is nearby, feet bare and leggings rolled to her knees while she crouches in the water at the bank of the river, inspecting something in the water.
It shouldn’t make her feel so charmed, but it does. She’s warm in a way that a fire could never accomplish.
Emerie feels like continuing to imagine a future with Astarion is going to lead to pain.
But.
She can’t help it.
Because what will her life look like without him in it?
It’s a depressing thought, and not one she wishes to dwell on.
—-
There’s a moment when Emerie’s eyes meet Astarion’s that whatever she’s thinking is suddenly terrifying to him.
It passes quickly.
Something in him- some strange and forgotten part of him- is bewitched by the idea that someone could look at him like that.
Especially someone who knows what he is and what he’s done and what he’s like.
If you were to ask him, he doesn’t deserve to be looked at like that.
But.
He likes it.
He likes the easy way they fall into place together around the campfire in the evenings with their friends, laughing and telling stories of their days or their pasts or their dreams of the future.
He likes the way she nudges him to encourage him not to say anything about Gale’s big dreams of going back to his tower and his cat.
He loves how she quickly derails the conversation whenever someone asks him a question that requires more than a cursory answer. The way she understands that while he wants to be a part of this, reminiscing about his old life and what’s waiting for him in the city is a sure way to ruin the mood.
He tries to do the same for her, steering the conversation towards safe topics like clean clothes or good food and wine if someone says something that makes her tense up.
The grateful look she shoots him when someone asks what she misses most about her life before the tadpole warms something deep inside him.
She does that.
Any warmth he gets from the sun, she beats a hundred times over.
He keeps picturing returning to the city and he wants to turn and run, but when he pictures her with him, suddenly it’s a far less daunting prospect.
—-
Emerie is more than half asleep when a noise wakes her, and she sits up to see Astarion already sitting up, and there are light footsteps outside their tent before the flap opens hesitantly, and a small blonde head peeks in.
Pounce limps in through the tent flap.
“Pounce got hurt,” Victoria says quietly, in deference to the dozens of others in tents near theirs.
Emerie beckons the child inside, but Victoria doesn’t move, and suddenly Emerie has flashbacks to the way her mother would struggle to navigate in the dark without the elven senses that make it so that Emerie can still see in total darkness.
“Come in,” Emerie says, and she calls up the little lights that she can cast on a whim. “Cmere, Pounce, let’s see.”
Astarion scoots backwards to give Emerie more room, and the owlbear cub limps over to Astarion. He sighs, but encourages it to sit down, and Emerie reaches for the offending paw.
There’s a deep slice running along the pad of the owlbear’s paw, and Emerie heals it with a murmured spell, leaving a blinking owlbear to crawl into Astarion’s lap.
He looks more than a little disgruntled, but he just runs his fingers through the cub’s feathers anyway.
“All better,” Emerie says to Victoria, who shifts nervously, glancing at the cub who is more than content in Astarion’s lap. “Are you okay?”
Victoria nods, but says, “I’m not sure I can find my way in the dark. Pounce brought me here.”
Oh.
Emerie looks her over. “Do you want to stay here? We have an extra bedroll.” She glances at the cub who is purring in Astarion’s lap, and at Astarion who has a slightly raised eyebrow, but doesn’t protest.
“That would be… nice,” Victoria says, sounding relieved that she doesn’t have to go out in the dark.
Emerie sets about finding the extra bedroll and blankets in their things, and takes a cushion for the child out of the pile they usually use. She sets it up on the other side of where the owlbear has collapsed next to Astarion. “Here you go. If you can’t sleep, I can help you find your way back. Just wake me if you need anything.”
Victoria nods, and slips into the bedroll, reaching out to curl her fingers into the cub’s feathers.
Emerie snuffs out the lights.
Astarion settles back into their shared bedroll, and she feels him pull her closer. “Bleeding heart,” he murmurs into her ear, but he doesn’t sound annoyed.
Notes:
Did I edit this at all? no. Do I regret it? Also no.
Was this supposed to be more plot-heavy? Yep. I also don't regret that.Edited to add: I got a good laugh out of everyone predicting drama to come last chapter. 😂💛 it made my day.
Chapter 42
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It can’t be more than a few hours after Victoria appeared in their tent that Emerie and Astarion are awoken by a commotion.
At the sounds of fighting, Emerie sits up quickly, fully awake, with her heart pounding. Astarion is next to her, already standing. “We have to get to the portal,” he says, and the hair rises on the back of Emerie’s neck.
“What portal?” she asks, and his gaze flashes to hers as if startled.
He taps his temple with his finger. “We’re being summoned. By whoever keeps appearing in our dreams.”
Emerie blinks, confused. “What?”
Astarion pauses in the middle of pulling his leathers over his head, searching her eyes. “You’re serious. You don’t hear it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Astarion curses quietly, but continues getting armed. “We have to hurry,” he says, and despite her misgivings about whatever voice in his head he’s talking about, Emerie isn’t about to let him go alone.
Victoria is sitting up, silent but frightened, and Emerie and Astarion notice her at the same time.
“Come on,” he says, scooping the girl up. She’s too big to be held, really, but he seems to not care. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Emerie racks her brain for somewhere to take the child. “Halsin or Jaheira,” she says, hurrying to strap extra knives to her waist. “Let’s go.”
—-
Astarion feels a little bad about dumping the scared child plus owlbear cub with Halsin and Jaheira, who are thankfully together, but the voice in his head is urgent and already annoyed by their slight detour to make sure Leon’s child is as protected as she can be.
He tries to ignore the ache in his chest when her scared eyes meet his before they walk away. “I’ll be back,” he promises, even though he can’t be sure if that.
They find Aylin and Isobel outside the portal near the edge of the river. Shadowheart appears as they reach the portal, and Gale and Karlach aren’t far behind.
“Where’s Wyll?” Emerie asks.
Astarion looks around, but doesn’t see Wyll anywhere. “No idea. Let’s go.”
Shadowheart and Gale nod. Karlach hesitates. “This seems like a bad idea,” she says. “I don’t know what those Gith want, but I think going through a strange portal just because a voice in our heads says to is not a great plan.”
Gale shrugs. “Whoever it is, they’ve been protecting us. If they need help, we should probably offer our assistance.”
Emerie shifts on her feet. “So you all hear this voice?” She asks, and Astarion glances between her and the others to try to read their reactions.
“Yes,” Shadowheart says, brow furrowed. “You don’t?”
Emerie shakes her head. “How did I not know about this?”
Gale scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t think we’ve really discussed it much… and I believe when we did, you…” He gestures between her and Astarion, “You two weren’t speaking at the time.”
Astarion remembers that first dream, right before they’d gone to the goblin camp.
Not speaking was a generous term for the iciness between him and Emerie at the time. She had avoided being anywhere near him for days, which lines up with the discussion the rest of them had had about their dreams and Shadowheart’s prism.
Interesting.
“Alright, who cares who hears what voices in their heads. Are we going?” Shadowheart asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping through the portal.
After a moment, the rest of them follow.
—-
It’s a lot to take in.
The others have all been hearing the same voice- a mindflayer’s voice- in their heads, and that mindflayer is holding a gith prisoner and is using its powers to keep them all from being turned into puppets of “the Absolute.”
It’s horrifying.
Halsin meets them on the other side of the portal when they come back. The portal disappears behind Gale, who is the last one back through it. They’re all bloodied and bruised and a little worse for wear, and despite the sun creeping over the horizon, Emerie just wants to go back to bed.
“Are you alright?” Halsin asks, looking them over with mild concern.
“Yeah. Sure. All good,” Shadowheart says, panting slightly.
Astarion rolls his eyes. “I feel like we all just got beat to the hells and back, but we’re fine,” he says sarcastically, his hand covering his forearm.
Emerie’s pretty sure it’s broken. She’d seen the hit he had taken that had sent him tumbling, and he’d landed wrong on the arm.
Halsin notices, and is already halfway to Astarion when Astarion snaps, “Don’t touch me,” which makes the bigger elf pause.
“My apologies. I should have asked,” Halsin says, holding his hands up, and Astarion looks away with his jaw clenched.
Emerie moves closer to him, putting herself between him and the others while Halsin goes to help Shadowheart heal Gale, who’s looking a little grey.
Halsin talks while he works. “The gith seemed focused on the portal. As soon as they followed you all through, we were fine here. The others have been preparing to finish the journey to the city while we waited for your return.”
Karlach, leaning heavily on her axe, mutters, “I think they’ll be leaving without us. We’re going to need to rest.”
Shadowheart nods, casting a spell that washes over all of them and looking a little green. “I’m spent. I need to sleep.”
Halsin looks them over. “I’ll stay behind with you, then. Jaheira can see the rest safely to the city.” His voice is low and serious, but Emerie finds it comforting.
“Have you seen Wyll?” she asks Halsin. “He wasn’t with us earlier…”
Halsin nods, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Wyll has a visitor of the… devilish persuasion. I thought it best to leave him to it.”
Karlach growls. “Fucking Mizora. Again.” She stalks off toward their tents, which are next to each other. Emerie winces to think of what Karlach might do to Mizora after the night they’ve had.
Shadowheart drifts off behind the tiefling. “I’m going back to bed.”
Halsin, still tending to Gale, nods at Shadowheart as she leaves.
Emerie glances back at Astarion. “I think we’ll do the same. Do you need anything?” she asks Halsin, who shakes his head.
“Go rest. I’ll wake you if there is any more trouble,” he says, so she nods and starts walking toward her own tent.
She’s not sure Astarion is following until they get there.
“You alright?” she asks him when he ducks under the tent flap, and he gives a tight nod.
Fair enough.
“May I?” Emerie says, gesturing to his arm.
He nods again, holding the arm out for her to heal it.
She does her best, but it will probably ache for a while yet.
Emerie clenches her jaw when she looks down at her own shallow wounds. She’s still upset about the fact that their freedom apparently hinges on the imprisonment of the gith. It makes her think uncomfortably of her own days locked up.
“Gods, this is all so awful,” she mutters when she turns away from Astarion to grab a rag and dip it into the bowl of water they have on the floor. She scrubs herself clean roughly, then pulls off the leathers she wears for protection. “I’m so fucking tired of it all.” She throws the leathers down on the floor and gives them a disgusted look.
Astarion, when she meets his eyes, has one eyebrow raised. He looks as exhausted by it all as she is.
Emerie runs her hands over her face, exhaling loudly. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” she trails off. She doesn’t know how to put it into words- the impotent frustration that the world is so fucked up and cruel and there isn’t much she can do about it. She looks at Astarion helplessly.
He seems to understand, at least a little. “It’s fine. I understand. We’ll be fine,” he says, and he starts going through the motions of changing.
When he’s done, he pulls his boots back on.
“Where are you going?” Emerie asks.
“I promised Victoria that I would be back,” he says simply, and then ducks out of the tent.
Emerie flops onto her back on the bedroll, hating herself for dragging a child into this mess as well.
—-
The child seems relieved to see Astarion, which doesn’t speak highly of her survival instincts. She launches herself at him and gives him a hug, which he awkwardly attempts to return. He’s going to have to talk to Leon about teaching the girl better judgment.
If he sees Leon again.
It seems likely, considering how close they are to the city.
Aside from the whole needing Leon’s blood thing, Astarion doesn’t want to see his “family” again.
But he looks down at the child whose arms are wrapped around his waist, and he knows that she deserves to have whatever family she has left. She’s seen enough horror for anyone’s lifetime, much less a ten year old girl.
He pities her. At least Astarion and Leon had lived a semblance of a life before Cazador.
Astarion peels the girl’s arms off him and looks down into her very blue eyes. “We’re going to stay behind and rest, but we will be in the city by tomorrow night. Jaheira will keep you safe enough.” He tries to sound comforting, but he isn’t sure he manages.
He’s so tired, and this is so far outside his comfort zone that he doesn’t have the first clue what to do. He doesn’t even know why he cares, but the idea of leaving Victoria without answers hadn’t sat well with him. “Pounce will protect you,” he adds, bending over to scratch the cub’s head.
Jaheira nods. “There’s a Harper safe house in the lower city. Victoria can stay there as long as she needs to.”
The girl in question looks between the two of them. “What about my friends?”
Jaheira smiles ruefully. “Your friends are always welcome, if they want to stay. I think we can find a place for a few little people.”
Astarion squeezes the girl’s shoulder. “If we can, we’ll come find you. You’ll be safer with Jaheira.” This whole situation feels surreal, but he’s trying to do what Karlach or Emerie or Halsin might do in this situation.
It seems like it’s the right thing, because Victoria throws herself back into his arms, and Jaheira grins at his obvious discomfort.
—-
Emerie is thinking about the day when the rustling in the leaves turns to whispers. When she concentrates, those whispers form words.
She closes her eyes for a moment, exhausted, before she hauls herself up and tugs her boots back on and follows the whispers into the forest.
She hasn’t gone far at all when she comes across Mielikki, sitting on a fallen log.
it’s such a strange sight that Emerie just blinks.
“You have questions,” the goddess says, and her voice is intense despite being pleasantly melodic.
It’s a voice that isn’t really meant for mortal ears.
Mielikki is dressed like a ranger, her long hair strewn with vines but pulled back, bow resting against her leg where she’s propped it on the ground.
Emerie decides that all things considered, there are more terrifying things. She walks to the log and sits down a few feet from the goddess and stretches out her legs. She turns just enough so that she can see Mielikki, and settles in comfortably.
Gods, but she is so tired.
“The others hear a voice sometimes. I don’t. I suppose that’s your doing?” Emerie says, and the goddess nods.
“The mind flayer is an unknown element. I thought it best that he was not in your mind.”
Emerie considers this. She supposed it makes sense. “So I don’t have to worry about becoming a mind flayer?”
Mielikki hesitates, but then says, “There is only so much that I can influence. If the elder brain that controls your parasite tells you to change, you will change.”
Lovely.
“I guess that was too much to hope for,” Emerie mutters. “What about Leon?”
Mielikki tilts her head. “Who?”
Emerie sighs. “Lathander’s chosen. What about him? How in the hells did Cazador turn him?”
Mielikki looks at her, her gaze solemn. “Lathander’s chosen is human. His life was too short to do what was required, so Lathander put him in Cazador’s path.”
Emerie’s skin crawls.
“Lathander meant for that to happen?” She whispers, horrified. "Doesn't he understand what life is like for them?"
Mielikki’s expression doesn’t change. "The ends justify the means."
Emerie's mouth drops open. "He's lucky Leon has lived this long. Hells, he's lucky Leon didn't find a way to kill himself to be free." She knows Astarion had tried it. She imagines his siblings had as well.
“How do you think the spawn came to have a human child?”
Fucking hells.
Emerie curses.
“I do not… condone Lathander’s methods, but they are undeniably effective. His chosen required motivation in order to do what he was created to do. Lathander supplied that motivation.”
“She is a child, not a godsdamned puppet!” Emerie snarls.
Mielikki shrugs. “To some, there is no difference.”
Emerie stands. “I’m done with this. All of this.” She pushes herself up roughly and stalks away, and the goddess says nothing to stop her.
What a fucking mess.
She would give anything for a quiet life in a messy little house with paintbrushes strewn everywhere and sunshine pouring in through the windows all day.
That life, however, is not meant for her.
Notes:
Oh look things are happening. We are soooo close to Baldur's Gate.
For everyone who is nervous about what's to come: I solemnly swear that I will do my best to make it worth it. Deep breaths.
EDITED 2/15/24: if you’re reading this as a completed work, I *highly* recommend this as a break point. Or keep reading. I’m not your mom. ❤️
Chapter 43
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion waits until he can’t hear Emerie anymore to approach the goddess on the log. He stands several feet away from her and crosses his arms. “Well, that was informative.”
Mielikki stares at him impassively. “Was it?”
He ignores the question. A part of him is furious at it all, but most of him is just tired. He understands why Emerie walked away from this conversation. “So, Lathander is a crueler master than Cazador. I’m surprised. You godlike types like to pretend you’re good, and yet you use mortals as toys for your own little games. It makes me curious about what you have done to your own chosen.”
Mielikki arches one prim and unimpressed eyebrow at him. “You are bold for a vampire spawn addressing a goddess.”
Astarion is too fucking exhausted to be afraid, but he is not going to say that. “Do your worst,” he challenges, and Mielikki’s other brow rises.
“Very bold,” she says. “You should consider yourself fortunate that I swore that you would not come to harm at my hand.”
Maybe he should consider himself lucky. Under the circumstances, he’s going to push this conversation as far as he can, since she has all but guaranteed his safety. “And why,” he drawls, “Would you have made such a promise in the first place? To manipulate her feelings? Or to lull us into walking right into whatever grand plan you have for us?”
Mielikki stands gracefully, and she towers over him even from several feet away. “It seemed to be an easy enough concession to make since the girl was afraid for your existence. I do not think I need to warn you that I am not the only danger to you, however.”
Meaning he is not under her protection and she won’t shed any tears if he meets an untimely end. “Noted,” he says. “So, is this,” he gestures around him. “All a punishment? Some cosmic design? Emerie seems to think it is.”
“And what do you think?” the goddess asks.
He scoffs. “I think she’s right. You put her in the path of the mind flayers and Cazador and you expect us all to do your dirty work for you.”
Mielikki blinks. “Interesting.” She inspects him, and his skin prickles with awareness that he’s being appraised for his worth. “I am not the sort to punish, whatever you might believe. The girl could have lived a quiet and peaceful life in the forest, but she made a different choice. It could have been another in her place with the mind flayers, and little would have changed. The threads of fate are so often interchangeable, such designs seem useless to me.”
Astarion grits his teeth. “What do you mean, she made a different choice? I doubt she volunteered to be sold into slavery.”
Mielikki shrugs, and it’s such a strange thing for a goddess to do that Astarion blinks in surprise. “The girl overextended herself and attempted to use more power than she ought. Her capture right afterward was an unfortunate coincidence. It was neither my plan nor my doing, though it seems to have worked in your favor.”
Astarion feels a blind rage creeping up on him, but he tries to hold it in check. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The goddess simply disappears.
Astarion, furious, clenches his fists and resists the urge to yell. It won’t do any good. He stalks off into the forest and tries to suppress the urge to kill something. Anything.
—-
It’s a while before Astarion returns.
Emerie has given up on sleep, despite the exhaustion weighing her down. She’s sitting on the riverbank near where the portal had appeared, with her knees drawn to her chest and her chin resting on top of them.
Every so often, she chucks a stone into the water.
The sound of the water tumbling over rocks and the buzz of crickets and other wildlife helps to cut through the fog of impotent anger simmering in her chest.
Sometimes she wishes she’d never left home.
It’s a selfish wish. There would still be all of the horrors and cruelties in the world. She just wouldn’t know about them.
She chucks another stone into the river, enjoying the crack of stone on stone as it hits a boulder mid-stream before bouncing into the water below.
She wishes she didn’t know.
They’d killed half a dozen? A dozen? Gothyanki fighters who were merely trying to free the prisoner of the mind flayer.
It makes her want to vomit.
And then there’s Leon and Victoria.
It was horrifying enough to know the things that Leon and Astarion and the others had endured from Cazador. It was something else entirely to know that Leon’s suffering had been orchestrated to fulfill some kind of divine plan.
She takes deep breaths to suppress the itchy prickle of tears threatening to escape. She chucks another stone into the river, deliberately aiming at the boulder to hear the sharp crack.
“If you’re trying to break it, you’re going to have to throw bigger stones,” Astarion says, nearly making her jump. She turns quickly, seeing him a few steps behind her with his hands shoved into his pockets. “Come to bed?” he asks, and he looks so tired it makes the tears threaten to fall again.
“Yeah, sure.” She pushes herself up, taking a second to take a breath and try to wrangle her wild emotions. “Lead the way.”
He watches her for a second, and it feels like he’s trying to read her mind, but then he turns and walks toward their tent and she follows.
Once he’s removed his boots, he collapses gracefully to the blankets.
Emerie feels impossibly heavy as she tugs off her boots, but she manages to get under the blankets just fine.
She can feel Astarion watching her.
When she rolls over so that her back is to him, he doesn’t say anything and she’s grateful.
Maybe sleep will help.
She feels him move, then his body is pressed all along the back of hers and his arm falls over her waist.
She threads her fingers through his in silent gratitude.
After a while, she breaks the silence. “Are you scared?”
A pause. “Of?”
“Of what will happen when we get to the city.”
Astarion is silent for a while. Then, “Yes.”
Emerie closes her eyes. “Me too.”
—-
It’s early the following evening when they make it to the outskirts of the city.
Emerie can see it from a distance just before the smell hits her. Halsin and Astarion make identical faces of disgust. “It smells like death,” Astarion says, and it’s not long after that they discover why.
The bodies of goblins and other creatures in the army of the Absolute litter the ground outside the makeshift wooden barricades far from the stone city walls. It looks like a battle happened- recently enough that there’s still evidence, but at least a few days have passed given the stench of decay.
Emerie and Shadowheart share a look as they approach the barricades and the guards who look them over, but let them through without a fuss.
“More refugees,” one of the guards mutters, sounding irritated.
“Well, that was undeniably humbling,” Shadowheart says, looking down at her travel-worn clothes. “I can’t wait to have something pretty and clean to wear.”
Astarion grimaces. “Given the look of things, it may take longer than expected.”
As Emerie comes over the rise in the road behind him, she sees that the town outside the gate and the riverbank are covered in makeshift tents and campfires. People in various states of squalor are milling about. The few buildings around have guards outside their doors, presumably to keep the desperate refugees at bay.
“Why would anyone wish to live this way?” Halsin asks under his breath, and Emerie privately agrees, though she understands the desperation for security that would drive these people to seek the city. They don’t know that the likes of Cazador and Gortash and scores of petty criminals wait inside the walls.
Karlach looks over the sprawling mess of makeshift dwellings and props her hands on her hips. “There’s not enough room here to swing a cat by the tail, much less sleep. And from the looks of things, getting into the city isn’t going to be as easy as walking through the gates.”
Wyll looks around, his face grim. “This is not how things are supposed to be.”
Astarion claps him on the shoulder. “The unfortunates of the city have always existed, just not so in your face as this. Gortash’s leadership leaves much to be desired, doesn’t it?” He looks around, impassive to the suffering around them. “We can backtrack a bit and cross the river. There are some less obvious ways into the city around the docks. If Gortash has the gates shut, and it looks like he does, we don’t want to waltz right up to the front door.”
“Fine,” Wyll says tightly. “Lead the way.”
“I thought you’d be more thrilled to be home, Wyll, after so long away,” Astarion quips. Wyll merely shakes his head, his expression closed off.
Emerie knows Astarion well enough to see the uneasiness behind his nonchalant demeanor. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he shakes his head, so she doesn’t ask him what’s wrong and follows him.
She likely should have asked.
The smells are the first indicator that she’s been here before.
To Astarion’s credit, he tries to skirt the Gur camp. He might have successfully gotten around it if not for Gandrel stepping into their path on the bluff overlooking the river.
Astarion has his knife in hand before Emerie has even had a chance to realize what’s happening, but as soon as she does she steps in front of Astarion, attempting to block him from what promises to be a grisly murder.
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again, little vampire pet,” Gandrel says with a look of disgust. “Your friends left quite the mess when they rescued you.”
Emerie feels Astarion lunge around her, and she grabs at his arm fruitlessly. “Astarion, don’t,” she hisses, and he stops just short of stabbing the Gur hunter.
Gandrel, to his credit, already has his blade drawn, for all the good it would do him.
Astarion is fast.
Emerie glares at Gandrel. “I told you before, Cazador wanted Astarion. He was watching your camp. You nearly got me killed.”
Gandrel laughs humorlessly, keeping his eyes on Astarion. “And yet, here you are, healthy as ever and with the spawn in your company.”
Shadowheart comes up next to Emerie, fire crackling in her palm. “So we have this man to thank for the bloody mess you were when you escaped? Because I, for one, would like to have a word.”
Emerie is fairly certain that words aren’t what Shadowheart has in mind.
Thankfully, Gale seems to be a little less trigger-happy than some of the others. “Let’s all just calm down,” he says, holding his hands out like someone trying to reason with a rabid dog. “I’m sure we can work out our differences in a civilized manner.”
“Astarion, we’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves,” Emerie says quietly.
He scoffs. “If you think a petty murder will draw undue attention, you clearly have not spent enough time in cities.” He glares at Gandrel. “But fine.” Astarion backs away but keeps his knife out. Shadowheart cancels her spell, but a glance behind her shows Karlach’s hand on her axe and her mouth set in a grim line.
Emerie, heart pounding, meets Gandrel’s eyes. “You should have listened to me before.”
“You lied before, unless this is a recent acquaintance.” He gestures to Astarion.
“I did what I had to do to protect him. You would have sent him to his death.” She glares at the hunter, who clenches his jaw. “Cazador took me from right under your nose with hardly a fight. Don’t lecture me about lying when your naive assumptions nearly got me killed.”
“Don’t forget tortured within an inch of your life,” Shadowheart says, sourly. “It took me days to recover from healing you, and I still had to have help.”
Astarion flinches imperceptibly. Emerie looks toward Shadowheart, a little surprised. She had known it was bad, but she hadn’t realized how bad.
Apparently whatever Raphael had done to keep her conscious had been a temporary measure.
Emerie suddenly feels slightly better about what she’d done to him, even though without him she might be dead.
It’s just another thing to pile onto her guilty conscience.
“Right. Anyway. We’re going. You’re not going to stop us. I promise that we will be dealing with Cazador as soon as possible,” Emerie says to Gandrel.
“And the children?” he asks, tiredly, still glaring at Astarion. “What about them?”
Astarion stiffens, and Emerie can see the way his fingers twitch. She reaches out to place a hand on his arm.
“We will find out what happened to them, you have my word,” she says.
Astarion’s head whips around to meet her gaze. “What happened to them? We know what happened to them. They’re dead, just like every other poor wretch Cazador got his hands on.”
Gandrel growls and lunges for Astarion, but Emerie steps between them quickly. “And whose fault is that?” the man asks lowly. “You took them.”
“Is that true, Astarion?” Karlach asks.
Astarion, behind Emerie, sighs. She can feel the puff of air on her ear. “I didn’t have a choice. I was Cazador’s puppet- in every way.” There’s a pause while that statement and its implications for Astarion’s guilt- or lack thereof- sink in. “I will do what I can to avenge them, that’s all I can promise,” he says to Gandrel.
There’s a moment when Emerie thinks the hunter won’t back down, but then he steps backward. It looks like it costs him something to do it, and the pained look on his face makes Emerie pity him all the more.
They make it down the hill, around some boulders, and to the riverbank before Astarion rounds on her.
He’s furious.
“Do not ever get in front of a blade meant for me again, you idiot,” he snarls. “What if he hadn’t stopped? You would have been hurt, and I…” he growls, turning away and running a hand through his hair.
“What he means to say,” Wyll says, observing Astarion with a pitying look, “is that you scared him.”
Astarion turns back around, his eyes flashing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he snaps.
Karlach sighs loudly. “Let’s just get into the city before we run into anyone else with a grudge. As much as I want to smash Gortash to pieces, we don’t know what will happen if we get his attention now and I’m knackered.”
Emerie feels a tiny pang of guilt as Astarion turns around to lead the way, but only for upsetting him. She’d do the same thing again, no questions asked.
If part of her is pleased that he was afraid for her, she isn’t going to show it.
—-
Astarion is livid, humiliated, and guilty in equal measure.
He tries to focus on the urgent need to find somewhere for them all to spend the night- preferably before the sun goes down all the way.
Fortunately, he knows this damned city like the back of his hand. Once they cross the river, Astarion guides them along the shore until they reach a dock that is close to the part of the city where the Elfsong Tavern is. If they’re going to be in the city, they may as well enjoy it.
The tavern is practically empty compared to its usual crowds. They find out quickly from listening in to the hushed whispers of some of the would-be patrons out front that there’s been a grisly murder upstairs.
Perfect.
Due to the shocking nature of the crime, the proprietor has plenty of rooms- and at a discount. He gives them the run of the topmost floor.
The topmost staircase ends at a door that opens into a large sitting area, with a suite of rooms surrounding it. It’s perfect for a large group like theirs.
There is, unfortunately, only one bathing room.
“I’m taking the first bath,” Shadowheart proclaims as soon as she sees the low porcelain tub. “This looks heavenly,” she sighs, running a finger along the fluffy towels on the counter.
Astarion rolls his eyes, even though he privately agrees. At least the Elfsong is upscale enough to have plumbing, or they would be paying an astronomical amount to have water carried upstairs.
Then again, between those in their party who can create water and those who can create flame, they could likely manage alright on their own.
“Don’t take too long,” Karlach says, sniffing herself. “If I get into bed in this state, I’ll ruin the thing.”
Karlach drifts off to where Wyll and Gale are choosing rooms to sleep in.
Halsin and Emerie are sitting in the main room, speaking lowly. Something about the stench of the city and the endless suffering.
Astarion doesn’t think there is necessarily more suffering in the city. It’s just more noticeable because there are so many more people. He doesn’t, however, think that Halsin will appreciate him pointing that out.
He will let the big elf live in his illusions of the forest’s superiority.
Astarion looks around the room, locating the open door through which Emerie had placed her own belongings. He sets his pack inside the door, but he isn’t ready to sleep and he doesn’t particularly feel like chatting with anyone else right now.
He’s still raw from earlier.
It’s bad enough to be back in the city, where horrible memories lurk around every corner. It’s something else entirely to have his face rubbed in his utter helplessness immediately.
Gods, but he needs a drink.
The kidnapping of those children was certainly a low point in Cazador’s demands. Astarion barely remembers it, for all it wasn’t so long ago. The compulsion had been so strong that it had hardly even allowed Astarion’s mind room to have his own thoughts.
He was disgustingly grateful for that.
And the lack of guilt he felt then over handing them over makes him feel guilty now.
He hadn’t cared at all about their fate before. All he had been concerned with was his own survival.
It’s only been a few short weeks, but it disgusts him in hindsight how wretched and pathetic he had become. Had he truly given up any hope of being free of Cazador before?
He knows he had.
Astarion slips down the stairs without anyone noticing.
He’s outside within a minute.
He wanders the streets for a bit, testing his memory of where things are.
It’s a little different. Large steel constructs litter the roads. They are undoubtedly Gortash’s doing, and he tries to discern as much as he can about them.
He’s following one of them down a darker street when the sleeping spell hits him.
—-
Astarion really should have known better than to go out alone.
If he had spared even a moment to think about it, his finely honed survival instincts would have reminded him that he had scores of enemies in the city.
As it is, he’s not sure where he is, but the stench of old blood and the cool, damp feeling of the air lead him to believe it’s not anywhere he particularly wants to be.
The chains are another giveaway.
And that woman who left Moonrise with Gortash.
She smiles at him in a deranged way when he opens his eyes. “Well, hello. Have a nice nap?” she purrs, running claw-like fingers down his arm.
He’s laid across some stone something in a cavernous room.
Well, fuck.
As he watches, the woman’s entire body changes in the space of a blink, and he’s looking at Emerie.
Except Emerie could never manage that particular look on her face.
But it’s Emerie’s voice that coos, “Aren’t we going to have such fun together?”
Astarion raises an eyebrow at her despite his fear. “Take these chains off and I’ll show you fun,” he says flirtatiously.
She cackles.
She’s holding a knife when she climbs up onto the stone altar and straddles him. “Oh, my dear, the chains are my second favorite part.”
An icy blade of fear cuts through him. She looks nothing like the Emerie who had straddled him while holding a knife all those weeks ago.
He has a feeling this is going to hurt.
---
Emerie goes to bed alone, though Astarion’s things are next to hers in the bedroom.
She’s tired enough after her bath that she doesn’t go looking for him. He’d been silent and angry since they got to the riverbank, and she suspects that he needs some space.
The bed is the most comfortable place she’s slept in years, and she must sleep hard, because the sun is shining through the window in the room when she wakes.
She stretches, taking the time to wake up slowly. Peaceful mornings are hardly a guarantee, after all.
When she leaves her room, she finds Astarion and Gale sitting at a table in the sitting area, breakfast laid out between them. Astarion smirks at her when she enters the room.
She supposes he must not be too upset with her.
Notes:
Okay okay LISTEN.
I really have nothing to say for myself. I promise to (try to) make it worth it. *hides*
Happy New Year. <3
Chapter 44
Notes:
Honestly, I'm not going in detail on anything gory so like..mild Orin-flavored warning?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bitch loses interest in her little knife game fairly quickly. It can’t have been more than an hour before she stops cooing about what a delightful corpse he would make and bemoaning his lack of a heartbeat before she leaves.
There are others who come and go in the big room.
One of them, masked and hooded, heals him. Astarion decides that that at least bodes well for his survival, though he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing.
They clearly want him for something.
He’s beyond uncomfortable after hours of being strapped to the stone surface, but it’s not nearly the same level of discomfort that Cazador would regularly inflict on him.
He watches the comings and goings the best that he can.
From what he can smell, there are a dozen or so individuals wherever he is.
One of them smells familiar. He thinks he smelled the same perfume in the tavern.
It’s subtle. Just enough to cover up the scent of old blood.
It’s that one who approaches him after a few hours, considering him with dark eyes that are entirely impassive.
He can’t place the spell, but he feels a trickle of something in his mind and he rails against the feeling.
The dark eyes light up with glee. “Oh, we can resist, can we? That’s lovely.”
And then she tries the spell again.
—-
There’s something wrong with Astarion.
He seems to be his usual charming self, but it’s clearly a mask.
He’s distant.
Emerie wonders if it’s merely a symptom of being in the city, or if perhaps he was that upset and he’s putting up walls between them as a result.
He avoids being alone with her.
They take turns going out in groups of three, listening to gossip and buying clothes and other supplies. Astarion leaves with Wyll and Karlach and doesn’t return when they do.
“I didn’t see where he went. He was there, then when I turned around he was gone,” Karlach explains.
Emerie tries not to worry.
After a while, however, a hundred horrible thoughts chase themselves through her mind.
It’s hours later when he reappears.
“What in the hells were you thinking?” Emerie snaps when he steps into the common area of the suite. “You can’t just go off on your own without saying anything to anyone! Anything could have happened to you. Gods, I thought maybe Cazador had gotten his hands on you.”
Astarion doesn’t have the grace to look even a little ashamed. “My apologies. I wasn’t aware I was a prisoner here,” he snaps.
Emerie closes her eyes and prays for patience. “That isn’t what I meant,” she says, opening her eyes. “Just… please be careful.”
He merely raises an eyebrow at her but doesn’t respond. Astarion joins Gale and Halsin on the other side of the room where Gale is working on re-learning teleportation spells.
Emerie does her best to hide the way it stings.
—-
“You know,” the demented voice of the shapeshifter- Orin, according to the others woman- coos, “It’s a little sad, really, how your friends don’t seem to even notice that you are not you.”
She’s circling him.
Given how little time she must have spent in the company of the others, considering that she’s here, Astarion holds onto the hope that they will notice the deception.
“They are truly adorable,” Orin continues. “Making their little plans and buying outfits. It’s a shame about the little half elf, though. I was so enjoying her sad little eyes every time you ignored her.”
Astarion whips his head around to look at her. “What do you mean, it’s a shame?”
Orin, now wearing Emerie’s face, grins ferally at him.
He understands now what Emerie had meant about how Haarlep didn’t actually look like him. It may be Emerie’s face, but everything about it is wrong.
Orin flips the knife in her hand. “My knife may have… slipped. My, my, did the girl have a lot of blood.” Astarion’s heart sinks into the floor. “I can see why you liked her, all things considered.”
No. No no no.
Then, from behind him, he hears the spell and his mind drifts away, as if to sleep.
But he can hear a voice in his head.
Tell me a story.
He hears himself reciting a poem as if in a dream.
—-
Astarion is clearly sleeping somewhere else.
Emerie tries to wait up for him, but hours after she’s gone to bed, she’s finished an entire rendering of Victoria and Pounce. She gives up on waiting for him.
It hurts.
She calls herself ten kinds of idiot for being so upset by a mere change of sleeping arrangements, but she’d thought…
She doesn’t know what she’d thought.
He had seemed only a little annoyed and stressed the evening before. It hadn’t seemed serious enough that they couldn’t easily talk it over.
She must have been wrong.
When Emerie rolls over so that she can’t see the door anymore, she wonders how it is that she misses Astarion even though she just saw him a few hours ago.
—-
Astarion doesn’t want to believe that Emerie is dead, but her scent mixed with all of the other scents of blood is somewhat convincing.
He doesn’t think whatever spell they’ve cast on him lasts too long. It’s some kind of domination spell. When he isn’t caught off guard, he seems to be able to resist.
It seems like they’re trying to figure out how to get the spell to hold for longer, if he’s understanding the bits of conversation he hears.
Orin tries to use pain to see if it’ll make the spell stick, even though the wizard tells her that pain will make it easier for him to resist.
To his relief, she doesn’t try for long before giving up.
At some point, he sleeps, despite the ravenous hunger he can feel.
—-
Mizora informs them that Wyll’s father is to be at Gortash’s coronation as Archduke.
Wyll and Karlach are- understandably- incensed, and it’s decided that they will try to save Wyll’s father.
Emerie’s heart sinks when Astarion quickly points out that his presence at such a public affair might be a liability, considering his ties to the city.
He’s still avoiding her.
He walks past Emerie toward Gale, who he has been spending a lot of time with, and she grabs his arm. “Can we talk?” she asks quietly.
He nods, and she leads the way to the room where she’s been sleeping. When she’s there, she sits on the bed. Astarion shuts the door. He stands just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, and crosses his arms.
Her mouth goes dry.
“Is something wrong?” she asks him, searching his eyes for any sign of what he might be thinking. She can’t read his expression. “You’ve been distant since we got to the city.”
There’s suddenly a cruel glint in his crimson eyes. “Have I?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at her. “I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps you overestimate your charms.”
Emerie recoils.
“I don’t exactly need you anymore, do I? There are so many more options in the city.”
He drifts closer to her without looking at her. He idly fingers the old sketch book that is out on the vanity across from her.
He glances up and his eyes meet hers in the mirror.
It takes Emerie the space of three heartbeats for the wrongness of it to click.
It’s not him.
It’s not him.
As soon as her body catches up to her brain, she leaps to her feet, yelling an ice spell that misses when Astarion dodges. The spell hits the mirror instead, shattering it.
The Astarion imposter is fast. Almost as fast as Astarion.
He manages to stab Emerie in the upper arm with a shard of glass, leaving them both bleeding and making Emerie yelp in pain.
The imposter cackles.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to poor Astarion?” he taunts, stepping back towards the window opposite the door. Emerie’s heart stops.
Where is the real Astarion?
“What the hells?” Karlach says, and Emerie looks behind her just as Halsin and Karlach appear in the doorway.
When she looks back, Astarion’s neck twists to the side and makes a sickening cracking sound, and she can’t help but cry out in fear for him.
But then he shifts into the deathly pale woman from Moonrise. “Why, if it isn’t the lickspittle who tore the stone from the bone lord’s corpse. And now you’ve come sniff sniffing after ours,” she singsongs, swaying as she speaks. “Gortash knows you’re coming. He’s going to sing you sweet sweet songs about working together.” The word together is spat as if it’s something dirty.
“Where is Astarion?” Emerie asks, voice shaking.
Orin laughs. “Oh, here or there. Somewhere. Anywhere. Only I know where,” she coos. then she slams her knife down onto the table. “I suppose I could tell you. I am getting quite bored of him already.” She pouts. “But,” she brightens, “I do think I like having leverage.”
Orin points her knife at Emerie. “Bring me Gortash’s netherstone, and I will give you back your vampling.”
“Why don’t you just go get it yourself?” Karlach asks.
Orin sighs. “Promises and oaths and blood. It’s all very tedious.” Then she glares. “I can’t,” she hisses.
She’s insane, Emerie thinks, with mounting horror.
“So,” Orin says, picking up her knife and the sketchbook from the table. She straightens primly and plasters a mad grin on her face. “Kill Gortash. Bring me the stone.” Then she makes a gesture with her hand that teleports her away.
“Fuck!” Emerie yells, blasting the remains of the mirror with more ice.
Her heart pounds in her chest and tears prick at her eyes.
She has no idea where to even begin to look for Astarion.
—-
The smell.
He knows that smell.
Orin appears, grinning like mad, and dumps something on his chest. It’s a book, covered in dried blood.
It’s a mixture, but he can distinctly smell Emerie’s blood.
If he weren’t strapped down, he would be shaking.
So.
Orin did kill her.
He closes his eyes and tries to forget everything.
Notes:
out of the frying pan and all of that...
My apologies? Or something?
If it helps, I also find it painful.
Chapter 45
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wyll has his arms crossed over his chest and is leaned back in his chair. “So, we go to the coronation tomorrow and find out as much as we can. Maybe kill Gortash. Is that the plan?”
Gale shakes his head. “It’s a coronation. If you think the “archduke” is going to be unguarded, you’re out of your mind. We’ll be lucky if any of us make it in and out alive.”
Emerie shuts her eyes against the thoughts swirling around in her head.
They have to save Astarion.
They don’t know where he is.
They can’t let Orin or Gortash get a second stone.
Really, they almost certainly need to kill Gortash and Orin, which means they need to rescue Astarion sooner rather than later.
She’s sick to her stomach just thinking about it.
Shadowheart needs to be protected against the other Sharrans in the city. Astarion is still in danger from Cazador. She needs to find a way to get to Leon. They have to save Wyll’s father. They have to defeat the brain.
It’s too much to wrap her head around when all she can think about is what state Astarion might be in right now.
The others keep discussing plans around her, but it’s just a buzz in her ears.
How can they find Astarion?
Tracking spells have a very limited range. They would have to know more or less where he is to be able to use one to find him, and that’s assuming Orin hasn’t taken magical precautions with security.
Gortash might know where she’s hiding.
“Does anyone know how to cast a scrying spell?” Emerie asks, and the discussion halts as everyone turns to her. She fidgets under their stares, well aware that she likely looks nearly as awful as she feels.
Gale, however, answers. “It’s simple enough, if you’d like me to try.”
She nods. “Do you think I could learn as well?” she asks, her voice tight while she tries to control her emotions. “It may be useful later.”
Gale looks mildly surprised, but inclines his head. “Of course. As soon as we’re done here.”
Shadowheart looks around at the others. “I think we’re done for tonight,” she says, shooting an apologetic look Emerie’s way. “We don’t have enough to go on to do anything until tomorrow.”
Karlach, fist clenched on the table, nods and stands up. “I’m going to go find some food,” she says, her agitation clear.
Emerie feels awful for the tiefling woman. Karlach’s history with Gortash is awful, and to have to face him again after what she’s been through is likely torture.
Wyll gets up with Karlach and they both head for the door that leads downstairs. Shadowheart follows them after a moment, clasping Emerie’s shoulder lightly on the way out.
Emerie grits her teeth against the wave of crushing sadness the small gesture dredges up.
If she acknowledges it, she’s going to fall apart.
Halsin, who has been mostly silent, watches her carefully.
He’d healed her arm wordlessly from the stab wound that Orin had left her. Emerie could have done it herself, but she’d been a little busy hyperventilating at the realization that Astarion was a captive.
Assuming that Orin was telling the truth and she hadn’t killed him already and dumped his body somewhere.
Emerie doesn’t let herself linger on that thought.
Gale shifts in his seat. “Right, so, scrying spells are fairly simple. They’re easier when you have a focus, usually a lock of hair or something, but if you know a person or a place well enough, it’s not difficult without a focus.” Gale clears his throat and makes a simple gesture coupled with a phrase, and his eyes glaze over slightly.
“I can see him…” he says, frowning. “It looks like some kind of temple. There’s an altar and a few people wearing robes.”
Emerie, heart pounding, grips the table hard. “Is he okay?”
Gale hesitates long enough for fear to make her dizzy. “He seems… fine.” His frown deepens. “They’re trying some sort of domination spell on him.”
Fear shifts to relief and then horror all writhing the span of a few seconds.
I can’t bear to watch my body be taken over again. Astarion had made it clear many times over how he felt about being controlled.
He’d rather die.
Emerie is going to vomit.
She takes a deep and shaky breath. “Is there anything else you recognize?”
Gale’s brow furrows. “It’s a temple of Bhaal. Stone. Probably underground, considering the cavelike ceiling.”
That’s far more than they’d known before.
“Thank you,” she says to Gale. It’s not enough to actually find the place, but it’s more than they’d known before.
Emerie makes the same gesture Gale did and recites the same words, and suddenly it’s like she has double vision and double hearing.
She focuses on the new image.
Astarion is chained to a stone altar, close enough that she feels like she could touch him. There’s old blood under him, but he looks more or less whole from what she can tell.
It takes a moment for the horror of the rest of it to fade enough for her to process that she is seeing her own face standing over him.
—-
It’s a different kind of pain to know that the last time he sees Emerie will be like this.
Astarion can’t resist the urge to look, however.
Despite knowing that it’s Orin and not her, he can’t help but take in the beloved features as often as possible.
He thinks he could have loved her.
It’s a harrowing realization to make now that she’s dead.
He knows she had loved him. Every time Orin gets particularly cruel, he lets his mind drift to warm nights and sweet blood and kind words and the patient way Emerie had loved him.
He wishes he could have heard her say it, at least once.
He wishes that he had said it, at least once- he wonders what she would have done.
It’s a nice fantasy.
The Bhaal cultists have been having a much easier time keeping him under the domination spell since Orin had dropped the bloody sketchbook on his chest. He just doesn’t care enough to fight it anymore.
It’s much nicer to just drift in the pleasant dreams his subconscious mind crafts for him.
—-
Despite having thrown up everything she had eaten, Emerie is nauseous for the rest of the day.
Just sitting and waiting is killing her.
Shadowheart and the others come back with Jaheira in tow, and Emerie barely remembers to ask after Victoria. Jaheira promises that the girl is as safe as she can be inside the city, and she says that she will show her where to find Victoria if they survive tomorrow.
When evening rolls around, Emerie finds herself sitting in her room and staring at the wall.
She can’t possibly sleep.
She should sleep. Rest is the best thing she can do to prepare for whatever the next day will bring.
Hopefully, whatever it brings includes enough information to save Astarion.
She gives up after a while of just staring at the wall and goes to find Shadowheart.
Several of the others are still in the main area of the suite, including Shadowheart.
“Hey,” Emerie says, her voice a little rough. “Do we have any sleeping potions or anything?”
She ignores the pitying gaze Gale gives her.
Shadowheart stands, smoothing out her clothes, and beckons Emerie to follow.
There’s a crate in the bag of holding that Shadowheart extracts, and it seems to hold a veritable treasury of potions.
“Do you even know what all of these do?” Emerie asks, and Shadowheart raises an eyebrow at her.
“Healing,” Shadowheart says, pointing to a bunch of red potions. “Sleep.” She indicates a nearly clear potion. “Fire resistance, mind reading, poison, invisibility, feather fall, speed, jumping, antidotes… We’ve managed to acquire or brew quite a few different types.”
Emerie is surprised. She hadn’t realized they had even half of these. “Nice,” she says, taking the sleep potion that Shadowheart offers her. “Thank you.”
Shadowheart waves away her thanks and repacks the crate and its liner that Emerie assumes is to keep the bottles from breaking. When she turns back, she looks Emerie over critically. “Are you okay?”
Emerie looks down at the carpet for a moment. “Yeah.” She looks back up to meet Shadowheart’s very green eyes for a second. “I’ll be fine.”
Emerie is halfway to her room when Leon and Aurelia appear in the middle of the sitting area.
—-
Notes:
This one is honestly shorter than I meant for it to be, but I’m struggling through the next bit and I’d rather bridge the story gap than try to hold off until I get my ish together.
I pinky promise I’m not trying to draw this out for dramatic effect. <3
Chapter 46
Notes:
So guys I fucked up.
This is what I get for not doing more than the barest of editing before I post. I do most of my writing on my phone (usually at kids’ activities) and I have a bunch of different POVs in different notes and I tend to put them all together on my laptop (and cut some because I often write multiple POVs of the same situation) but I totally thought I’d put in Victoria and some others in the last few chapters and I didn’t. 😭
Chapter Text
They have a hard time getting Pounce into the city.
Victoria has never seen so many people. It’s overwhelming. If this is what the city is like, she’s not sure she wants to be in it.
Victoria sticks to Arabella like glue.
Pounce sticks fairly close to Victoria.
He draws a lot of attention from the people outside the city when they pass through it, and it doesn’t seem like he likes the attention much.
Most of the Harpers and refugees stay behind outside the city gates, but Jaheira takes Victoria, Pounce, and a handful of the refugees, including Arabella, her parents, Mol, Mattis, and Dammon to the gate.
The guards are reluctant to let them pass, but Jaheira draws herself up and rails about the sad state of the city if the great Jaheira herself can’t get inside, and the guards exchange looks with each other and then talk the big metal contraption into stepping aside.
Jaheira simply rolls her eyes and beckons the group forward, but the guards stop them when Pounce tries to follow.
“Halt! The owlbear cannot enter the city,” the metal thing says.
Victoria looks to Jaheira, alarmed.
Jaheira glares at the guards. “He’s just a cub. He’s tamer than half the people who live in this godsforsaken pit. He’s coming with me. I’ve seen dozens of fiercer creatures for sale in this city.”
The guard looks at her dubiously. “Those creatures are usually in cages.”
Jaheira looks at the man with the kind of exasperated look that Victoria has seen on her father’s face a hundred times. “If I put a leash on it, can we go?”
The guards look at each other and shrug.
Jaheira procures a rope from her pack and ties it loosely around Pounce’s neck, then hands the end to Victoria. “Honestly,” she mutters. “I should let you take a swipe at them and teach them some manners.”
Pounce chirps as if in agreement and Victoria giggles.
Jaheira takes them through several long streets and winding paths between huge buildings. The smells are overwhelming. The people are overwhelming. The sheer amount of different places is overwhelming. There are huge shops just for clothes, little shops for potions, stands of food both cooked and raw, and dozens of other places in between.
Victoria trips over her own feet a few times because she’s so busy taking it all in.
When Jaheira reaches a large house surrounded by trees and is greeted enthusiastically with a flying leap from a child just younger than Victoria who was on the porch, she realizes that Jaheira has taken them to her home.
And Jaheira is a mother.
They go inside, the child talking a mile a minute, and they’re greeted by a tall half-orc who scoops Jaheira up into a hug. “It’s good to see you, Mother.”
He’s huge.
Jaheira just laughs and hugs him back. “It’s good to see you.”
A tiny half-elf girl who looks like she’s nearly an adult comes through a doorway. “Hello, mother,” she says with a sarcastic lilt to her voice. “We thought you were dead.”
Jaheira, who has never looked anything less than fierce to Victoria, looks a little sheepish.
---
They retreat to her office so that the other children and refugees can’t hear Rion.
Jaheira is simultaneously relieved and terrified to find her house still standing with all of her adopted children inside it.
On one hand, she’s glad to see them and glad to know they’re alright.
On the other hand, she thought she’d been clear enough that they needed to leave the city if she didn’t return.
She’d even sent a sending to them.
“A sending spell can send 25 words. You sent seven. The whole time you were gone.” Rion glares at her fiercely and slams her hand down on Jaheira’s own desk.
Jaheira can’t help but marvel at this fierce little creature her daughter had grown into.
She’s so proud.
But also a little miffed. “Yes, well, I was busy.”
Rion’s glare intensifies. “ I’m sorry. You know what to do?!” she shrieks.
Jord holds his hands up. “Calm down, Rion. She’s here. She’s alive.”
“ And you were supposed to all leave the city,” Jaheira says, and she’s irritated when Rion rolls her eyes.
“Yes, well, dead women hardly get to make demands, do they Mother?”
Ouch.
Jaheira sighs. “You don’t understand the danger you’re all in- the danger this entire city is in.”
Rion laughs. “Isn’t that your job? You protect the city. We protect the family.”
Jaheira lets out an exasperated breath. “I suppose, yes, that’s my job. It would be easier to do it if I weren’t worried about my family.”
“Consider it extra motivation,” Rion snaps. Then her gaze softens. “Welcome home, Mother.”
Jaheira opens her arms for the incoming hug and breathes the girl in. Rion and Jord are such lovely young adults.
She pulls away before she can get emotional enough for it to show. “Right.” She clears her throat. “I need to talk to you both. The others I brought with me will need rooms and protection, and we need to secure this place better before I leave.”
---
Dalyria had seen Astarion in the city and had reported his approximate location to Cazador.
After a day spent hearing all about Cazador’s plans for their ascension to more powerful vampires unaffected by the sun, they’re all sent out to find out where Astarion is staying.
It turns out, he’s at the Elfsong, and he’s being very cavalier about being seen, according to Aurelia.
Tonight, they’re being sent to retrieve him. Leon wonders what stupidity drove Astarion to return to the city at all. If it had been him, he would have died before coming back.
Whatever Cazador has planned for Astarion, Leon is sure that Astarion won’t survive it.
He is also sure that it will be painful and drawn out.
He wishes he could resist the compulsion enough to not retrieve his lost “brother”.
When Leon and Aurelia are granted the use of Cazador’s power to teleport, Leon hates the way that power feels coursing through his veins.
It’s like a disease.
They teleport into the Elfsong on the floor that Dal and Petras insisted Astarion was staying on, and the first thing Leon notices is Emerie.
She looks significantly more healthy than any other time he had seen her, which isn’t saying much since he’d mostly been in her presence to torture her.
There are about a half dozen others in the room, and none of them are Astarion.
“Honestly, does anyone in this city know about knocking?” a white-haired woman mutters from one side of the room at the same time a holding spell hits Leon from behind.
From the frustrated sound Aurelia makes, she’s also under a holding spell.
“Wait,” Emerie says, and Leon is slightly relieved to note that she sounds stronger as well.
“Friends of yours?” someone asks from behind them, and Emerie shrugs.
“Something like that.” Her eyes meet Leon’s and there’s something so tired and empty about her expression that he’s suddenly terrified.
“Vampire spawn,” an older human woman says, coming around Aurelia’s right side and inspecting them both with her arms crossed. “Interesting.”
“Astarion’s… family,” Emerie says after a long pause where she seems to search for the right word. “He’s not here.”
There’s a bleakness to the words.
“What about…?” Leon begins, but she interrupts.
“Victoria is safe. Don’t worry.”
Relief of a stress he had borne Victoria’s entire life floods through him. Safe. His knees would give out if not for the spell holding him still.
“Ah,” the older woman says. “Victoria’s father.” She looks between Leon and Emerie with an eyebrow raised. “Fascinating, really, how you managed to raise a human child as a Vampire spawn. I admire your self control.”
Leon would fidget if he could. He feels more than enough guilt over the urges to bite his own child without it being pointed out. “She’s a good girl.”
Aurelia’s voice breaks in. He can barely see her in her periphery. “You sent Victoria with Astarion?”
Leon sighs. “No. I sent her with Astarion’s lover.”
“Oh, yes, because that’s so much better,” Aurelia snaps. “Hells, brother, you knew Cazador would find him eventually.”
Leon and Emerie share a look.
They had known that killing Cazador was the only way to ultimately save Astarion and Victoria. “Do you have a plan?” he asks her.
“I… do.” Emerie hesitates, looking between him and Aurelia. “There are some complications.”
“Excuse me,” a man in deep purple clothes comes into view. “I can’t be the only one who’s a little lost. What plan?”
“Astarion and I…” a pained look crosses Emerie’s face. “We were planning to kill Cazador while we were in the city, if we had the time.”
Leon feels his eyebrows rise.
Aurelia scoffs. “Astarion knows that would never work.”
Emerie rolls her eyes. “Cazador isn’t even the scariest thing I’ve seen this month,” she says scornfully. “I understand your skepticism, but he’s definitely killable.” She bites her lip for a moment. “I’ll be right back. Jaheira, please don’t let anyone kill each other.”
The older woman- Jaheira- snorts. “I’ll do my best.”
Emerie walks away and Leon whistles lowly. “ The Jaheira? Astarion is certainly keeping mighty company these days.”
Jaheira laughs. “Or I am keeping worse company these days.”
“Sweet hells, this is insanity.” Leon hears Aurelia mutter.
He smiles wryly.
Emerie returns with a jar of water in her hands. “So I can free you of Cazador, but I’ll need a little of your blood.”
Leon blinks. “You’re leveraging my freedom for blood?”
She shakes her head. “No. There’s a cure. Or…” She looks at Jaheira for a second while Leon is sure that his unbeating heart beats again. A cure. “Well, there’s more than one cure. But your blood is the last ingredient for this one.”
“Why his blood?” Aurelia snaps. “Leon, don’t. You know better than to mess with blood magic.”
Emerie looks deadly serious, despite the red rimming her eyes.
“Go ahead,” he says.
---
They’re confident enough in his obedience to let Astarion out of the chains.
He’s helpless to stop them when they bring the woman in and command him to kill her.
He takes the knife from Orin’s hands.
Slit her throat.
One of the Bhaalists is holding the woman’s hands behind her back. She’s human. Her hair is blonde. She has blue-grey eyes that look so very frightened.
All of this information is distant- as if he’s reading about it in a book.
There’s a part of him- some important part of him- that wakes up when he brings the blade to her throat. Part of him reminds him that he will not be anyone’s puppet ever again.
He starts to slice, and that important part of him recoils, horrified. He watches his hand shake.
He manages to turn his hand away and bury the knife in the neck of the Bhaalist before he hears the mad cackling of Orin-as-Emerie and a spell knocks him off his feet.
---
Emerie’s hand shakes when she picks up the jar.
It’s the heaviest thing she owns, both in weight and in restrained hope, and she has to fight back the tears when she looks at it.
Astarion should be here for this.
She closes her eyes for a moment to regain control of herself, then heads back out to the common area.
“So,” she says, looking Leon in his glowing red eyes that only remind her of the way he’d tortured her. “I can free you of Cazador, but I’ll need a little of your blood.”
Her voice holds steady, even though her entire being fucking aches at the thought that Astarion isn’t here.
Chapter 47
Notes:
SUPER SERIOUS NOTE BECAUSE I DID A THING AND IM SORRY
I’m posting two at once so if you’re seeing this and you haven’t read the last chapter (starts with Victoria’s POV) then go back one.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Leon’s face is heartbreakingly blank after she’s added his blood to the water.
“Gale, let him go,” Emerie says, and Leon stretches slightly on the spot when the holding spell ends.
She considers the jar in her hands, which now glows faintly.
She’d made a promise to Victoria and Arabella.
“Take a drink,” she says, her voice carefully blank, and Leon reaches for the jar.
It hurts to even consider letting go, so she holds on as he brings it to his mouth.
He swallows a mouthful and stiffens, and only Emerie’s hands on the jar save it from falling to the carpet.
Leon hits his knees, gasping for air, and the glow leaves his eyes as he clutches his chest.
“What did you do to him?” Aurelia says, alarmed and straining against the holding spell.
Nearly a minute passes before the shaking starts.
“He’s too cold,” Jaheira observes, and Emerie realizes that the transition from death to life is probably not as straightforward as she assumed.
She reaches for Leon with a healing spell, and the shaking subsides a bit. His breathing eases after the second spell and the restoration spell following it.
He opens very blue eyes.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Shadowheart says. “You’ve done it.”
The tears fall.
She’s done it.
---
Orin learns from her mistake.
Now the commands filter through Astarion’s subconscious with motivation.
He watches the woman try to defend herself against Orin, still wearing Emerie’s face, and the spell hits him, and the command comes at the same time as he watches the blonde woman desperately bury a knife in Emerie’s gut.
Kill her. She’s hurting your love.
It doesn’t even register that he doesn’t want to kill the woman. He watches Emerie hit her knees, blood spraying everywhere, and it’s only after he’s slit the blonde woman’s throat that the wrongness of the blood’s smell hits him and he falls to his knees and vomits.
---
Aurelia’s transition back to the living goes a little more smoothly than Leon’s.
She hits her knees and vomits, but Emerie and Shadowheart are already there with healing spells and she doesn’t end up gasping for breath or shaking.
“That was awful,” Aurelia says, her voice shaking, but she’s looking down at her chest with awe, a hand over her now beating heart.
“I don’t know what I was expecting, but I figured the transition would be a little more abrupt and less painful,” Jaheira says. “It certainly wasn’t this horrible for me.”
There’s a silence over the room for a moment. Then Karlach says, “You were a vampire?”
Emerie almost laughs.
Jaheira sighs dramatically. “It was a brief thing. Hardly worth mentioning.”
Halsin, who is usually the quietest of them all, chuckles. “I think, Jaheira, you forget that at their age that is still a very significant thing.”
Jaheira snorts. “I didn’t forget. I simply realize that my personal problems aren’t on the same level as big world-ending problems, and I’ve lived through at least a half-dozen of those.”
“Personal problems,” Shadowheart mutters, shaking her head.
Emerie grins. Jaheira has that effect on her, too. Gale looks about ready to burst with questions.
“We’re going to have to move,” Leon says after chugging two glasses of water and eating a roll that is leftover from Emerie’s own dinner. “Cazador knows where we are, and when we don’t return…”
Emerie shudders.
She certainly won’t be able to sleep here with that thought in her head.
“Where can we go?” Wyll asks. “With Gortash’s little celebration tomorrow, there isn’t anywhere else left to stay in the city.”
Jaheira frowns. “I may know somewhere, but it likely won’t be as comfortable as this.”
“So you’re saying take the pillows and blankets with us. Got it,” Shadowheart quips, and Emerie can’t help the laugh that escapes her.
---
Orin tells him that she’s keeping him alive until after the others kill Gortash.
She sings about what a pretty corpse Astarion will make.
When Astarion reminds her that he is already a corpse, albeit a walking one, she gets incredibly angry.
He hopes she’s angry enough that she makes a mistake and actually kills him.
If not, at least her version of punishment is more palatable than the mind control.
---
Jaheira takes Gale to their new lodgings so that he can teleport them in as a nod to the fact that they’re likely being watched.
Karlach is over the moon to discover, after Gale teleports them to the new location, that it’s an old forge where Jaheira has installed Dammon.
When Dammon greets Karlach with a hug that turns into a sweet kiss, Emerie’s heart aches.
She’s happy for Karlach.
She is.
But Astarion should be here.
There are four rooms upstairs, an office that they opt to convert into another bedroom, and two storage rooms in the basement.
Halsin and Jaheira opt to sleep in the main room as a de facto first line of defense, which leaves the rest of them to figure out sleeping arrangements.
Emerie takes the farther room in the basement. There are a few pieces of dusty furniture in it. There is a tarnished floor-length mirror, several mismatched kitchen chairs, a few small tables, and a tabletop that she dusts off and lays on the floor to use to throw her bedroll and blankets on, rather than put them directly on the grimy floor.
At least they’re clean.
Astarion’s still smells like him.
She downs the sleeping potion when she climbs into the makeshift bed.
---
Orin doesn’t actually kill him. Astarion makes his peace with that.
She seems to lose interest in him entirely for hours on end, so all he is left with are his own thoughts.
Somehow, that’s worse than the mind control.
---
Gortash asks them for an alliance to kill Orin, which isn’t a difficult thing to convince them to do. It’s also helpful to not have to fight him as well as Orin, Cazador, and whatever other enemies they have lurking in the city.
It doesn’t sit well with Karlach or Wyll, but they certainly understand the practicality of it.
Unfortunately, Gortash has no useful information about where to find Orin.
Emerie is restless and frustrated as a result.
When they return to the old forge, Emerie throws herself into one of the kitchen chairs and lets her head fall to the table with a groan.
She wants to hit something.
“Alright?” Halsin asks, sitting down across from her.
“No,” she grits out.
He nods, seeming to understand, which Emerie appreciates. Unfortunately, Shadowheart sits down as well and says, “Why? That went rather well, as far as meetings with megalomaniacs go.”
“Sure,” Emerie snaps. “But we still have no idea where to find Orin, Wyll’s father is being mind controlled, Gortash has an army of metal monstrosities protecting him, and this city is huge and we have no idea where that bitch has Astarion.”
“True,” Shadowheart says, “But at least we don’t have to deal with Gortash just yet and we can focus our energy on Orin.”
Emerie closes her eyes, pained at the thought that Orin might be unstable enough to get impatient and kill Astarion anyway.
Shadowheart is right. At least they can focus.
“If only Bhaal was as openly worshipped as some of the other gods. Maybe then we’d have an easier time finding his temple,” Gale says from where he’s leaning against the wall. “At least we know not to look anywhere that seems cheerful.”
Emerie snorts.
“Bhaal’s temple?” Jaheira breaks in. “There’s one under the city, though no one goes near it because anyone who goes down there tends to not come back, if you know what I mean.”
Emerie blinks at her.
Then she stands up. “Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Jaheira says, alarmed. “We can’t just go down there without a plan.”
Emerie grits her teeth.
She doesn’t want a plan.
She just wants Astarion back.
But… she owes it to him to do this right.
Notes:
Again, I'm posting two at once because I did a stupid thing, so if you missed the last chapter that starts with Victoria's POV and goes a little back in time, go back and read that one.
Or don't, because you can probably fill in the gaps on your own.
I'm (probably) not your mom.Much love to you all. We should be through the worst of this by Monday.
Chapter 48
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It turns out that the plan is more of a loose interpretation of what they could do depending on what happens. Thankfully, they know at least a little from their adventures in scrying.
Gale and Emerie, invisible, follow a visible Jaheira.
With Jaheira’s guidance, it’s easy enough to find the door in the sewers that presumably leads to the temple entrance.
Jaheira downs an invisibility potion and they wait.
It absolutely reeks down here.
The scent of the waste of thousands is bad enough, but the stones near the temple are coated thickly in old blood and there are body parts strewn about.
It’s not subtle.
Those body parts make Emerie imagine the worst. Every minute that they waste is another minute that something horrible could be happening to Astarion.
She tells herself that she at least knows that he had all his limbs yesterday.
Her heart pounds so loudly she’s sure the others can hear it when someone finally approaches the door.
The man drops a severed hand in the symbols inscribed on the floor and then holds up an amulet, and the stone grinds as it rises into the wall.
Emerie doesn’t hesitate to follow, as quickly as she dares while trying to be quiet.
Thankfully, the grinding of the stone covers any noise she makes.
She crouches on the other side of the door and waits until the cultist has crossed a narrow stone bridge before following in that direction.
It seems that the cultist is headed for a barracks of a sort. There are several others outside the building built into a ledge in the stone. They’re discussing something about finding a new cook, since the other one is dead. Apparently, someone named Bell had been overtaken by bloodlust and carved the cook up in his own kitchen.
Emerie wonders if the dead cook had been part of the cult or had been forced into the job.
She also wonders how close the others are.
She had heard at least one of them moving behind her when she crossed the bridge. She hopes they made it inside. If Gale isn’t with them, the plan is useless.
The doorway into the barracks is narrow, and Emerie doesn’t trust that she can make it through without bumping into one of the cultists.
They need to avoid a fight until they find out where Astarion is.
She knows from the scrying spell that the barracks isn’t it. Astarion is in a room as large as the one they’d just passed through with the bridge. There’s a huge stone opening just past the barracks and Emerie slowly works her way there and through the opening, down a damp stone corridor, and into a cavernous space full of descending staircases.
She creeps down the stairs and turns several corners until she finds herself on a long stone bridge that leads to another stone door.
She finds a spot out of the way to sit and wait.
Several minutes after Emerie makes it down there, she hears quiet steps that tell her that someone- likely Gale or Jaheira- is there with her.
It’s hours before one of the cultists opens the door from the inside.
Heart pounding, Emerie darts through before the door is raised entirely.
This room looks right.
As she moves further in and down the stairs, Emerie sees Astarion and her heart beats so loudly that she’s certain it’s echoing off the walls.
But none of the cultists move as if they hear her, and Astarion is simply standing in the midst of them.
Orin is there also, carefully slicing off the limbs of a corpse on the altar in the center of the room.
Bile rises in Emerie’s throat.
She hopes they can’t hear the whisper she hears or see the small flash of light as Gale teleports away to go grab the others.
It’s a risk, but it’s a calculated one. They couldn’t teleport in because none of them had been here before. They’re counting on there being nothing to prevent Gale from teleporting back in, now that he’s been inside the temple.
Emerie, despite the danger, continues to move down the stairs, transfixed on Astarion.
He’s right there.
She’s on the last step when Orin’s head whips up, her eyes flashing.
—-
Some part of Astarion registers that something is off.
He must actually be dreaming, because there’s blood everywhere and he can’t really smell it. Even if he wants to move closer, he can’t seem to make his body obey.
Orin is slicing through the sinew of a wrist, and she hums while she does it, but he doesn’t recognize the corpse and he’s fairly certain that should be a relief but he feels nothing.
Smells nothing.
He can hear the humming of the crazy bitch, but it’s a distorted sound as if he’s listening from underwater.
But the colors are clear.
Red.
Red.
More red.
Blood and Orin and red.
And then Orin’s head snaps up, and he looks in the direction she is, just in time to see a few people appear on the staircase.
A strange dream.
He recognizes these faces, he thinks, but they don’t belong together.
He’s fairly certain that they’re from different lives of his entirely.
There’s muffled shouting and flashing lights and an owlbear and a panther and Orin morphs into a tall demonic thing…
But it’s just a dream, and he can’t move, so he stands there while the owlbear and the panther dart around the huge monstrosity that used to be Orin and he swears he sees the claws of the owlbear sink into the monster, but they leave no mark.
The Orin monster leaves marks on the owlbear.
Quite a few marks.
A part of him doesn’t like that.
Probably because he doesn’t like Orin.
He’s already annoyed that she’s infiltrated his dreams. He doesn’t particularly like that even in those dreams, she appears to be winning.
The owlbear suddenly transforms into Orin wearing that other face, and he watches the Emerie-Orin blast the monster-Orin with what appears to be pure sunlight.
—-
Astarion hasn’t moved since she got here.
Emerie doesn’t have much time to notice; since Orin is hyper-focused on tearing her apart, but Emerie is also hyper-focused on Astarion between bouts of trying to claw the bitch to shreds.
Leon, Wyll, and Gale blast Orin with everything they’ve got while Jaheira darts in and out to do as much damage with her own claws as possible without being shredded by the monstrosity Orin has turned into.
Emerie screeches when she’s hit extremely hard, and even as an owlbear, she’s shaking. Then she takes another hit and she transforms back into herself.
Astarion is right there .
She has no room to fear for her fragile flesh.
Emerie brings her hands together and yells the spell that sends a concentrated beam of pure moonlight right into Orin’s face. The bitch screams as she burns, clawing at her own eyes.
It only takes a few more blasts of raw power from Leon and Wyll before Orin burns to a pile of ash.
Emerie hardly has time to marvel at the fact that she’s gone before the cultists begin to attack.
Several of the group of cultists who have been standing around Astarion and chanting turn invisible immediately.
Jaheira has already savaged two cultists, and even invisible they drop blood on the stones as they move, giving the others a target.
Astarion finally moves.
He’s fast.
She knew he was fast, but she’d always admired it before.
Now?
He comes at her with a knife, and it’s all she can do to move away so that he doesn’t disembowel her.
After she darts away, Astarion spins so that they’re facing each other again, and she notes that his eyes are completely dead.
It’s him, but he’s being controlled.
He lunges for her again, and only the shouted spell from Wyll that knocks Astarion off his feet saves her.
“Don’t hurt him!” she shouts, her heart pounding.
Emerie wants to help him up.
She wants to throw herself into his arms.
She’s so focused on Astarion that she misses the cultist to her right becoming visible just long enough to shoot an arrow at her.
It doesn’t lodge itself in her arm due to the leathers, but the hit hurts.
It’s also enough distraction for Astarion to dart in and sink his knife deep into her side.
She doesn’t scream.
Air escapes her in a strangled gasp as she looks up into crimson eyes that are so familiar she could never mistake them for anyone else.
She hits her knees and he blinks.
“Emerie?” he asks, but then he’s blasted off his feet again.
Her vision goes black around the edges.
“Hold on!” she hears Shadowheart yell.
Emerie is vaguely aware that the fighting is still going on somewhere behind her, but it sounds like it’s only one or two cultists still standing.
Astarion scrambles up from the floor, blood on his cheek, and starts to move toward her. “No. No no no,” she hears him whisper.
It’s him.
Fully him.
Because that look in his eyes is him.
“Astarion?” she wheezes at the same time she hears the holding spell leave Leon’s lips and Astarion freezes in place.
Shadowheart drops to her knees between Emerie and Astarion. Emerie looks over the cleric’s shoulder to lock eyes with Astarion, who looks terrified.
“I’m fine.” Emerie says, and maybe it would sound more convincing if her voice was stronger.
“Shadowheart, please,” Astarion whispers, and Shadowheart freezes for a moment to shoot him a look that’s as much surprise as respect. She starts working on Emerie, chanting something that seems to knit the wound shut.
Jaheira appears in front of Emerie while her tunnel vision improves. “I think that’s the last of them,” she says, looking Emerie over critically. “Gale says he should be able to get us all out when you’re ready.”
Emerie sways a little when she stands, but Shadowheart is there to grip her around the waist.
Astarion is right there.
She takes a step toward him and Shadowheart’s grip tightens to restrain her.
“Not yet. He’s already almost killed you once.”
“I’m fine,” Emerie snarls, but the look Shadowheart gives her is as unimpressed as the horrified look Astarion gives her.
“Are we ready?” Gale asks hesitantly and Shadowheart nods.
“Hold on,” Jaheira interrupts. “We need to be sure that Astarion is Astarion. There are only so many safe places to stay inside the city, and I don’t want to have to keep finding more.”
Wyll nods.
Emerie growls.
—-
Astarion listens as an argument breaks out about the best way to make sure he is himself and not a spy.
He’s still reeling from the suspicion that this isn’t a dream.
He’d hurt her.
The voice in his head that controlled his movements had started as soon as Orin the monster had disintegrated into ash. Kill them, it had said, and Astarion hadn’t even thought to fight it as he went after the Orin who was pretending to be Emerie.
Except that didn’t make sense, because Orin was only one person.
But Emerie was dead.
He knew that for a fact.
Didn’t he?
But she hadn’t even tried to fight him.
She’d looked at him with the kind of heartbreak that he’s sure Orin could never manage.
And then he’d stabbed her.
The horror broke through the spell and he remembered that there was a spell and the cultists had used him as a puppet.
His stomach rolls in protest.
He’s glad someone had seen fit to blast him across the room away from her before he could hurt her again.
He’d tried to go to her. He’s not sure who did it, but the holding spell has him locked in place, staring at the blood seeping through Emerie’s shirt.
I did that.
I did that.
Fuck.
At least Shadowheart is there.
But so is Leon.
And that’s strange enough that he prays that he’s dreaming after all.
Leon’s eyes aren’t red.
They’re blue.
Victoria’s shade of blue.
He tries to hold onto the thought that this is a dream, because if it is a dream then he hadn’t just stabbed her.
Then again… if it’s not a dream.
Then she’s alive.
Silence and darkness wrap around him. He struggles against the spell holding him tight.
No no no.
Not this again.
He whimpers and the sound doesn’t even reach his own ears.
He hates this nightmare. It haunts him, despite the nearly two centuries that have passed since Cazador locked him away in that sarcophagus for a year.
Silence and darkness.
This may be worse. He can’t even hear his own screams.
He tries, just to be sure.
—-
They teleport into the basement because the others think it’s the most secure place to restrain Astarion should he not be himself. It also won’t give away their location.
Emerie seethes at the overly cautious way the others are treating him.
She and Gale both know that he’d been under mind control.
It can only last so long.
Jaheira had suggested pain as a way to make sure the spell was broken since pain could cause domination spells to fail.
Emerie had very nearly lunged at the older woman. The only thing that had saved Jaheira from her wrath was the well-timed grip of Shadowheart’s hand on Emerie’s shoulder and the dizziness she still felt.
He’s right there.
He’s been through hell.
He’s right there.
Emerie had been overruled soundly and the others had agreed to restrain him. Jaheira had cast a spell to bind him with vines and dragged him down to his knees and he hadn’t even reacted.
His eyes had tracked Emerie’s every movement.
Gale, Wyll, and Shadowheart had decided to cast a silencing spell and a blindness spell as a precaution.
Now, Astarion is restrained in the corner by vines, blinded, deafened, and unmoving.
Wyll suggests letting him free and it makes Emerie hopeful, but then he follows it with, “We can always stop him if he does anything.”
Emerie rejects that plan soundly.
“If anyone else suggests hurting him, you can go straight to the hells,” she snaps.
Shadowheart looks Astarion over, biting her lip. “We have the mind-reading potion.”
Emerie doesn’t feel great about this. “Fine,” she bites out. “I’ll take it.”
Shadowheart goes to retrieve the potion without another word.
“Are you sure…” Gale begins, but then he stops.
“What?” she snaps. Astarion is right there and he’s so still and it’s breaking her heart.
“Nothing,” Gale says.
“Are you sure you’re the most objective person to do this?” Jaheira asks, propped against the wall with her arms crossed as if none of this truly matters.
Emerie shoots her a glare.
Shadowheart returns and solves the problem by handing Emerie the potion.
She makes a quick decision and downs about half of it before anyone can protest.
Notes:
You can’t convince me that Jaheira has lived in Baldur’s Gate as the leader of the Harpers for ages and doesn’t know the approximate location of a murder-worshipping cult.
Chapter 49
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Emerie focuses on Astarion, who is preternaturally still, it’s all too easy to slip into his mind.
No no no no…
She can sense his unbridled terror as if it’s her own, and her heart instantly starts pounding even harder and her breaths quicken.
“Take the fucking spells off now, or I swear to every god listening that I will rip you to pieces where you stand,” she snarls before darting to Astarion and falling to her knees in front of him as the darkness and silence of the spells engulf her.
She reaches for him before the others remove the spells, and she finds his chest with her hands. He’s stiff, still, and cold.
But undeniably Astarion.
She feels his confusion and fear when she touches him, but there is recognition there too. She stills at the realization that the scent of her blood is overpowering.
The spells dissipate.
Knee to knee, they take each other in.
She’s not dead, she hears, and the sheer relief she feels coming from him is enough to make her throat tight with emotion.
He’s still afraid and unsure.
“Hey,” she says, and his eyes flit to the side to look over her shoulder.
“Welcome back, Astarion,” Shadowheart says.
Wyll murmurs, “I’m going to head up and check on Karlach and Halsin.” Emerie hears him leave.
Astarion inhales shakily, then stops, and Emerie can feel that it’s because of the overpowering scent of blood.
Then his eyes find Leon.
There’s a shock of fear. Cazador. I’m not strong enough.
“It’s okay,” Emerie reassures him. “It’s not what you think.” She can feel Astarion’s hesitant trust in her, still coupled with that fading fear. Emerie wraps her arms around his neck and he grips her tightly around her middle and presses his face into her shoulder.
“Hey,” she hears him say hoarsely, and she holds on tighter.
“Come on, let’s give them some time,” Shadowheart says, and Emerie hears the shuffle of footsteps and the click of the door as the others leave the room.
Emerie loses the battle against her tears as soon as the others are gone.
Astarion shakes ever so slightly. She can feel his emotions nearly as much as her own and it’s overwhelming. She can’t separate who is feeling what, so she simply holds on while he buries his forehead into her shoulder.
Her knees ache by the time he pulls back a bit.
“Are you real?” he asks.
It’s a simple thing.
So simple.
But it’s not.
It’s a thousand questions all wrapped into one and she recalls the overwhelming feeling of being with him after escaping Cazador and she takes in a shuddering breath.
Is she real?
Am I safe?
Does she love me?
She’s stunned.
But.
“I’m real,” she says.
And then there’s the crushing guilt.
I hurt her.
“Stop it,” she says, and he flinches. “I’m fine. It’s not your fault.”
She feels her own waves of guilt that he’d been gone long enough for Orin to get into his head.
That she hadn’t noticed right away.
That even after she’d realized he was gone, she hadn’t exactly torn the city apart to find him.
Astarion’s gaze sharpens for a moment, and there’s a question there.
“I took a mind-reading potion,” Emerie explains. “The others were worried that you weren’t yourself.”
“Oh,” he says.
She can feel a part of him flinch at the violation of having her in his mind, but she also feels the acknowledgment that he hadn’t been himself and the relief that they had known that he wouldn’t stab Emerie of his own free will.
She hands him the rest of the bottle, still clutched in her left hand. “The rest is yours. Turnabout is fair play.”
He takes the bottle. He inspects it. Then he sets it aside.
“Can I change?” he asks, and the uncertainty she can feel radiating from him breaks her heart.
“Of course,” she murmurs, pushing herself up and then holding a hand out to him to help him stand.
—-
Emerie shows him where she’d stashed his things. He focuses only on the cadence of her breaths and the beat of her heart- two things that even Orin couldn’t replicate. They’re as familiar to him as his own body.
He digs through his pack for something- anything clean, and he hears Emerie shift nervously on her feet. “I can go see about a bath… if that would help.”
Astarion nods, turning around to look at her. The scent of the blood coating her is overpowering. It fuels the burn of hunger in him as well as his guilt. I did that.
She shakes her head, as if in response to his thoughts.
“Together?” he asks, because he really doesn’t want to be alone and he also needs her to not smell like a meal.
She nods, but she looks uncertain still.
He supposes that’s fair, since he stabbed her.
She shakes her head again and turns toward the door. He follows, noting that there are two bedrolls in the next room and then a rickety wooden staircase.
They come up in what seems to be a kitchen.
Astarion pauses, though Emerie keeps moving, asking Dammon if there’s a bath available.
Dammon. Aurelia. Halsin. Leon.
They’re all sitting around a wooden table as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Leon has Victoria’s eyes.
Aurelia, always heartbreakingly beautiful, has pale lilac eyes.
He is dreaming.
It’s a crushing thought.
Nearly as soon as he thinks it, Emerie’s voice cuts off and she comes to him, wrapping him back in her arms.
Can you smell in dreams?
He tries to remember if he ever has before.
“Astarion,” Emerie says, pulling away ever so slightly. He looks down at her. She hesitates, and he can see the conflict on her face. “Come on. Through here.” She grabs his hand and tugs him toward a different room, and when she opens the door he sees a low stone bench and a metal tub set inside it. She shuts the door so they’re alone again.
“Listen…” she begins, but then she hesitates and runs her fingers through her hair. “Cazador sent Leon and Aurelia after you, but obviously you weren’t with us. They tested the cure.”
Oh.
Oh.
“So… it works?” he asks, and she nods.
“It works.” She grimaces. “It doesn’t seem particularly pleasant, but it works.”
He will have to remember to ask what not particularly pleasant means later.
Emerie sits down on the stone bench on the edge of the tub and fiddles with the taps. “We’re close enough to the nice part of town for there to be plumbing,” she says offhandedly, looking away.
He supposes he should undress.
“Will you be joining me?” he asks, because he has to say something. Everything still feels odd and surreal and dreamlike, but he should still speak.
Emerie tilts her head and bites her lip. “Are you sure?” she asks.
He’s not sure- not at all- but he also can’t see any downsides to it. “I’m sure,” he says, and starts taking off his clothes.
As soon as they’re off, he sets them on the stone and lights them on fire.
The look Emerie gives him after she removes her leathers is far too understanding.
—-
The worst thing about it is that Emerie knows Astarion doesn’t want her in his thoughts, but she can’t figure out how to stop.
She’d accidentally skimmed Dammon’s thoughts as well, and despite the fact that it was mostly mundane, she still feels like she had violated him somehow.
Just like she feels like she’s violating Astarion.
But he doesn’t want to be alone.
But she only knows that because she’s in his thoughts.
She knows he isn’t sure he wants her to take a bath with him.
But he is sure that he wants the smell gone and he doesn’t want to be alone.
So she waits until he steps into the tub and she gets in after him on the other end, drawing her knees up to her chest to give him space.
Almost as soon as she’s in, he slides down in the water so his entire head is submerged.
Alarm shoots through her when he doesn’t surface after a while, but then she remembers that he doesn’t need to breathe.
Still, the only thing that stops her from trying to haul him out of the water is the vague sense of contentment she feels coming from him.
He likes being warm.
She supposes she had known that on some level, but now she has a new understanding of just how much he likes to be warm.
Then he thinks about how nice it is to soak all of the horror of this week off of himself and she hates that he feels exactly the same way she feels about the ritual need to be clean.
It’s a way she never wanted to be understood.
In his place, she would be mortified to have him in her head like this. He’s not thrilled about it, but he’d accepted her reading his mind so readily as normal and justified that she grieves for him.
She’d known- he’d mentioned- that he was used to his body being used without his control. He’d talked about being Cazador’s puppet. Emerie had thought about what that might do to a person. She had experience with that, after all.
She hadn’t truly considered the violation of his mind.
She should have.
It wasn’t as simple as Cazador controlling Astarion’s body.
It hurts to realize that he doesn’t even trust his own mind.
He can’t.
And he doesn’t expect privacy, even in his own thoughts.
Astarion surfaces, dripping water from his hair and face, and stares at her.
She tries to ignore his thoughts.
“She told me you were dead.” His voice is blank. His eyes are nearly expressionless.
But oh, the depth of his grief.
She chokes on the bittersweet feeling of it.
“I’m not,” she says, and then she can’t help the urge to move. She can’t tell if she’s holding him or if he’s holding her, but they end up wrapped up in each other and it’s warm and lovely and perfect.
Except that she can feel how hungry he is and how much he wants to sink his teeth into her.
“Go ahead,” she says, and he stiffens.
He hates that she can tell.
He hates himself for wanting to bite her after stabbing her.
“I’m fine,” he lies, pulling her tighter against him.
“Astarion?” Emerie pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s fine. I’m fine. We are fine. I missed you. I’ve been terrified for you. Let me take care of you. Please.”
His eyes flicker strangely as he exhales roughly and buries his face in her neck, but she can feel his relief and exhaustion and surrender.
She loves me, he thinks, but it’s tied up with a strange guilt so Emerie doesn’t say it out loud to confirm it.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” he whispers, but she knows what he means so she lifts his head and kisses him gently.
“Now drink. You’ll feel better when you’re not starving.”
It’s probably not entirely true, but it’s the only thing she can do to help him right now.
—-
Astarion feels much better after the bath and the blood.
It’s a little like coming out of fog where you can’t see anything farther than your hand in front of your face, but then it dissipates and the world becomes clear again.
He’s still shaken, but he feels more grounded in reality.
He can feel Emerie now and then, skimming his thoughts. At first, it had reminded him distinctly of the way Cazador’s voice would wind through his thoughts, but now it feels like a feather-light brush of lips against his mind.
He’s certain Emerie isn’t catching every thought he has, at least.
If she is, she’s doing a good job of hiding it.
Clean, dry, and dressed, they join the others upstairs. The sight of Leon and Aurelia, sitting at a table with Dammon, Halsin, and Wyll is still staggering in its wrongness. Even more strange is the sight of Gale in the space that seems to serve as a kitchen, apron on and cooking something over a low stove.
Worse is Mizora, casually leaning against the wall by the window.
He blinks several times to try to make the world right again.
”It’s been a… long few days,” Emerie says hesitantly, by way of explanation.
He barks a laugh. “A long few days?” He shakes his head at her. “Honestly, at this point of Gortash himself appeared and offered his services, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
There’s a heavy silence punctuated only by Mizora’s light chuckle.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You did not form an alliance with Gortash, did you?” Astarion can’t even begin to fathom how that might have come about.
“Believe me,” Karlach says from the doorway, “I’m as angry about it as anyone, but now that Orin’s out of the way, we can focus on killing Gortash.”
“After we rescue Daddy Ravengard from prison, of course,” Mizora purrs.
Karlach stiffens and shoots a glare at Mizora, but then sighs and agrees. “Yes, after we rescue Wyll’s father.”
What the fuck did he miss while he was gone?
His face must be saying as much, because Aurelia looks him dead in the eyes and says, “That is exactly how I’ve been feeling since I met these people.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, brother, the company you keep these days.”
Despite the fact that the world has gone mad and he’s still so exhausted he wants to pass out and wake up a year from now when all of this is over, Astarion smirks. “It’s far superior to the company I used to keep, even if they do frown on casual murder.”
“Gods above,” Gale mutters from the kitchen. “You would think,” he says, pointing to Astarion with a spoon, “That you would feel a little differently about murder since we just rescued you from a murder-god worshipping cult.”
“Touché,” Astarion says airily. “Took you long enough, though, didn’t it?”
Emerie makes an indignant sound behind him, and he smiles genuinely at the easy way he fits right back in with the group.
He’s grown fond of them- and not just because they’d risked their lives to rescue him from a “murder-god worshipping cult.”
Notes:
There are more feels coming, but I think we all deserved a brief moment of peace after all of that. 😭
Chapter 50
Notes:
It’s fine. Everything is fiiiine.
No warnings here it should be pretty light today.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion finds himself sitting at the table in a rickety chair next to Emerie while she slowly consumes a meal that looks like it came straight out of a higher end establishment. It’s fascinating what Gale can do with better equipment than a campfire and a pot.
There are ten of them in the main room of the house spread around the table and various other perches. It makes for a lively meal with the constant flow of chatter and people jumping between conversations whenever it suits them.
It’s strange to see Leon and Aurelia eating with the others.
Astarion stays because he doesn’t want to be alone, but he doesn’t participate much in the conversation around him.
Emerie’s warm hand stays on his knee throughout the meal.
At one point, he notices that she’s finished the water in her porcelain cup, so he takes it to the sink and refills it. She murmurs a quick thank you and flashes him a smile when he sets it in front of her.
It’s nice.
He catches Leon giving him a strange look, but he doesn’t give a damn what Leon thinks about it.
Astarion can take care of her too.
—-
When you spend a century with a person, you get to know them whether you’d like to or not. Leon would venture as far as to say that he knows his siblings as well as any one person can know another.
Until today, he had been confident in that.
He’s reevaluating that assumption.
The Astarion that Leon has always known is a fickle master of fake smiles and petty rebellion who trusts no one- including himself. Astarion has always used cutting and clever remarks to hide behind, though his real emotions usually peek through. His face is too expressive to hide them.
This is in direct contrast to Aurelia or Yousen, who have the uncanny ability to remain stone-faced even when devastated.
Cazador usually gets bored of Aurelia and Yousen quickly.
Astarion, however, has always been Cazador’s favorite to punish because he’s always been the most expressive and vocal of them all.
Or, that’s what Leon had thought.
He has realized in the last few hours that the Astarion he had known was mostly an act.
He’d seen the eldritch blast that had hit Astarion. He knows what that feels like. He knows that Astarion felt every bit of that pain and he knows that the cultist who had cast the domination spell on Astarion could not possibly have kept Astarion subdued through that.
Astarion hadn’t so much as cried out.
Leon had heard the crunch of Astarion hitting the stone floor. The only sound Astarion had made was the horrified no no no of a man whose lover was injured.
Now, looking at the easy smile on Astarion’s face- an expression he had never seen his “brother” make before- Leon realizes he hardly knows Astarion at all.
Leon doesn’t like this realization.
He now suspects that most of Astarion’s expressiveness has been a performance- which means that Astarion had made himself into Cazador’s favorite target on purpose.
—-
Emerie’s starting to learn how to stop skimming the others’ thoughts.
It takes some concentration, but by focusing less on specific people and more on other things, she seems to be able to avoid intruding on anyone. It makes conversation a little difficult, but it’s better than feeling like she’s violating her friends.
Thankfully, she has a ready-made excuse for her silence with the huge meal Gale had prepared.
Despite trying not to focus on the others, she still manages to catch the assessing glances that Aurelia gives her. Aurelia’s light purple eyes linger often on the marks on Emerie’s neck.
Emerie ignores it.
The tiefling woman can think whatever she wants about Emerie and Astarion. If she thinks Emerie’s interest in him is purely some sort of fetishization of vampires, it doesn’t matter.
She restrains herself from trying to figure out what the twinge of jealousy she had felt from Aurelia was about.
They’ve finished eating what amounts to a late lunch and Gale, whose face has the drawn look of someone who has overexerted themselves, yawns. “My apologies,” he says after. “I do believe that a nap is in order.”
Emerie is also feeling the effects of the fight earlier. She’d used so much energy transforming and then even more when blasting Orin with moonlight.
She’d used even more to replenish her blood supply.
Shadowheart nods in agreement with Gale. “I think I’ll nap, too. If you need me for anything, don’t.” She gets up from the table and heads up the stairs.
“I could use a nap as well,” Emerie says, glancing at Astarion. “Do you want to…”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ll stay here for a while. Get some rest.”
She can feel his reluctance to sleep, but also his reluctance to be alone next to her while she sleeps. She focuses her attention elsewhere to avoid probing his mind for the why of it all. “Okay.” She leans over and kisses his cheek before standing up. “Come get me if you need anything.”
—-
There’s a high stone wall that separates the upper and lower city surrounding two sides of the back of the house- or forge- that is apparently Dammon’s now. It seems that the old blacksmith who had served the Harpers had perished in the shadow curse.
It’s fortunate for Dammon, at least.
The third side of the grassy area behind the house has a several foot high brick fence with a wooden gate. It’s hardly enough to deter a thief, but it is enough to ensure some form of privacy.
Astarion, still reeling internally from the events of the last few days, sits on the rickety wooden bench out there and absorbs as much sunlight as possible. It’s lovely.
At least, it’s lovely until Aurelia joins him outside. She pauses when she sees him, then inspects him thoroughly.
He decides to ignore it and tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.
“So,” she says after several minutes. “How?”
He slits his eyes open enough to see her sitting at the base of the tall oak tree in the middle of the space. “How what? Use your words,” he drawls.
Aurelia gestures vaguely at him. “All of this. You’re still a spawn. I saw the bite marks on the girl. And yet…” She gestures at the sun above them. “How?”
Astarion shifts on the bench, assuming a nonchalant posture. “It’s a long story and it involves some kidnapping, parasites, mind-flayers, and a plot to take over the world. It’s all very tedious, and I don’t want to get into the details.”
Aurelia rolls her eyes at him. “Fine,” she says, clearly annoyed. “What about the girl? Cazador had her and then she disappeared. I thought he was going to kill Leon.”
Astarion considers telling Aurelia about Raphael, but he thinks that that information is best kept to as few people as possible. If Leon hadn’t mentioned it to her, he must have his reasons.
“That’s Emerie’s business. Feel free to ask her, if you’d like,” he says, closing his eyes again.
There are several minutes of silence.
“She threatened to kill them all for you, you know.”
He has no idea what she means. “Who threatened to do what?” he asks, letting irritation bleed into his tone.
“The girl. Emerie. She threatened to kill them all if they didn’t take the spells off you. It sounded like she meant it, too,” Aurelia says. There’s a glint in her eyes that he can’t read.
Something in him- some long lost part of him- feels flattered that Emerie would threaten the others over him.
It’s misguided of her, but… it makes him feel important. Loved.
What a strange thing.
Astarion had stopped craving love so long ago that he can’t even remember the last time he’d fantasized about it.
Astarion sighs dramatically. “What do you want, Aurelia? You’re free of Cazador. Why do you feel the need to pester me?”
She shrugs. “I just thought it was strange. It’s only been a few months and you have some strange girl willing to die for you and kill for you. You must be using her for something, and I’m trying to figure out what.”
Astarion’s heart clenches at the observation that is a little too close to the truth. He had, in fact, been using Emerie.
Not anymore.
He laughs coldly. “If, as you say, I’m using her, I would hardly explain it to you.” He stands and makes a performance of brushing off his clothes. “I’d like to see you ask her the same questions, however. I’m sure the results would be… interesting.”
It would probably end with an angry Druid. Astarion almost wants to see it.
“Maybe I’ll explain to her what you’re like. I’m sure she’d like to know she’s fallen for a master manipulator,” Aurelia taunts.
Astarion snorts on his way inside.
Emerie definitely already knows the sort of person he is.
Why she loves him anyway is a mystery, but he’s hardly going to question that blessing.
—-
Emerie wakes to the soothing feeling of fingers running through her hair.
When she opens her eyes, she sees Astarion sitting next to her, a book propped open on one knee, and his other hand idly running through her hair.
She’s relieved to not hear any thoughts coming from him.
“Hey,” she says, voice still quiet and groggy from sleep.
“Hey, yourself,” he says, looking down at her. “How was the nap?”
She stretches, cataloguing the way her body feels. “Good, I think. I needed it,” she explains. “It’s been a long few days.”
Astarion arches an eyebrow at her. “I’ll say,” he says.
She blushes. “You know what I mean. Not as bad as your last few days, but…”
He shakes his head at her. “Let’s not talk about it. Perhaps ever.”
That doesn’t sound healthy, but he’s the one who has to deal with it. “Okay.” She sits up slowly and his hand falls away from her head. “You can, though. Talk about it. Whenever you need to.”
“Duly noted,” he murmurs. “So,” he says, his tone changing. “I hear you threatened to kill our companions. It sounds a little dramatic, but I suppose we’ve all been under quite a bit of stress lately.”
She blushes again. It hadn’t been her finest moment, but he’d been so terrified. “I…” she looks at him, askance, recognizing the performative look of airy disapproval on his face. “You’re trying to bait me. You wouldn’t care if I murdered half the city.” She shakes her head at him. “Nice try.”
He pouts. “You could at least play along. You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
An amused huff of breath escapes her. She turns fully toward him and takes his book away. “I’ll show you adorable,” she mutters, pulling him sideways so he lands on top of her with his arms on either side of her head. His eyes flash with interest, so she pulls him down with a hand tangled in his hair and kisses him lightly. He deepens it with a groan.
Emerie hooks a leg over his waist, lining herself up with him and pulling him hard against her so that she can grind against him slowly.
He curses and presses his whole body into her, and she licks the seam of his lips to encourage him to kiss her harder.
After a minute or two, he’s hard, pressing hard against her and groaning into her neck while she bites the skin under his ear.
Then she stops. “Let me up,” she says, and he complies, blinking at her in confusion when they’re both sitting up.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, seeming genuinely concerned.
She grins and rises up onto her knees to kiss him softly. “Yes,” she says, then stands up. She pauses for a second, putting a few more feet of distance between them. “You’re just so adorable when you’re flustered,” she teases.
His eyes flash with understanding. “You little…” he mutters, muscles flexing as he springs to his feet.
Emerie darts out of the room, laughing.
—-
Notes:
Avoidance is a coping mechanism, isn’t it?
😅I appreciate you all. 💛 We survived the first week of 2024.
Chapter 51
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They meet in the main room while Gale, who has repeatedly refused offers of help with dinner, cooks. Wyll, due to sheer persistence, has been allowed to chop vegetables.
It’s interesting how comfortable the dynamic between the original six of them has gotten. When this misadventure had started, Emerie had been ill-at-ease with these virtual strangers. Looking back now, she can’t believe she had ever lived a life where she hadn’t known these people.
She supposes that’s what happens when you spend most of your time facing probable death with the same people for weeks on end.
“So,” Karlach begins, pulling one arm across her chest in a stretch. “We managed to off Orin and take her netherstone. Gortash probably doesn’t know about that yet, but we should be careful anyway. We need to come up with a plan to deal with Gortash and then we need to deal with the brain, yeah?”
A dramatic sigh from Shadowheart precedes her confirmation of Karlach’s assessment. “More or less, that sounds right.”
“We need to disable those metal monstrosities and we need allies. I don’t like our chances if we do this alone.” Jaheira looks around, then mutters, “No offense.”
Emerie nearly laughs. It wasn’t offensive until Jaheira had added the ‘no offense’ to the end.
Astarion, lounging next to Emerie against the wall, clears his throat. “We should probably deal with Cazador sooner than later. He’s bound to be looking for me, especially since Leon and Aurelia didn’t return. We can’t afford to fight too many battles at once.”
Despite the fact that they had known Cazador would be a problem, Emerie can’t help the fear that grips her at the idea of going back there. She glances over to where Leon is standing and suppresses a shudder, remembering how he had been the one to torture her.
She reminds herself, as she has been, that it hadn’t been his choice.
“I also need to rescue my father,” Wyll says in the middle of chopping carrots, interrupting the turn of Emerie’s thoughts. “He might also prove to be a valuable ally.”
Shadowheart, looking down at the table, says, “I also need to look for my parents. I’ll have to start with my former… companions. It might get ugly.”
Gale pauses what he’s doing to look around the room. “Well,” he says, “It could probably be worse.”
Emerie snorts. “Optimism. I like it.”
Gale salutes her mockingly with a spoon.
“Gods,” Jaheira mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose with her eyes shut. “How do I keep getting dragged into these kinds of things? I’m too old for this.” She lets her hand fall to the table and sighs. “Well, I think gathering information is our first order of business and Cazador the second. Until Astarion and Leon can walk around the city without bringing a Vampire Lord down on us, we have to lay low. I’m not risking any of my allies for that.”
“Or Victoria,” Emerie chimes in.
“Like I said, my allies, since the girl is under my protection.”
Leon looks between the two of them solemnly. “So we kill Cazador and then I can see my daughter?”
Jaheira shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
“Fine,” Leon says tightly, crossing his arms. “I can get us in. He’s planning a ball for two days from now. It’s perfect.”
“Your idea of perfect leaves much to be desired,” Astarion quips. He moves his hand slightly to tangle his fingers with Emerie’s.
She tries to hide the effect it has on her, but her heart stutters in her chest for a moment at the casual gesture.
Wyll wipes his hands on his pants and steps out of the kitchen and toward the table. He grips the back of a chair. “Mizora and I have an agreement. If my father is in imminent danger, she will come fetch me. We can likely wait at least a few days to save him.”
Karlach looks at Shadowheart, who hasn’t looked up from where she’s tracing patterns into the tabletop. “I’ll help Shadowheart. See what information we might find out about her parents, that sort of thing.”
Shadowheart shoots Karlach a grateful look.
Jaheira nods. “Right, then. This seems like more than enough to be getting on with.” She stands. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go shake some trees and see what falls out.” She leaves the house entirely, shutting the front door behind her with a snap.
“Jaheira is a little feisty for a Druid. I thought Druids were all harmonious and nature-obsessed, but she certainly is not,” Astarion observes.
Emerie rolls her eyes. “Yes, darling, and all vampire spawn are evil, bloodthirsty beasts.” Karlach chokes on a laugh as she takes a drink from her flask.
Astarion squeezes Emerie’s hand lightly. “Well, bloodthirsty is at least accurate,” he says with a smirk.
Emerie shuts her eyes against the embarrassing realization that bloodthirsty is indeed accurate, though that wasn’t what she had meant.
“What are you going to do, Astarion, when you can’t use the girl for meals anymore? The way her neck looks, it seems like that’s all you do together,” Aurelia drawls from
near the window.
The implication that she’s just a meal to Astarion makes Emerie bristle with indignation, but Astarion just laughs. “I’m sure I can find another way to make a meal of her. I can draw you a picture, if you’d like.”
Emerie flushes at the obvious meaning, but Shadowheart makes an unamused sound. “Gods, please don’t start. I’d like to keep my dinner down.”
Astarion, smug as a cat with cream, says, “You’re just jealous that I got to her first. I haven’t forgotten what you said about getting a taste of her at the party in the grove.”
Emerie’s mouth drops open in shock. Shadowheart…?
Shadowheart merely arches an eyebrow at Astarion. “It’s only fair for her to know she has options,” she says primly.
“Gods above,” Emerie mutters, and then buries her face in Astarion’s shoulder while he and several of the others laugh.
—-
Emerie had taken a nap and Astarion does not even want to think about sleep, so he makes a casual remark about wanting to see the sunset. The way her gaze had softened, he expects she’s feeling a little sentimental.
He isn’t, but it works in his favor.
They find themselves sprawled under the tree out back, despite the fact that the sunset isn’t exactly visible due to the high walls around them. Emerie has paper and paints, apparently courtesy of Karlach, and Astarion is amused to find that Emerie is not exactly skilled with them.
It’s amazing that someone who sketches constantly can be so lost with colors.
Unfortunately, thinking about her sketching leads to Astarion remembering the bloody sketchbook that Orin had brought him to convince him that the artist was dead.
His thoughts drift to darker and darker places. Every turn they take leads to more problems, and Astarion is beginning to believe that they will not be surviving this- that he will not be surviving to be truly free.
It aches to think that he’s barely begun to experience freedom and love and comfort, but he will never truly get to enjoy them.
After Orin, he’s beginning to think that he cares less for his own survival than for the survival of the little druid sitting next to him.
No sooner has he had that terrifying thought than he hears to creak of the hinges of the back door. Fear hits him before reason does, and he quickly casts an invisibility spell over Emerie and himself.
He hears her startled exhale, but thankfully she goes quiet after that.
He hears Aurelia before he sees her. “I’m telling you, Leon, something is not right here,” she hisses.
Leon, closing the door behind them, looks bored. “I’ve told you. I was in the girl’s mind. They like each other. It’s the simplest thing in the universe.” Astarion tenses at the realization that they’re discussing him.
And Emerie.
And what does Leon mean, he was in her mind?
Aurelia huffs and crosses to the bench, throwing herself down on it. “Nobody is that forgiving. You tortured her, Leon, and she welcomed you with open arms. Hells, she welcomed me with open arms and we were the ones who took her to Cazador.”
Astarion feels a cold rage settle over him.
He hadn’t know that little detail.
“You know what Astarion is like, Leon. He’s planning something. He wants us to walk right back into Cazador’s arms. He’s still a spawn, Leon, and I think he’s trying to replace Cazador.”
There were times when Astarion had considered it, but it isn’t as appealing a prospect as Aurelia seems to think it is. He just wants to be free.
“I don’t think we know Astarion as well as we think we do, Aurelia,” Leon murmurs. “Astarion is smart. Why do you think someone like Astarion, and not some dimwit like Petras, was always the one in trouble?”
Oh, he has to hear this.
Aurelia snorts. “Because Astarion can’t keep his bloody mouth shut.”
Leon shakes his head. “I think he was doing it to protect the rest of us.”
Oh, hells below.
What an asinine take.
Astarion removes the invisibility spell. “Well, that is a very interesting assumption, brother, but I’m going to have to disappoint you I’m afraid.” Astarion thrills in their nearly identical jumps of surprise. “I never gave a damn what punishments you all did or did not receive.”
Leon’s unchanged expression makes Astarion’s anger colder. “Then explain it to me, brother,” Leon says calmly. “You’re not an idiot. You knew how to stay out of trouble if you wanted to.”
Astarion laughs coldly. “You’re right about that, but you’re wrong about why.” He stands, moving closer to his ‘siblings’. “While you were catering to Cazador’s every whim and going above and beyond to stay in his favor, I was doing everything I could to avoid the same. Every night that I spent locked up was another night that I wasn’t on my back for some pathetic wretch on Cazador’s orders.” He looks at Leon with disgust. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know about that, since Cazador rarely had you sully yourself in such a manner.”
Aurelia’s eyes flash. “Have you ever considered that he was harder on you simply for being a rebellious brat?”
“Aurelia, my dear, you forget yourself. I have been around much longer than you have. Cazador had a plan for each of us when he turned us. I simply chose to resist in the very limited way I could.”
He had let go of so much of himself simply to survive. He had refused to become more of a puppet for his Master than he already was. Leon’s existence of doing anything and everything to please Cazador even without being ordered to made him sick to his stomach.
Which reminds him.
“You know,” Astarion drawls, tilting his head sideways. “I never did ask exactly who brought Emerie to Cazador.”
—-
Emerie has a very bad feeling about where this is going.
She knows Astarion well enough to hear the lack of warmth in his voice.
He’s a cat playing with a mouse- cold and cruel and calculated.
“You see, I imagine that your orders were something along the lines of ‘find Astarion and bring him back.’ Which begs the question of how exactly Emerie came to be in Cazador’s hands.”
Emerie goes cold all over.
She had assumed that it was orders that drove Aurelia and Leon to take her to Cazador.
“Tell me, brother, was it worth the little extra comfort Cazador gave you to hand her over to him?” Astarion drawls.
Leon looks guilty.
Aurelia looks furious.
Astarion pulls out a knife. He flips it idly. “So, you gave her to Cazador and then he had you torture her, is that the story?”
Emerie flinches at the memories.
Of course Astarion notices.
His gaze darkens.
“I didn’t have a choice-“ Leon begins, but Astarion lunges for him and pins him to the stone wall behind him.
“Like hells you didn’t. You may have been under orders to hurt her, but you never had to take her there in the first place,” he snarls.
Emerie is frozen. Suddenly, everything makes a terrible amount of sense.
“Astarion, stop. You don’t understand what it was like…” Aurelia begins, but Astarion turns that glare on her and she stops talking.
“I know exactly what it was like,” Astarion snaps. “And I know that Cazador would never have been so sloppy as to nearly kill his only source of leverage against me. He would have kept Emerie alive for centuries if he had to. So when she was brought to me, all but dead, it was because Leon wanted her to die and he wanted it to look like an accident.”
Gods.
It makes a horrible kind of sense.
In a way, it could be construed as a kindness.
“He would have turned her, Astarion. I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Leon says quietly.
Emerie sees Astarion dig into Leon’s throat with the knife.
“If you hadn’t taken her to him, he wouldn’t have ever touched her!” Astarion yells, and it’s that loss of control that shakes Emerie from her stunned state.
She steps forward. “Astarion, stop,” she says.
He shoots her a glare. “Stay out of this.”
Emerie shakes her head.
She understands his fury. She hadn’t realized that her assumptions about Leon were so wrong, but ultimately it amounts to an act of mercy.
“Astarion, killing Leon won’t change anything that happened,” Emerie says, heart pounding. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it doesn’t?” Astarion lets Leon go and rounds on her. “My mistake. I forgot that we were talking about you and your death wish.” His eyes flash with something more than anger. He stalks toward her and presses the knife into her hand and then turns and goes inside, leaving the door open behind him.
Everything is silent in the yard for a moment.
“Well,” Emerie says, exhaling shakily, “That went well.”
Aurelia glares at her. “You realize he’s using you for something, don’t you? Astarion said it himself. Everything he does, he does only for his own good.”
Emerie sighs. “You clearly don’t know him at all, if that’s what you think.” She inspects the tiefling woman. “You know, you don’t have to stay here. You’re free to leave whenever you’d like.” She glances at the open door and runs a hand through her hair. “Stay away from Astarion. He’s been through enough already.”
She leaves Leon and Aurelia in the yard and goes to find Astarion.
Notes:
This one has me emotionally exhausted, but at least it’s done.
I will respond to comments at some point after I sleep. <3 you are all much appreciated.
If anyone wants to find me outside of AO3, I’m @thedarkrey on TikTok.
Chapter 52
Notes:
I have insomnia, sick kids (they’ll be fine), and a dream, my friends.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion is alight with impotent rage and he has nowhere to go. He remembers what happened the last time he walked into the city to cool off. Orin may be dead, but she isn’t their only enemy.
He finds himself in the makeshift bedroom in the basement, glaring at the tarnished floor-length mirror.
Emerie isn’t far behind him.
She pauses briefly in the doorway, and he can see in the mirror the assessing glance she gives him before she makes her way further into the room.
She tosses the knife to the stone at his feet. “Keep it. I have my own,” she says, and he watches in the mirror as she turns away from him and starts preparing herself for bed.
He ignores the knife at his feet and turns to face her. “So,” he begins, still furious. “You didn’t exactly give me details about your time with Cazador. Is there a reason for that?”
He watches her stiffen, but then she continues to tug off her boots and stockings, placing them carefully next to the makeshift bed.
His fury builds as he watches her go through the motions with a frown until she finally sits down on the edge of the bedrolls and meets his eyes. She exhales shakily. “I didn’t want to…” she pauses and shakes her head. “You…” Her eyes shut, a pained look crossing her face. When she looks at him again, she seems haunted. “You were Cazador’s… slave… for so much longer than I can even begin to comprehend. I was there for a week. It made Calimport look almost nice by comparison.” She shakes her head again. “I wasn’t going to whine about it to you, especially since I didn’t want you to feel like it was your fault.”
It infuriates him as much as it makes him ache.
“I don’t need your pity,” he mutters, and her gaze sharpens.
“It’s not pity,” she snaps. “I care. Can’t you tell the fucking difference?”
He stares her down coldly. “No. I can’t.”
Astarion hears the faintest of footsteps on the basement stairs and he realizes suddenly who must be sleeping in the room next to them.
He decides he doesn’t give a damn if Leon and Aurelia hear all of this.
Emerie drops backward with a groan and scrubs her hands over her face. She stares at the ceiling. “Sometimes I can’t figure out what you want from me,” she confesses to the ceiling.
Irritation wars with his insane need to fall into her arms and forget today and yesterday and this whole horrible week. “Why don’t you just read my mind and find out?” he says, and she visibly flinches.
It wasn’t a fair thing to say.
He sighs.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She shakes her head. “Don’t be. You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He goes to sit next to her. “I’m not mad about it.”
She looks at him with utter heartbreak in her eyes. “I know,” she whispers.
Of course she does.
“I think that’s actually worse,” she says.
He doesn’t understand why. She should just be happy that he’s not angry with her.
He thinks he might hate the way she’s looking at him like he’s something fragile. she bites her lip, and he suspects that she’s about to scold him for his behavior, but she doesn’t.
“I love you,” she says, and the whole world suddenly feels strange. Different. Uncomfortable.
He’d known it.
The signs were there. He’s been paying attention since Jaheira had pointed it out.
After everything he’s been through, though, the words hit his ears strangely, as if they aren’t meant to be heard by him.
He leans forward and buries his head in his hands.
Maybe it’s the centuries of Cazador catching up to him. Maybe Orin was a little too far. He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that three words that really mean nothing to him suddenly mean everything and it breaks him.
He feels when she scoots around him to get up, and he almost tries to stop her. He doesn’t want her to leave, he just can’t get a grip on himself.
Astarion is weak with relief when the lights filtering in through his fingers dims as if she’s blown out the lantern and then he hears her moving around the room.
He can tell when she stops in front of him.
She tugs lightly on his boot, and he looks up to see her crouched in front of him. He lets her pull one boot off, then the other. When she reaches for the hem of his shirt, he simply raises his arms and lets her take it off him.
She gets onto the makeshift bed behind him and scoots to the corner that’s thick with layered blankets and a dozen cushions.
Then she curses.
He turns fully to look at her, but she’s looking at him with shock. “Are you okay?” she asks, and she seems alarmed.
“I’m fine,” he says hoarsely.
Emerie moves behind him and presses a hand into his shoulder. He hisses in pain. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she whispers, and he feels the healing spell working before he can even tell she’s cast it.
He hadn’t realized he was even in pain until it was gone. “Your shoulder was black and blue all over. How did I not notice that earlier?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t notice either, so it must not have been too bad.”
She makes a helpless noise and buries her face in his spine, wrapping her arms around his middle.
There’s something about this- being wrapped up in her- that makes him weak.
“Why?” he asks, after a lengthy silence.
He feels her head rise. “Why, what?”
“Why do you love me?”
She’s quiet for so long that he doesn’t think she’s going to answer.
“You make me want to live,” she says simply.
That doesn’t make any sense, but it soothes something in him nonetheless.
It’s strange, however, to look up and see her in the mirror, her forehead pressed into the nothingness her arms are wrapped around.
—-
Emerie doesn’t know why she said it. It had just fallen from her lips before she realized what she was saying.
She hadn’t expected the effect that saying I love you would have on Astarion.
Having been inside his mind, she knows he already knew. Apparently, knowing isn’t the same as hearing it.
When she finally scoots back into the wall and pulls the blanket over herself, Astarion isn’t far behind.
There’s an odd look in his eyes that she can’t read. He curls around her, her head winding up on his chest, and it’s almost like the last few nights of sleeping without him didn’t happen.
But they did.
She throws an arm over his waist and pulls herself tight against him like if she just holds on tight enough, nothing bad can happen.
Notes:
Annnnd the issues continue to be unresolved. *squints at it* but I think they’re making progress. Probably.
Edited to add: I am *well* aware that these two are an absolute disaster but I love them anyway.
Chapter 53
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion wakes before she does, which Emerie has come to expect. It’s still jarring when she rises to find herself alone and the mind reading potion and the jar holding the cure laid out carefully on the rickety table in the corner of the room, along with a small stack of books and various other items from both of their packs.
The sharp spike of fear that runs through her at Astarion’s absence inspires her haste in tugging on moderately presentable clothing and boots. She hurries upstairs, relieved to find that Aurelia and Leon aren’t in the next room.
She doesn’t want to face them right this moment.
Unfortunately, they are at the table in the space that serves as the dining room, though they aren’t alone. Karlach is conversing with them, and past them in the kitchen, Gale is making something that smells delicious while Astarion is perched on the counter nearby with the spellbook that was originally Gale’s.
“I’d recommend not attempting that particular casting near anyone you care about,” Gale says. “A maelstrom of ill-controlled cutlery is hazardous at best.”
Astarion tilts his head ever so slightly. “So, you’re saying I should try it now?” Astarion drawls, gaze traveling slowly over the two former vampires at the table. Aurelia grimaces, but stays silent. Leon ignores the obvious slight.
When Astarion’s eyes find Emerie, he quirks a smile at her.
“At least wait until Karlach isn’t nearby,” Emerie says. “I thought you liked her.”
“True,” Astarion agrees. “We can’t endanger Karlach.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Gale says sarcastically. “Remind me to be less careful with the garlic around you.”
Astarion looks offended when Emerie and Karlach laugh. He hopes off the counter. “That’s my cue to find somewhere else to be. I’d hate to be the victim of your culinary vengeance,” Astarion declares. “Darling, Jaheira had something she wanted to speak with you about. She’s with Dammon in the forge.”
Emerie nearly sags with relief that she has an excuse to avoid Leon and Aurelia for at least a little longer. She still isn’t sure how she feels about the knowledge that her imprisonment at the Szarr palace was, in fact, their fault.
It was easier when she had assumed that they didn’t have a choice. Now, even the little bits of kindness that Leon had shown her are tainted by the knowledge that he had a good reason to feel guilty about what happened to her.
Unfortunately, she isn’t sure she can fault Leon for doing whatever he could to try to protect his daughter.
She isn’t sure she wouldn’t have done the same, in his situation.
Aurelia is harder to understand, since Emerie knows very little about her. She seems to be deeply suspicious of Astarion and of Emerie and Astarion’s relationship.
Aurelia’s behavior isn’t dissimilar to how Astarion was in the first days after the Nautiloid crash.
When Astarion and Emerie exit the house and turn toward the forge, they find Dammon heating several plates of metal that look like they will eventually form some kind of armor. Halsin and Jaheira are just visible past him on a stone bench under a tree that hangs over the next building and the street.
It’s early enough that there are very few people out, though there are some early risers passing by. Emerie follows Astarion around the outside of the forge and gives Dammon a small wave. He returns it with a smile, then moves one of the metal plates to the anvil with a long pair of tongs.
The sound of hammering punctuates the greeting Jaheira and Halsin give them.
“I lied about Jaheira wanting to speak with you,” Astarion says unapologetically.
The fact that he had quickly given her a way out of what promised to be an uncomfortable situation makes her feel warm with gratitude.
Jaheira arches an amused eyebrow at them. “Too crowded in there?”
“Awkward family situation,” Astarion says.
Jaheira grimaces. “I was thinking that we might as well move back to the Elfsong, if we are going to deal with Cazador tomorrow. There’s more space, at least. It might help with the awkward situations.”
Halsin stretches. “Not to mention the beds are more comfortable than stone. The forest is a better option than Dammon’s floor.”
Jaheira nods. “I’m too old to be sleeping on floors anymore.”
Emerie shrugs. “We may as well. We did pay for the month, after all.”
“I doubt it will be difficult to convince the others, except maybe Karlach. She’s been getting rather cozy with Dammon,” Astarion says.
Jaheira makes a face. “Be grateful you spent the night in the basement and not under Dammon’s room.”
Halsin chuckles. “Yet another advantage the forest has over the city. No creaking beds.”
Astarion eyes Halsin critically. “I think you might appreciate beds more if there were any big enough for you.”
“You may very well be right,” Halsin says with a grin. “Unfortunately, I have not yet met a bed that could hold up to… vigorous use.”
Emerie giggles at the pained look Jaheira shoots Halsin.
Jaheira turns back to Emerie and Astarion with a grimace. “We’re going to go with Shadowheart to get some potions and other supplies when she’s awake. Maybe some holy water, considering our vampire problem. If you could take our things with you when Gale is ready to teleport you all to the Elfsong, we can meet you there.”
“We can do that,” Emerie agrees. “It will be nice to have a little more space.” It would be more than nice, actually. She isn’t sure whether she’s looking forward to sleeping in a real bed or not sharing a basement with Leon and Aurelia more.
—-
After Emerie scarfs down a quick breakfast, they make their way downstairs to pack their few belongings.
It’s not until they’re in the basement room that Astarion remembers the jar sitting on the table. He’d found it early that morning while he was looking for the spellbook.
Emerie starts rolling up the blankets and bedrolls and shoving the cushions into the bag of holding. Astarion picks up the jar while she works.
It’s warm to the touch, and the faint glow is enough to tell him that it’s more than a simple jar of water now.
It’s everything he’s wished for in a simple glass container, and he is surprised to find that he’s conflicted about it.
It’s not the discomfort of the transformation that Emerie and Leon had told him about. Now that they know what to expect, he knows that Shadowheart and Emerie can mitigate the worst of the side effects of being brought back to life.
Astarion just doesn’t know if he’s ready to feel his body do new things.
He doesn’t remember what it’s like to have a heartbeat.
He doesn’t know if his speed or strength will be affected. He supposes that it’s likely.
He knows he will be more fragile. One of the few benefits of being undead is that he is far more difficult to truly kill than a mortal.
He doesn’t think that right now is the time to experiment with mortality, all things considered.
Astarion tells himself it’s not fear making him reluctant to take the cure. It’s practical to wait.
He carefully wraps the bottles in some of their extra clothing before packing them away.
When he turns around, he sees Emerie watching him, and he feels the uncomfortable need to explain himself. “I just don’t think now it’s the right time for… that,” he says lightly.
She gives a shrug of her shoulders that seems unconcerned. “It’s your choice. If you take it now or in a hundred years or never, it makes very little difference to me.”
The statement, delivered so matter-of-factly, is unexpected. “You’re telling me it doesn’t matter to you if I stay like this forever?”
“You’ve been a vampire the entire time I have known you and it hasn’t caused a problem yet.” She frowns slightly. “Besides, it’s not my life or my decision.”
Astarion looks down at the bag in his hands to hide the way the words hit him.
It truly is his decision.
He still isn’t sure he knows how to just… decide things.
It’s both liberating and terrifying.
He hands Emerie the bag in his hands and she stuffs it into the larger bag with everything else they own.
It’s that melding of their things that makes him consider what he would tell her to do in his situation. He suspects that he might tell her to take the cure anyway. He also knows that if she told him that she thought it was better for him to take it, he would probably suck it up and do it.
It’s strange to feel so grateful for another person’s existence.
He takes the bag from Emerie’s hands and sets it on the floor.
He watches the way her eyes flicker with desire when he steps into her space and slides his hands up her shoulders to her neck.
One hand curls into her hair and tilts her head back and the other brackets her jaw. Emerie already looks dazed and he has hardly even touched her.
Affection tugs at his unbeating heart.
He kisses her languidly, reveling in every hitch of her breath and soft sigh. Every pass of his lips over hers has her melting further into him, until he’s sure that she would stumble if he let her go.
He maneuvers her slowly backward until he’s standing in front of the mirror. When he pulls away to move behind her, she sways lightly, drawing an amused smile from him.
She’s alone in the mirror, though it’s evident that she is leaning heavily against something. Her eyes drift shut when she lets her head fall back against his shoulder. Astarion runs his hand up her body to her throat, gently tilting her head to the side so that he can trail his lips up her neck.
He’s rewarded with a shuddering breath. “Would this be enough,” he murmurs behind her ear, cataloguing the shiver that passes through her when his breath touches her skin. “To have me just like this, and to always wonder if I’m with you purely because you’re an easy meal?”
He bites down on her neck, and she makes a helpless noise when he sucks lightly at the bite to draw a little more blood.
So sweet.
“Or…” he whispers, tilting her head the other direction, “Do you want to feel my heartbeat, the same way I feel yours.” He moves the hand on her waist up until it rests over her thundering heart. “Do you want to know exactly how you affect me?” He latches onto the opposite side of her neck, sucking at her skin just hard enough to watch a red mark bloom in the mirror where his mouth should be.
She gasps softly. Her eyes open in surprise, and he watches her pupils dilate as she watches the mark on her neck darken.
“Astarion,” she moans when he moves his mouth down, nipping the crook of her neck gently with his teeth.
“It’s a simple question, darling,” he murmurs, watching a drop of blood slide down her neck on the other side.
Emerie tries to turn in his arms, but he tightens his hold on her throat a little to hold her in place. He watches her search for him in the mirror. It’s still strange for him to watch the soft indentations in her skin where he touches her- to see the way he affects the world, but to never see himself in it.
“I love you. I don’t see how that would change either way.” Her voice is soft and sweet, the desire in her eyes only slightly changing the tone of her voice.
He sees the way her mouth forms the words, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. He supposes that for her, it might be.
Unlike Astarion, Emerie is the type to throw herself headlong into things, consequences be damned. He recalls the reckless way she had broken into an archdevil’s home, purely on the whimsical hope that she could manipulate him into solving her problems.
He recalls the reckless way she had fallen into his own arms when they were almost strangers.
It makes sense that she would be as reckless in love as she is in every other aspect of her life.
He loosens his grip on her so that she can turn in his arms, and the sweet way she winds her arms around him is enough to make him forget that he had a goal here.
The kisses she graces him with dissolve on his lips like sugar, the sweetness of them making him crave more, and he chases that sweetness by pressing harder against her until she’s forced to give way, stumbling backward until she is against the old mirror. One possessive kiss from him makes her pant and lean heavily against the mirror, which goes crashing sideways before shattering on the stone floor.
The sound of shattering glass is enough to force them apart.
“Well,” Astarion drawls, observing the dozens of shards of mirror that reflect her back at him. “I hope Dammon didn’t want to keep that.”
Emerie laughs softly between panting breaths. “Oops,” she says, and the sparkle in her eyes lets him know that she isn’t the least bit sorry about the fate of the mirror.
From behind him, he hears footsteps, and then he hears Leon’s voice. “Is everything okay in here? We heard the glass break…”
Emerie’s eyes take on a slightly guarded quality, and Astarion finds himself missing the pure warmth in them. He huffs. “Just an accident, not to worry.” He turns to see Leon’s assessing eyes on Emerie.
He wonders what his ‘brother’ thinks of the blood dripping down her neck. He expects it’s something along the lines of Astarion using her for his own pleasure.
He wonders if Emerie thinks the same.
“Come on,” Emerie says. “Let’s get upstairs. I can’t wait to have a little more privacy.” It’s just biting enough to make Leon look slightly sheepish.
Good.
Leon should be as uncomfortable as possible, given what he had done.
Notes:
Stay warm, friends. Unless you’re living somewhere warm, in which case enjoy 🩵
Chapter Text
It’s strange to be back at the Elfsong after everything that happened the last time they were here. Emerie is both relieved and nervous to have a better place to sleep. On one hand, there will be more space for everyone, with enough actual beds to go around. On the other hand, nowhere feels safe with all of the enemies they have in the city.
They agree to a rotating system of watches in the common area due to the netherstones.
When they arrive in the common area, Emerie takes Shadowheart and Halsin’s things to their rooms, then crosses to the opposite side of the room to open Jaheira’s door.
Her jaw drops.
“She has a balcony?!” Emerie gasps.
Karlach, immediately to her left, shifts her weight. “All of the rooms on this side have balconies,” she explains sheepishly.
“What? This room is huge!” Emerie marvels at the spacious room with a king-sized bed.
It reminds her of a smaller, less ostentatious version of Raphael’s room.
Gale laughs nervously. “Jaheira took the best room, but Karlach’s room and my room aren’t half bad. I think this suite is meant for nobles and their servants.”
Emerie shoots him a look.
“Well,” Astarion says breezily. “I suppose us lesser folk will just have to make do, won’t we?”
Emerie nearly smiles at the sheepish look on Gale’s face. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, then retreats to his room. She sets Jaheira’s things inside the room and shuts the door. “I would be jealous if it wouldn’t terrify me to have an extra entrance to my room,” she says to Karlach. “I don’t know how you sleep with a balcony with all of the danger in this city.”
Karlach shrugs. “It’s a lot nicer than Avernus.”
That is a good point.
Emerie grimaces in understanding. “Fair enough.”
With a wave of dismissal, Karlach goes into her room, on the opposite side of Jaheira’s from Gale.
When Emerie turns around, Astarion has a pensive look on his face.
She touches his shoulder, and he shakes his head slightly. “After everything she has been through,” he murmurs, “Karlach deserves to enjoy the finer things.” He grimaces. “While she still can.”
There’s a hollow feeling in her chest when she thinks about what Dammon had said about Karlach’s options- Avernus or death.
Karlach says she would prefer death.
It’s not fair.
It’s just… not fair.
Karlach deserves to live a life.
Killing Gortash might be a sort of justice for what he’d done to Karlach, but Emerie knows that it won’t fix the life he had destroyed.
At least when he’s gone, he won’t be able to destroy any more lives than the hundreds he had already ruined with this mad plot to rule the world using the elder brain.
Emerie and Astarion make their way toward the room they’ll be sharing, but Emerie pauses halfway there. She considers Leon’s serious form, alone in the middle of the sitting area, and she turns toward him instead.
There is a slight sigh from behind her.
She doesn’t want to do this now, but with the plan for tomorrow, she isn’t sure if there will be another opportunity.
Emerie slides into the chair across from Leon. “Hey,” she says.
His eyes flick between her and Astarion behind her. “Hello.”
He’s so stoic most of the time. It makes it difficult to tell what he’s thinking. “Look, I just wanted you to know that I understand. I don’t blame you for what happened.”
Astarion scoffs behind her.
Leon simply watches her.
She does understand. She also isn’t sure she would have done anything differently from what he did.
She might not have even felt guilty enough to bring healing potions.
“You didn’t know me. I didn’t matter to you. I understand doing whatever you have to do to protect the people you love.”
Something shifts in his expression at her words. It almost looks pained, but it’s subtle.
Astarion, however, scoffs. “Don’t tell me you’re forgiving him for handing you over.”
Leon’s gaze sharpens and he turns flinty eyes on Astarion. “You don’t know what it was like,” he snaps. “When you disappeared, Cazador was… there aren’t even words. He sent us all out looking for you, and every time we came back with nothing, it was worse.” He looks down at the table and a muscle in his jaw flexes. “It was a matter of time before he would turn on Victoria. He threatened her. As motivation.”
It was what she had suspected.
“Oh, please,” Astarion sneers. “And what, brother, do you think Cazador would have done to Victoria if his prized prisoner had died due to your carelessness.”
Leon stares at the table.
“Nothing. He would have done nothing,” Emerie murmurs, as soon as she realizes the answer. “He had already gotten all of the information he wanted from me. He just wanted me alive to torment you.” She glances back at Astarion, who looks mutinous.
“That is… more or less what I thought, as well,” Leon says.
Astarion makes a derisive sound.
Leon’s flinty gaze returns to Astarion. “Of course you don’t understand,” he says bitterly. “You’re the only one who didn’t have anyone you cared about. You can’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to watch him tear someone you love apart. Hate me all you want, brother, but it would have been a kindness.”
Leon shoves himself out of his chair and begins to stalk away.
It aches to imagine the pain Leon had gone through to consider that a kindness.
“You have no idea who I have and have not cared about, Leon,” Astarion snarls. “I was a spawn for longer than you have been when you were turned.“ Leon pauses for a moment but doesn’t turn around. “I warned you. When he turned you, I warned you to not form attachments. How in the hells do you think I learned not to do so?”
Emerie watches Leon’s hand flex.
“None of you listened,” Astarion says bitterly.
She tries to imagine centuries of suppressing the need for friendship.. companionship… love.
Leon strides into his room and shuts the door with a snap.
“Well, that went well,” Aurelia says from somewhere behind Emerie.
She turns, finding the pretty tiefling inside the doorway that leads downstairs. Aurelia is holding a tray laden with breads, fruits, slices of meats, and some cheese.
“Aurelia,” Astarion says tiredly, “If you’re going to cause trouble, don’t. I am out of patience.”
Aurelia raises an eyebrow and brings the tray to the table where Emerie is, setting it down in front of her. She takes a seat across from Emerie and then pops a grape into her mouth. After she swallows, she leans backward in her chair. “We’re all a little on edge, considering what we are doing tomorrow. I won’t cause trouble if you don’t.”
Astarion mutters something that sounds rude. He comes to sit in the chair next to Emerie, however. “Fine,” he says. “But if you do start trouble, I will not be held responsible for what happens to you.”
Aurelia smiles slightly. Then she glances at Emerie. “Eat. There’s more than enough.” She pops another grape into her mouth.
Emerie, reeling from the abrupt shift in mood and the marked difference in the way Aurelia is treating her, takes a slice of bread.
“So, Astarion, do you think we’ll get a chance to punch Petras tomorrow? If we’re going to get ourselves killed, I want to at least rearrange his smug nose before I go,” Aurelia says.
Gods above, this is strange. Emerie was fairly certain Aurelia hated her.
She doesn’t understand what changed.
Astarion sighs exasperatedly. “If you don’t get the chance, I’ll hold him down for you after, deal?”
Aurelia smiles slightly. “Deal.”
She offers Emerie a grape, which Emerie takes.
As far as olive branches go, it’s not horrible.
Notes:
I *think* there will be one more chapter before Cazador, but I am not 100% on that. I also don’t think that counts as a spoiler since we all know it’s coming.
I may slow down a bit because things are getting busy again, but I also might still have time. Life is hard to predict.
I appreciate you all. 💛
Chapter 55
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sprawling house is as different from the Szarr palace in every way that Victoria can imagine.
Sunlight beams through every window. Where there are curtains, they are either gauzy things that offer a little privacy while the light still filters through or thicker curtains that are never closed. The furniture is worn and comfortable. Even the stone that forms the outer walls is lighter than the stones of the Szarr palace.
The basement and Jaheira’s office even have trees.
Mol, Victoria, Arabella, Mattis, and Fig are all swimming in the shallow hot spring in the basement. Sunlight reaches even down here, through little holes in the bluff overlooking the river.
The basement is Victoria’s favorite part of the house, but she can’t take Pounce down here. He wouldn’t pay attention when Rion showed them how to avoid the traps.
He really is not the best listener.
Victoria giggles as Mol cups a hand and launches a wave of water at Mattis, who yelps when it hits him full in the face.
Laughter trickles through every room of the house all the time. It’s like joy is as much a part of the walls as the stone that forms them.
Victoria splashes mol, giggling wildly, and then shrieks when arms snag her from behind, causing her to tumble backward into the water. When she gets to her feet, she finds Arabella grinning next to her.
“Gotcha!” Arabella laughs, expertly dodging the splash that Victoria tries to send her way.
Fine. If she’s going to play like that.
Victoria leaps at Arabella, tackling her backward into the warm water. She lets go and does her best to run through the water to put some distance between them quickly. “Gotcha!” she calls over her shoulder in Arabella’s direction when she’s out of reach.
She loves it here.
It’s strange to her that someone would build a place as awful as the Szarr Palace when they could build something like this instead.
—-
The things that Aurelia thought she missed the most about life turn out to be different from what she now realizes she missed.
She had thought that freedom or satiety might be the things she craved the most, and while they are sweet comforts, she sees now that those were secondary wishes.
She didn’t know that this clarity of mind existed until she was free of Cazador’s control. It’s as if the last sixty years were a fog and she’s waking up for the first time.
The tang of the grapes is delightful, and they burst in her mouth more satisfyingly than any meal, rodent or otherwise, she had had as a spawn. It’s divine. And she can just… go get more.
The half-elf woman Astarion is in love with doesn’t seem to get quite the same enjoyment out of the grapes that Aurelia does. She has the strong urge to shake Emerie to make her see how damned lovely these grapes are.
She won’t do it. Probably.
It’s difficult to wrap her mind around the idea that she is only here, enjoying this food, because of Astarion’s lover.
“So, where are you from?” she asks Emerie, in an effort to try to know this strange person who is either an altruistic savior- and isn’t that a strange thought- or a cunning villain.
Emerie leans back in her chair and her eyes shutter slightly, as if distancing herself from this.
Interesting.
A sigh. “I’m from just outside Waterdeep. I grew up there. What about you?”
She supposes she ran into that. “Oh, here or there.” Aurelia vaguely remembers a youth spent bouncing from town to town due to mixed feelings the established towns had about tieflings until she wound up splitting from her family to try her luck in Baldur’s Gate. “So how did a druid from Waterdeep wind up crossing paths with a vampire spawn from Baldur’s Gate?” She glances at Astarion, who seems utterly bored.
There is the slightest hint of hesitation in Emerie. The woman looks to Astarion, who shrugs, and then she sighs. “We were picked up by a rogue mindflayer ship. It was sheer dumb luck that we all wound up escaping the ship when it crashed.”
She frowns. That certainly explains how Astarion had simply vanished from the city without a trace. Astarion had mentioned mindflayers, but he hadn’t given many details. Or any. “Strange,” Aurelia murmurs.
Emerie shrugs. “You get used to it after a while.”
It’s probably true. You get used to anything after a while. Including eating rats.
Aurelia grabs another few grapes and pops one into her mouth.
Astarion gives Emerie a sideways look. “Well, I’m not used to it yet, and I would like to get all of this elder brain business over with before I am,” he drawls.
The half-elf smiles at him. “I suppose used to it is a relative term.”
The affectionately exasperated look that Astarion gives Emerie is strange to see on her callous brother’s face. He's so different from how he's always been. This Astarion shows flashes of warmth and humanity that Aurelia never would have expected from him.
She isn’t sure she can actually call him brother.
Aurelia frowns again, chewing on another grape and savoring its tart sweetness.
Do decades of shared slavery make them family?
“Do you have any siblings?” Aurelia asks Emerie after she swallows the grape.
“No. No family.” There’s an odd look in her eyes when she says it.
“I’m sorry,” Aurelia says, because it seems like the right thing to say.
Emerie shrugs. “It’s not a recent loss. But I never had any siblings anyway.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Astarion says blandly. “They’re a nuisance at best.”
So maybe she can still call him brother.
“Anyone who has had the misfortune of calling you brother would agree,” Aurelia drawls. “You’ll learn,” she says to Emerie. “He’s insufferable.”
“Oh, I am well aware.” Emerie smirks. “He’s pretty, though.”
Astarion shoves Emerie’s shoulder just enough to make her chair rock.
Jealousy, hot and heavy, hits her. The easy affection they have with each other hurts to watch.
Aurelia wants that.
She’s wondered, for a long time, what’s wrong with her that nobody has ever seen her enough to care about her.
Is she so horrible?
Even Leon had had a love, though it had ended tragically. Dalyria had been married. Petras…
Well, Petras is awful.
She swallows her jealousy. “It is the only obvious reason to be in a relationship with him,” Aurelia says. “I can’t imagine his personality won you over.”
Emerie laughs. The way Astarion’s eyes light up ever so slightly when he looks at her and the small smile on his face despite his indignant protests, make Aurelia take a deep breath.
If he can have this, maybe she can too.
—-
Jaheira returns with Halsin and Shadowheart about an hour after they are settled in at the Elfsong. Jaheira looks shifty in a way that has Astarion intrigued. He keeps tabs on her as she goes to Gale’s room and is apparently invited inside. The door shuts behind her.
It’s strange. Astarion has always told himself that power is the ultimate form of safety. He’s starting to reevaluate that assumption.
Gale and Leon and Ketheric are all stark reminders that raw gods-given power isn’t a guarantee of safety. They defeated Ketheric without truly preparing at all. Leon fell into Cazador’s clutches the same as the rest of them. On that note, so did Emerie. Gale is doomed to be a human bomb by his own hubris.
Even Jaheira, the hero of Baldur’s Gate, had been a vampire spawn.
Emerie and Aurelia are deep in conversation about art. He stopped truly listening a while ago.
He had had no idea that Aurelia enjoyed painting. Apparently, she had taken offense to what Emerie had done with her inexpert use of the paints at Dammon’s house.
Astarion tunes them out. Earlier, when he was talking to Leon, he’d realized something.
Cazador had always warned them to avoid taking victims with connections. He’d also brutally punished his spawn for any friendships or other attachments they formed.
Astarion had always assumed it was pure sadism.
He’s realizing now that Cazador understood something Astarion hadn’t.
There is a good reason that Cazador had treated loyalty to anyone but himself brutally.
It was a threat to him.
It isn’t power that saved Astarion from Orin.
It isn’t power that took down Ketheric.
It won’t be power that destroys Cazador.
Astarion watches Shadowheart meticulously sort through a veritable trove of potion vials and reorganize them into the case she’s been using to hold potions.
There are a few larger bottles that remain on the table.
Holy water.
It’s a stark reminder of what tomorrow will bring.
Gale and Jaheira come into view, and Astarion notes that their eyes find him almost immediately.
“How would you feel about breaking into a bank?” Jaheira asks him.
Emerie and Aurelia break off mid-conversation at the question.
“Right now?” Astarion asks.
Jaheira nods. “We have one hour.”
Perfect. It’s exactly the distraction he needs. “I’m in.”
“I think just the three of us should be enough.” Jaheira jerks her head sideways at Gale. “It will be difficult enough without trying to sneak an army inside.”
“Be careful,” Emerie cautions, worry creasing her face.
“Between the three of us, we should be fine.” He reaches for her hand and squeezes it. "I'll be back."
—-
They are- thankfully- only gone for a few hours.
Emerie spends all of those hours on edge, trying not to imagine the worst.
First, she helps Shadowheart divide up the potions most likely to be useful tomorrow, and then she helps devise a sensible way to carry them.
While they’re working, Halsin brings out his armor and weapons and begins meticulously cleaning and checking every bit of it. When Karlach sees, she joins in.
The edge of her axe has been sharpened so expertly by Dammon, it could likely slice individual hairs.
Shadowheart and Wyll break out a card game, which Aurelia joins after an hour or so.
“Do you think this will work?” Karlach asks, frowning as she holds up her chainmail. “If stealth is the name of the game, I have a feeling this is overkill.”
“I don’t think it will matter much,” Aurelia says. “It’s going to be a bloodbath either way.” She blanches slightly. “Pun not intended.”
Karlach grins. “As long as it isn’t the fun kind of bloodbath for Cazador, I’m looking forward to it.”
It isn’t difficult to imagine Karlach projecting her feelings about Gortash onto Cazador. Perhaps this will be therapeutic for her in a way.
It will certainly be therapeutic for Emerie.
She decides that it isn’t a bad idea to go over her own armor and weapons, which is what she’s still doing when Astarion and the others return.
They’re coated in blood spatter but seem to be in good spirits. Jaheira retreats immediately to her room, presumably to clean up. Astarion tosses a sack onto the table that makes a very distinct clinking sound.
Emerie raises an eyebrow at them. “Is there anything left of the counting-house?”
Gale tilts his head as if considering. “Well, it’s still standing.” He glances sideways at Astarion. “I don’t know if they will still be in business for very long, however.”
The vampire in question shrugs. “Jaheira said we were breaking into a bank. It’s not my fault she meant it as a rescue mission and not a heist.” He nods at the sack on the table. “Besides, I’m sure we will make better use of this than the original owners.”
A rescue mission?
“Who were you rescuing?”
“Some crime lord Jaheira is friends with,” Astarion drawls. “Didn’t seem to actually need rescuing, come to think of it.”
Gale nods seriously. “Anyone who can slaughter a mimic from the inside would make a formidable ally.”
A mimic?
Emerie blinks at them.
“Sounds like you all had fun, at least,” Karlach sighs. She looks down at her perfectly clean chain mail. “I’m jealous.”
“You can have my spot next time,” Gale says feelingly. He looks down at his clothes and makes a face. “I need to go change.”
With a considering look at his sleeve, which is fairly drenched in gore, Astarion nods. “I should do the same. I’ll be back.” He heads into their shared room and Emerie suppresses the urge to follow.
“What does it say about us that a rescue mission turned bank robbery is a refreshing change?” Shadowheart drawls, playing a card from her hand.
Emerie snorts. “I don’t think it’s a refreshing change. It’s just tame compared to our usual adventures.”
“Still. It would have been fun,” Karlach grumbles.
Jaheira comes out of her room in a clean shirt, her face and hands washed of blood. “I thought Astarion could use the distraction,” she says. “He needs less time to think about tomorrow.”
“Don’t we all,” Emerie mutters.
—-
Astarion sits on the bed, staring at the slightly glowing jar on the vanity for a long while.
He thinks it’s what he wants.
Of course it’s what he wants.
Why wouldn’t it be what he wants?
He still finds himself hesitant to drink it.
Life- true life- seems like a very vulnerable thing, and he isn’t sure he can handle that.
—-
Astarion is the only one who doesn’t make an appearance for the rest of the evening.
When she goes to check on him, Emerie finds him perched on the edge of the bed, staring unseeingly at the broken vanity.
“Hey,” she says quietly, shutting the door behind her. “Are you alright?”
His gaze focuses, landing on her. “I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow at him.
It looks as if he had started to get cleaned up and then just stopped.
She takes the wet rag from the bowl of water on the vanity and squeezes it out a little, then goes over to him. She carefully washes the few dried, dark red drops from his face. “Give me your hand,” she murmurs when she’s done. He obliges, and she carefully wipes the blood off it.
He takes the rag from her before she finishes. “I can do it,” he says, standing and moving around her to dip the rag back into the bowl.
Jaheira was right about him needing a distraction.
Emerie watches him surreptitiously, busying herself with pulling out clothes to sleep in while he finishes scrubbing the gore from his skin. His shirt ends up tossed into the corner by the door.
When the scars on his back become visible, they’re a depressing reminder to her that nothing they do to Cazador will be enough justice for the 200 years of cruelty Astarion has suffered.
At least it will be over for good.
Maybe that will help.
She changes, trying to sort through what to say to him in her head. She can’t ask him if he’s worried about tomorrow. That would be a stupid question. She can’t ask him something silly- that would make it obvious that she’s just trying to distract him.
“Do you have a favorite sibling?” she asks, wishing she was better at this.
He arches an eyebrow at her, but there’s at least a spark of life in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Dalyria.” He pulls a soft white shirt over his head and proceeds to finish changing. “Why?”
Emerie shrugs. She climbs into the bed, scooting toward the wall and pulling blankets over herself. She sits against the pillow and headboard. “I’m just curious. You, Leon, and Aurelia are so different, but you don’t really seem to be… close.”
He scoffs. “We aren’t. None of us are. Cazador encouraged us to be rivals at best.” He blows out the candle on the vanity, then sits next to her on the bed. “You can’t live with someone for decades and not know something about them, but we are acquaintances at best. Not friends.”
Her heart aches at the implied loneliness of it all. “So, what about Dalyria.makes her your favorite?”
Astarion sighs. “Dalyria was a doctor. She had a genuinely caring side that sometimes still comes out.”
“Sometimes?”
“She’s pretty ruthless these days.”
“Ah.” Rather like Astarion was when they first met. She doesn’t point that out. “Survival can do that to you.”
He nods slightly, almost as if he doesn’t mean to.
She waits a moment for him to say anything else, but he doesn’t.
“Are you going to be okay tomorrow?” she asks, and he stiffens slightly.
Astarion closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headboard. “I’ll be fine. I just want it to be over.”
She does, too.
She reaches over and squeezes his hand, then scoots down and gets comfortable to sleep. “It’ll be over tomorrow.”
A shaky breath escapes him. “It’ll all be over tomorrow.”
—-
Astarion lies there for an hour or two before he gives up on rest.
He never wants to go back. He never wants to see Cazador’s despicable face again.
But he has to see this through.
Cazador has to die. Spawn or mortal, Astarion can’t live with the specter of Cazador’s continued existence looming over him. He will never truly feel safe or free until his master is gone for good.
When he finally quits trying to pretend he’s going to sleep, he decides to take a book out to the common area. He knows Wyll is supposed to be out there ‘on watch,’ and he thinks it might be nice to not be alone.
He finds Leon at the table in the middle of the room instead of Wyll.
He hesitates, wondering if he’d rather go back and read in bed, but Leon’s already seen him. It takes a matter of moments to cross the room and drop into the chair across from his ‘brother.’
“Can’t sleep?” Leon asks tonelessly.
Astarion arches an eyebrow at him. “No. You can’t either, I take it?”
Leon shakes his head and they drift into silence.
Astarion opens the book and tries his best to get lost in the pages, but every few paragraphs his mind drifts to Cazador.
He finally gives up.
Leon looks as haunted as he feels.
Astarion feels a twinge of sympathy for him. Haven’t all of them done monstrous things in the name of sheer survival?
“Victoria’s happy, by the way,” he says. “Or, she was when I saw her five days ago.”
Leon’s gaze snaps to him and sharpens. Astarion can tell that he wants to ask questions, but he isn’t able to show that kind of weakness to anyone else.
Another symptom of Cazador.
“She likes water. You should probably teach her to swim when this is all over.”
He can see Leon file that information away internally.
They’re silent for a long time, Leon staring into space and Astarion reading, making better progress out here than he had in the bedroom.
After about an hour, Leon breaks the silence. “You should tell her.”
Astarion blinks at him, startled and confused. “Tell who what?”
“You should tell her you love her.” Leon meets his eyes for a moment, then returns to inspecting the room as if there might be someone hiding there and he hadn’t noticed them in the previous hour of staring.
Ah.
“Should I? Why would I do that?” he asks with a hint of sarcasm. His relationship is none of Leon’s business, and it irritates him that Leon would be so condescending as to try to give him advice.
Leon sighs. There’s that haunted look again. Unfortunately, Astarion thinks he knows why. “Just tell her before it’s too late.” He stands. “If you’re staying out here, I’m going to try to sleep.”
When Leon’s door shuts, Astarion almost wishes he had stayed.
Alone, he turns the advice over in his head for a while. He understands that Leon has his own regrets, and he supposes that if he is in love with Emerie, he should maybe say so to her.
He isn’t sure he knows what love is.
She seems so sure of herself and her feelings. She’d thought it and said it and acted like it all as if it was the simplest thing in the world to be in love.
Astarion doesn’t know. He isn’t sure. He’s certainly said the words before, in heated exchanges designed to draw his prey in.
He’s never meant it.
What he does know is that Emerie is different. He doesn’t want to say that he loves her and not mean it.
—-
She wakes to hands in her hair and the whisper of her name. When she opens her eyes, she blinks sleepily to find Astarion inches away.
It seems that her eyes opening is what he was waiting for.
He kisses her carefully, and it’s so sweet that it makes her sigh into his mouth. He pulls away all too soon, running the fingers of one hand through her hair and down her shoulders to curl around her arm.
“I’m yours,” he says softly.
Her heart skips a beat.
“Okay,” she agrees, even though she doesn’t know why he said it. “And I’m yours.”
He kisses her forehead and curls around her with a sigh. “Let’s get some sleep while we can,” he says. “We’re going to need it.”
She decides not to remind him that he’s the one who woke her up.
Notes:
I have no idea what I’m doing. I mean… I have a plan. I started with a plan. That still doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.
EDITED 2/15/24: last time I’m gonna do this. If you’re reading this as a completed work, this is a good point to take a break. Much love. ❤️
Chapter 56
Notes:
I’m taking my time to try to get this right (and also function as a normal person). I’m still here and it’s going to be finished, I promise.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s apparent that Astarion is not a detail-oriented person.
Emerie has been here for an hour, intent on memorizing the maps that Aurelia and Leon had drawn. Wyll and Gale are with her, making sure they understand what they’ll be facing inside the Szarr palace. There is still too much that they just don’t know, but thankfully Leon at least knows which doors require signets and which require passwords.
She traces the path from the door they’re planning to use to enter through the halls to the ballroom. Astarion makes a derisive noise across from her, and she glances up to see him standing on the other side of the table with his arms crossed.
“What?” she asks him, mildly annoyed.
“I don’t see the need for all of this.” He gestures at the pages laid out across the table. “You’ll have one of us with you, and we know where we are going.”
Emerie reminds herself for the hundredth time this morning that he’s understandably on edge. She exhales slowly. “I will feel more comfortable knowing what to expect, just in case.” She notices the flicker of nerves in his eyes before he rolls them. “Look, Astarion, if you’re bored, you can go find something else to do.”
“There’s nothing else to do,” he complains. “Unless you’d like to cease this pointless exercise and go make our own entertainment?”
She gives him what she hopes is an unimpressed look.
He sighs dramatically and goes to flop down onto the small couch off to one side of the common area. “Fine, fine. If you won’t be reasonable, I suppose I could just sit here.”
Wyll looks up briefly from the pages in front of him that depict the upper floors of the Szarr Palace, where they’re hoping to sneak in. “I’m surprised you’re so calm about this, Astarion, considering what you’ve told us about Cazador.”
He is very much not calm, and Emerie fails to smother a snort at Wyll’s comment. Wyll raises an eyebrow at her but she shakes her head, refusing to elaborate. She knows that puncturing Astarion’s performative illusion of calm that he’s putting on will not have ideal results.
“Well, Wyll, I’m surprised you’re concerned at all. Isn’t this just a normal day for the esteemed Blade of Frontiers?” Astarion drawls.
“You’re like a dog with a bone with that name, Astarion,” Wyll says mildly. “And no, it isn’t. Believe it or not, there aren’t many vampire lords running around.”
Astarion scoffs again. “Not many that you know of. Cazador has been in your precious city for centuries.”
“Plenty of people know about Cazador,” Aurelia says from where she’s lounging on a different sofa, reading. “He just isn’t enough of a public nuisance for anyone in power to do anything about him.”
Karlach looks up from her breakfast. “What do you mean? I lived here most of my life and didn’t have a clue we had a vampire problem.”
“That’s because it isn’t common knowledge,” Aurelia says. “The Gur certainly know, and the nobility would be idiots if they didn’t at least suspect. There’s a reason Cazador always told us to take from the lower classes, and preferably those who didn’t have family or connections in the city.”
Well, that’s depressing. It’s smart, considering that those with the power to do anything to get rid of Cazador don’t typically end up in the lower classes. It doesn’t say much about society.
Emerie notes the strange look that passes over Astarion’s face.
She is suddenly sure that Astarion wishes that anyone had cared enough about him to save him.
She’s vaguely aware of the conversation continuing around her, but she can’t focus on it.
Did he have anyone, before Cazador?
If he didn’t, it adds a whole new layer of tragedy to the horror of his life.
If he did, she thinks that might be worse.
Emerie walks away from the maps. “Astarion?” She gestures toward their room. The nearly naked relief in his gaze makes her wish she’d given in sooner.
As soon as they’re in the room and the door shuts behind him, she turns into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest. She inhales his scent, wishing she could bottle it up, though she doubts it would be so satisfying if she wasn’t in his arms. “I love you,” she says into his shirt, desperately needing him to understand what that means.
He breathes into her hair, his arms loosely wrapped around her shoulders. “I almost wish you weren’t going tonight,” he murmurs, and she nearly stops breathing to listen. “If things go wrong, I don’t want you there.”
She pulls away just enough to look up at him.
Soft. Unguarded. Concerned.
Emerie reaches up to cup his cheek in her hand. “I feel the same. I’d rather you didn’t go at all.” She pauses, then continues. “When I was there… I remember thinking that at least it was me and not you.” There’s a flash of something pained in his eyes. “You deserve to be free of him for good.”
“I have to face him. If I don’t see him dead…” he stares over her shoulder, unseeing, for several moments. When he drags his eyes back to hers, they’re haunted. “If I don’t see it I’ll never believe it. And I think I deserve a little revenge.” He brings his hand up and runs his thumb over her cheek. “As do you.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t think like that.”
If she did, she’d never sleep. She’d given up on rage at the way she’d been used ages ago.
She wants to focus on the good. She has to. She runs the fingertips on his face back to rest lightly on his neck and rises onto her toes to kiss him. “I love you,” she whispers into his lips, then kisses him again. “I’m going tonight.” She kisses him slowly, savoring the way he masterfully matches the movements of her lips against his. “You deserve to have someone fight for you.”
He makes a small sound that may be a protest or surprise, but then the hand on her face and the one on her waist are pulling her closer- a nearly impossible feat, given how close they already are. The crush of his body against hers- his lips against hers- is delicious. She presses into him even more, wishing she could meld herself to him permanently and live in this moment forever.
Sometimes she forgets how strong he is.
He moves his hands to her ass and lifts her easily, lining her hips up with his as she wraps her legs around him and her arms around his shoulders, holding on tight. They don’t break for air, and she feels herself becoming dizzy on him, but she can’t bear the thought of pulling away for something so trivial as breathing.
The shallow breaths she manages through her nose during the sensuous melding of lips against lips will have to suffice.
—-
Astarion desperately wants to bury himself in her and lose himself.
I love you is enough of a shock to his system after everything he has been through. There have, of course, been particularly manipulative or naive one night lovers who have said the words, but none of them knew him well enough for it to mean anything more than a silly utterance made by someone lost in the moment.
It does mean something coming from her.
More than I love you, however, is her saying that he deserves to have someone fight for him…
There’s something about that that means so much more.
Isn’t it what he’s always wanted? Isn’t it what he’s dreamed of, almost shamefully, in the darkest nights- that someone would see him and deem him worth fighting for?
He devours her.
He’s pinned her between him and the wall, her legs wrapped around his hips, and the delicious friction is good, but not as good as the way he can feel her try to gasp for the breath that he denies her. She is his and if she needs air, she can steal it from his own lungs.
He’s never felt so consumed by another person.
She doesn’t turn away or protest, as if kissing him is more important than life. He loves it. She matches his possessive assault with a desperation of her own.
He’s felt safe with her, but there’s a new layer to that safety that is freeing in its certainty.
She won’t ask him for anything he isn’t willing to give.
He can say no to her and she won’t so much as pout.
There are still so many things unknown and unsaid between them- they’ve only dealt with the broad strokes of their pasts, for one thing- but he’s sure of her in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever been sure of anyone.
He carries her to the bed and settles her against the mattress, finally pulling away long enough to tear his shirt off. The dazed heat in her eyes and the heavy pant of her breath is enough to draw him back to her instead of kicking off his boots. He climbs over her on the bed, pinning her down with his body and his mouth against hers, reveling in the delightful scrape of her nails against his scalp when she buries her hands in his hair.
There’s something about knowing that she wants him and not just his body as much as he wants her that shreds any composure he might otherwise have.
There’s nothing calculated about the way he pulls away from her to fumble with her laces. There’s nothing expert about the way he realizes that he’s gotten ahead of himself and moves to yank her boots off. She doesn’t look seduced so much as she looks at him with hungry reverence, and isn’t that strange and wonderful too?
There’s nothing artful about the way he licks through her slit, savoring every sigh and whimper she gives him while she cards her fingers into his hair.
He feasts on her, enjoying the act of giving her pleasure more than he’s enjoyed doing the same for anyone else that he can remember. When he adds his fingers to the equation, her sighs and whimpers turn into moans and gasps and he can feel when she’s close to breaking, and he increases the pressure just enough when he curls his fingers inside her in just the right spot, and she cries, “Astarion!” When she falls apart, her chest heaving as the rest of her trembles.
He feels invincible.
Emerie is still shaking when he sits on the edge of the bed to pull off his own boots and the rest of his clothing, then turns to her to help her out of her shirt.
When he guides her back down to the bed, lining their bodies up and settling himself between her legs, she hesitates. “Are you sure?” she asks, and he would be insulted if not for the hungry look she gives him.
He kisses her soundly, entering her in one smooth thrust. He groans softly at the rush of pleasure and heat from the grip of her around his cock.
“I’m sure,” he says into her lips, pressing his hips hard against her and causing her to make a noise that almost sounds like a whine.
Gods, but it’s glorious.
Maybe, just maybe, it could be like this every time.
He sets a languid pace, drawing it out as long as possible. Their hands and mouths roam and caress each other, and it feels a little like worship when she wraps herself around him completely and sucks at the skin under his ear.
There is the undeniable urge to do this hard and fast and frantic, but the careful consumption of each other is so fucking good that he can’t decide which is better.
He thinks they may have to do this hundreds of times to find out.
Astarion very nearly pulls away from her at the shock of the certainty he feels that there will be hundreds more times, assuming they survive.
He picks up the pace, fucking her harder and chasing his own pleasure while he listens to her.
Fuck.
Gods, yes.
Astarion!
Madness. It’s madness.
Glorious, perfect madness.
—-
They wait until an hour past the time the ball is supposed to start.
The dark stone building is surrounded by high walls that almost hide the air of decay that hangs over the entire estate. The sprawling “palace” and grounds are in the upper city, but the back wall borders the lower city. This is where they’ve decided to make their entrance.
The guards at the base of the tower on the outer wall are easily dispatched. Emerie almost feels sorry for them, but she reminds herself that they’re guarding a monster and according to Leon, Aurelia, and Astarion, they know what he is.
It almost feels too easy.
She doesn’t recognize anything, though the stone is the same as the stone that had formed the walls of her cell. Where most of the city is built of lighter stone in shades of sand and red, the stone that forms the Szarr Palace is dark. Whether it’s dark from age or something else is a mystery, but it almost feels as if the building itself is sinister.
It’s laughable to think that they can sneak in with as large of a group as there are, but they see no one else. They climb up the tower and across the narrow wall to a door that opens into a storage area of some sort. Cobwebs line the space, connecting faded paintings in gilded frames to the walls, which are lined with what appears to be stained glass windows that have been painted over. Sheets that are presumably meant to cover the art lie in puddles on the floor, inches of dust covering their folds.
Astarion and Leon lead the way through the only bit of the room that isn’t caked in grime to another door that leads to a narrow staircase.
They descend.
“Well, this is cheerful,” Gale mutters, looking around the room at the base of the stairs that boasts a few pieces of weathered furniture as well as what are clearly broken torture devices, including a rack that appears to have snapped.
Emerie doesn’t particularly want to think about how that might have happened.
“Home sweet home,” Astarion says in Gale’s general direction, before trying the door and finding it locked. He kneels to pick the lock, making quick work of it despite the fact that it looks like it’s rarely used and is likely at least a little rusty.
The door opens to an abandoned hallway lined with more doors.
These doors look more familiar.
They look heavy.
She thinks she understands why when Leon glances back and meets her eyes for the briefest of moments.
When Astarion passes the door near the end of the hall, he pauses.
With the way Leon stops entirely, Emerie knows suddenly exactly what that room is.
Astarion inhales, then turns and opens the door.
It’s unchanged from when she was here last.
She’d only seen this hallway for the briefest of moments when she’d been brought in, but she’d counted every stone in the wall of that room at least twice.
“Is that blood?” Karlach asks from behind Astarion, and he snaps the door shut.
“Yes,” he says, and when he turns, his eyes meet Emerie’s for just long enough that she knows that he knows whose blood that is.
They still haven’t discussed exactly what happened in that room.
She doesn’t think she wants to. Ever.
From the stuff set of his shoulders, she thinks that Astarion might not want to know either.
“Well, that’s horrifying,” Shadowheart mutters, following the others past the room.
Emerie is grateful that none of the rest of them seem to have picked up on the fact that that was her blood staining the stones of that particular room.
It’s not much farther- up a staircase and down a much wider hall- that Leon stiffens, then casts a spell that reveals an armored skeleton lurking in the corner.
Astarion’s eyes narrow. “Oh, I have been looking forward to this for so very long.”
The skeleton throws his head back and laughs. “Have you?” It rasps. “The master will be thrilled.” The skeleton makes the motion of inhaling, as if delighting in a scent. “We have so missed hearing your screams.”
Well, that’s fucking horrifying.
Notes:
I’m terrified I’m not gonna do this justice. No pressure. 😅
*I’m breaking this up into multiple chapters. I promise it’s not for dramatic effect or to torture anyone.Also if you saw the version of the last chapter that still had my notes in the middle of the text, OOPS. I’ve been terrified of accidentally doing that for months and it finally happened 😅
Chapter 57
Notes:
Like I said before, I pinky promise I’m not trying to draw this out. It’s just a lot.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There are a half dozen rooms down the hallway they just came from and all of them are used for various forms of punishment. This hallway boasts the bigger of the rooms in the kennels, equipped with all of the larger torture devices.
It is as familiar to Astarion as the back of his hand.
Maybe more familiar, really. He doesn’t focus on his hands as often as he’s been in this room trying to focus on anything but the feeling of his own body.
Godey manages to fire off a single spell before Astarion grabs onto him and haul him into the torture chamber, nearly vibrating with the feeling of finally having the chance to get a little revenge.
“Stay out there,” he cautions the others. He’s not even remotely surprised that Aurelia and Leon follow him into the room anyway- and to be fair, they have nearly as much reason to want revenge against Cazador’s minion as Astarion does. His only claim to having more rights to this is that he’s got at least a century on either of his siblings and they have spent far less time in Godey’s claws than he.
It’s difficult for him to decide whether Emerie’s presence in the room is welcome or not, but she’s there regardless, and he isn’t going to waste a moment of this to kick her out.
“Well, isn’t this just a lovely little reunion,” Astarion coos at the skeleton. “I have been waiting for this for a very long time.”
He’s allowed Godey the freedom of his limbs. It will be all the more delicious to destroy the monster while it tries to defend itself.
Godey starts to cast a spell, the telltale glow of his eyes a dead giveaway, and Astarion hits him immediately with the spell he’d been wanting to try for days. The cloud of blades surrounds the skeleton, tearing chunks from bones and earning an angry shriek from him.
“What lovely sounds you make, Godey,” he says, putting the same inflection on the words as the skeleton always would when speaking to him.
Leon hits Godey with a blazing inferno next. His jaw is clenched, but he says nothing, merely narrows his eyes as the flames grow larger, making the room overheat.
The skeleton emerges from the flames, scorched and nicked, but still standing. He laughs madly at them. “Oh, I do so look forward to giving you the punishment the master orders when he finds you here.”
Astarion doesn’t bother telling Godey that he won’t survive to see it. He wishes, idly, that Godey had flesh. He would strap him down and flay him just for the satisfaction of getting that much revenge.
It is, unfortunately, impossible.
He watches the skeleton get struck by an arrow that explodes on impact, and he flinches when shards of bone hit him.
All that’s left of Godey is a smoking pile of bone.
When he turns, he sees Aurelia holding a shortbow at her side.
“Oops,” she says, unapologetically.
It isn’t rational to feel so irritated at the skeleton’s demise- it was the only possible outcome, really. He just wishes he could have made it last longer.
There is a glimmer of understanding in Emerie’s eyes that makes him look away from her. “Well, at least he’s gone for good,” Astarion says breezily, kicking a larger piece of bone in the direction of the smoldering pile. “Let’s go.”
He’s the last one out of the room.
He turns back to give it one last look.
How many weeks did he spend here, begging any gods who might have been listening for help? For death? For any relief?
he has no idea.
Far, far too many.
It’s just a fucking room, but it’s somehow more than that as well. It’s his nightmares made solid.
Godey might be gone, but the fucking room remains.
“I wish we could burn it all down,” Aurelia mutters, and when he looks at her she’s frowning. “It’s too bad it’s all stone.” He silently agrees with the sentiment.
A smaller hand slips into his and squeezes lightly, and he knows that she knows exactly what that room was to him. To them.
The warmth is a welcome reminder that that isn’t his life anymore.
Jaheira gives the hallway an assessing look. “I suppose we could always blow it up.” She pauses, then looks back at the group. “When we aren’t in it, of course.”
“An important distinction,” Shadowheart mutters, leading the way down the hall.
The hand slips out of his and Emerie follows the others down the hall, which connects to the large room that holds the staircase leading to the living quarters. They’ll have to pass through that wing to get to the ballroom.
It’s likely to be deserted. The other spawn will be required to put in appearances at the ball as trophies or as entertainment.
Perhaps both.
He pities them, though it’s an odd feeling considering that he has been in their shoes a hundred times over.
Nobody- not even Petras- deserves to be puppeted for entertainment.
Well, maybe Petras. Or Cazador. They both have no respect for the autonomy of others.
The bastards behind this little mind flayer control plot probably qualify too. Gortash certainly qualifies after what he did to Karlach. His gaze finds her ahead, walking close to Emerie.
Emerie could probably think of a few people who deserve a taste of their own medicine as well. She may prioritize forgetting over revenge, but he has a feeling she would be vicious with those who had left her scarred and broken if she had the chance.
The murmur of voices makes the hair on the back of his neck rise. He had assumed that they would be clear of others until they made it near the ballroom.
Clearly, he was mistaken.
The voices stop abruptly when Dalyria comes around the corner with what appears to be two servants. She stops at the top of the wide staircase that they stand at the bottom of. Narrowed crimson eyes take in the first few members of the group before they widen, stalling on Astarion, Aurelia, and Leon near the back.
“What are you doing here?!” she exclaims. “You were free. Why would you come back?!”
Astarion moves forward, putting himself between Dalyria and Karlach and Emerie. Shadowheart and Wyll are still in front of him, but he has no issue with sacrificing them should this conversation turn ugly.
The servants run.
And there goes any element of surprise they might have had.
Except that Shadowheart, Wyll, and Jaheira are already following the servants. With those three on it, they won’t get far.
“Dal, darling, surely you realize I’m here for revenge,” he drawls, sizing her up.
She’s no match for them all. He’d prefer not to kill her, but she’s still Cazador’s slave and if she gets in the way…
He might find it in himself to be sad about it when she’s gone.
“You idiot,” Dalyria hisses, coming down the stairs. She passes Wyll and Shadowheart as if they are nothing to her- and he supposes they aren’t. Dal is all pale and regal, the kind of unapproachable beauty that the bards write songs about. It’s a shame that the red of her eyes doesn’t suit her at all. Those red eyes flash with unbridled fury. “You can’t possibly think you can win here. Leave. Now.” She looks over his shoulder, presumably at Aurelia. “Quickly.”
“No.” Astarion looks her dead in the eyes. “This ends tonight.”
Something shifts at his side, and he glances over to see Emerie taking up the spot next to him. He tenses when Dalyria’s eyes roam over her.
The shock in them is almost gratifying. “Brother, you didn’t.”
He quirks an unamused smile at her. “I didn’t?”
There is naked horror in her eyes. “You can’t resist him… you know what’s going to happen to all of you. Why would you bring her here?”
He feels the brush of fingers against his and he knows Dalyria sees. “I tried to tell her not to come, but she does as she pleases- much like I do, these days.” He pauses to let that sink in. “I don’t want to fight you, Dal. You should go.”
She shakes her head. “Aurelia, please,” she looks over his shoulder.
Then she gasps.
“Hello, sister,” Aurelia says mildly. “It’s good to see you, despite the circumstances.”
“Gods… what have you done?” Dalyria whispers, pushing past Astarion. “You’re mortal,” she says, reaching out to touch Aurelia’s cheek.
Aurelia smirks. “Indeed.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain later, when this is all done. Or someone will. One of us will survive this, I’m sure,” Astarion says. “But you should get out of the way.”
“I can’t.” Dalyria turns back to him, frowning. “We’ve been ordered to stay.”
Well, fuck.
“We could lock her up,” Leon says slowly. “It will keep her out of the way… and unable to respond, should Cazador call for her.”
Astarion grimaces.
It’s not ideal. He certainly would not like to be locked up. He imagines Dal feels the same.
She looks conflicted.
“Will you trust me?” Emerie says to his sister. She glances up at him for a moment, then back at Dalyria. “We can make sure you’re at least comfortable. We will make it through this, and then you’ll be free.”
His sister flinches at the word, as if burned. He understands the feeling. Freedom- true freedom- is so close he can almost taste it, and yet it still doesn’t seem real.
“Astarion?” Dalyria asks, uncertain.
“Come on,” he says. “It’s the best we can do for you until this is all over. I can’t guarantee you’ll survive if Cazador orders you to fight.”
She hesitates before nodding.
Emerie leads the way down the hallway they had just come from.
Notes:
<3 we are getting there.
(Also thanks for the encouragement. It is very appreciated)
Chapter 58
Notes:
I took some artistic license here. I’m imagining the caves under the palace as much more expansive with many more cells because I can and because Cazador had to pile up thousands of spawn somewhere.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Emerie sees Leon take over leading the group on the stairs as she walks away with Dalyria and Astarion.
They pass the room where they had killed Godey, and Astarion mutters, “Absolutely not.”
Fair.
Being chained up in that particular room is probably not going to bring up great memories for Dalyria. Being chained up in any room probably isn’t going to be much better, but at least it isn’t that one.
Emerie pauses in the hall, turning to catch Astarion’s eye, and she sees the grim set of his face when he looks to the door leading to the room where she was held.
“It’ll have to do,” he says. “Do you want to stay…”
She’s already shaking her head. If he can face his own horrible memories, the least she can do is face her own long enough to help. “I’m fine.”
He, thankfully, pushes the door open.
It’s cleaner than it was when she was captive in here, but there are still faint stains of blood against the back wall.
There’s also a crumpled up shirt that she recognizes.
Dalyria inhales sharply when she walks into the room, but Emerie is focused on the shirt that she goes and picks up.
It’s seen better days.
There are stains on it, but it isn’t nearly as ruined as she herself had been when she left this room.
Astarion swears softly behind her when he recognizes it. She clears her throat against the tightness in it at the memory of how she had thought she wouldn’t make it out of here alive.
“So this is why he nearly killed Leon,” Dalyria observes, and Emerie turns around to see her looking at Astarion, who is focused on Emerie and the shirt in her hands.
She drops it.
“I’ll just…” she meets his eyes for a moment and loses her nerve. “I’ll be in the hall,” she mutters.
Astarion catches her hand when she passes him. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he promises.
She nods, not wanting to think about the fact that he’s about to chain his favorite sibling up in that room.
In the hall, she feels like she can breathe again.
She can hear Astarion and Dalyria still.
“Brother, what have you gotten yourself into?”
The clink of chains. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything when we get out of here.”
“You really think you can do it, don’t you?”
A pause. Then, “It’s our best chance.”
“Your… whatever she is. She escaped before.”
A snort. “She did, though that was mostly luck. Leon tried to kill her.”
In retrospect, Emerie should have realized that there was a marked shift in the way Leon had treated her once he figured out that Astarion’s relationship with her was deeper than he had assumed. His twisted version of mercy very nearly had killed her.
“And yet, he’s with you.”
There’s a longer pause and the sound of metal scraping against metal. “That’s all her doing. She is far more forgiving than I am.”
“That’s probably for the best, considering what you’re like.” There’s a snort from Astarion at Dalyria’s observation, then she continues, “You actually care about her.”
Her heart stutters.
Astarion laughs. “You can’t possibly have decided that in the last five minutes.”
“You’re not exactly difficult to read, Astarion. “
She can imagine him rolling his eyes. “One of us will be back for you. If we don’t, try calling for a devil named Mizora. She’s a piece of work, but she’s fond of our warlock friend.”
“Ba careful, Astarion.”
Astarion closes the door behind him. He gives her a slightly wary look. “Alright?”
She nods.
Really, she just wants to be done with this.
He tugs her into a tight hug for a second and she breathes deeply, inhaling his scent before he pulls away.
“Let’s get this over with.”
—-
There are clear sounds of fighting when they get closer to the ballroom. When Astarion and Emerie catch up to the others, there is a small trail of werewolf bodies lining the stone floor.
They’re close.
The last of the wolves goes down under Halsin’s massive bear paw, and a panting Shadowheart assesses the group. “Everyone in one piece?”
A series of nods tells Astarion that the wolves never stood a chance.
Leon raises an eyebrow at them and Astarion gives him a curt nod. He’s a useful ally, but he’s never going to be someone Astarion likes.
He pushes through them and leads the way to the ballroom.
The door is closed, but the lonely notes of a single violin resonate from within. The smell of blood, already fresh and potent in the hall, practically oozes from the room.
There’s no room for hesitation, despite the simmering panic he pushes down.
Now or never.
What the fuck is he doing?
Nausea rolls over him, but he shoves it down- far down- somewhere near the panic that he can’t fucking afford right now.
He pushes the heavy door and it doesn’t budge.
“Move,” Wyll says. Astarion steps out of the way and the warlock blasts the door off the frame.
Effective.
“Gods,” Gale murmurs.
The gods clearly haven’t been here, unless it was Bhaal or some other nightmare. The floor is a shiny crimson, though Astarion knows it isn’t supposed to be. The source of the color is readily apparent by the bodies littering the floor.
He steps inside.
On the slightly raised dais at the back of the hall, his living nightmare sits, a limp body in his lap as he feasts on what’s left of a handsome elf. Off to the right, just in front of the dais, Yousen sits, playing that single lonely violin.
Cazador’s predatory gaze meets Astarion and he has to fight off the crippling fear.
He can’t control me. I’m not alone.
The sheer panic bubbles under his skin.
“Ah, the wayward son returns,” Cazador says mildly, pulling away from the body in his lap that slumps to the floor. “Have you come to beg for forgiveness?”
What?
“Forgiveness?!” Astarion spits, panic replaced by pure rage. “You’ve never forgiven anything.”
Cazador laughs, and opens his mouth to speak again, but then he stops. His face shifts. There’s the briefest moment where pure shock crosses those hateful eyes, but then it’s gone. His eyes narrow. “What have you done?”
Aurelia shoots.
Cazador instantly raises his hand and power pulses, launching Aurelia into the stone wall with a crack.
Cazador laughs. “Oh, this is delightful. You think that you can defeat me? That my power over you was merely a result of our bond? Pathetic.”
Several of the corpses move.
Because of course.
And then the door at the back of the room opens and more werewolves spill into the room.
The violin stops and everything starts moving.
It’s a dizzying whirl of spell explosions and flying bodies- human, wolf, bear, panther, and even owlbear. Astarion doesn’t blink, slicing and dodging and blasting with fire whenever there’s room.
He sees Cazador fade to mist early on and disappear through one of the doors in the back.
He growls his frustration, but it’s enough of a lapse of attention for a werewolf to rake claws down his arm.
It fucking aches, and it’s shredded his sleeve.
An owlbear sends the wolf flying into the wall, where it crumpled to the floor, unmoving.
“Thanks,” he says to Emerie, who screeches and throws herself back into the fray.
He has the oddest flash of memory of her kneeling in front of the owlbear cub after buying it from the goblins. The first time he realized that she wasn’t what he thought she was.
Who knew that would lead to this?
It’s only a minute more of fighting and Yousen is pinned to the wall by vines while everything else in the room aside from their party lies dead. Shadowheart is busy casting healing spells over the more serious injuries, and Jaheira is waiting-as a panther- by the door Cazador had retreated through with her tail twitching.
“Where is he?” Astarion asks Yousen, flicking the blood off his knife.
Yousen doesn’t answer.
Which, of course, is a very Yousen thing to do.
The halfling’s eyes flit to Leon and Aurelia, and he raises his eyebrows at them. Leon heaves a sigh. “It’s a long story,” he says. Yousen’s eyebrows climb higher. “I know where he went,” Leon says grimly, and pushes past Jaheira through the door.
Astarion follows close behind. There’s a moment of shock when Leon presses a hidden button and the wall on the far side of the room gives way to a dark hallway.
“Let’s get this over with.”
The hallway leads to another door, which Leon opens with a phrase- Astarion vaguely remembers him mentioning it during the planning of this little excursion- and Godey’s signet ring.
It opens to an elevator.
Astarion had thought he knew every inch of this godsforsaken place, but he was clearly mistaken.
How long has this been here?
“How long have you known about this?” Aurelia asks from behind.
Leon grimaces. “Too long.”
What does that mean?
Astarion isn’t sure he wants to know.
He isn’t sure he wants to know what’s down here.
They all get onto the platform, and someone pulls the lever to make the platform descend.
There’s a cavern under the palace.
It’s extensive, Astarion sees when he steps off the elevator. He can see multiple levels above them with at least a few rooms, and cages holding what appear to be skeletons hang from long chains in the open expanse of the cave that seems like it might extend all the way down to the Underdark.
The path ahead opens into the abyss below on either side.
It smells like death.
“I don’t like this at all,” Wyll mutters.
Shadowheart grimaces. “It’s like Shar’s temple… except… less friendly. If that’s possible.”
Apt.
Astarion follows Leon down the path, and there is a dawning horror when he realizes that the rooms on either side have bars.
They’re cells.
They aren’t empty.
The passage winds down in a huge spiral, cutting through the rock, and there have to be hundreds of cells on either side.
And the voices.
Hoarse voices come from the cells, begging for freedom, death, help, and a myriad of other things. The group is silent as they descend, the sheer horror of it all enough to keep them from speaking.
It’s a hundred yards down that he hears it.
“I know you,” a voice says, and something in him makes him turn to look.
It’s a human. Long hair and glowing red eyes mark him as a spawn- the same red eyes that have marked the few other poor wretches Astarion made eye contact with before he had resolved not to look anymore.
There’s a suspicion, becoming more and more certain with every step, that Cazador kept his victims.
Perhaps all of them.
And that suspicion is what jogs the memory of this particular man on a night nearly two centuries ago.
“You brought me here,” the voice says. Sebastian.
Astarion is vaguely aware of the rest of the group behind him. Horror, pure and visceral, makes him stumble a single step toward the cell.
“You said… such wonderful things.” The crimson eyes narrow. “My name sounded like a song from your lips.”
He can’t help himself. “Sebastian,” he murmurs, self loathing raging in his gut.
A hundred… nearly two hundred years and Sebastian remembers that.
Astarion had been locked away once, in a casket, for a year. He’d wanted to die. He’d been too weak to even scream by the end.
And here is Sebastian, after two hundred years.
“So you remember me,” Sebastian says bitterly.
Astarion closes his eyes against the pure hate in those eyes. They’d been grey, once. He remembers that. “Go,” Astarion vaguely hears Emerie behind him. “We’ll catch up.”
“You’d never been kissed,” he says quietly, needing Sebastian to know that he remembers.
He’d loathed himself for this… for so many of them… for so long, and he’d thought they were dead. This…
This is a fucking nightmare.
His eyes are hot.
“You taught me how,” Sebastian spits. “And then you destroyed me.”
Astarion sinks to his knees.
I’ve never done this before.
That’s fine.
Sweet sighs and whispered encouragement and then-
What’s your name?
Astarion. What’s yours?
Sebastian.
Sebastian. I like that. A fitting name for a handsome man.
It had been sweet and wonderful up until the compulsion- tempt them. Seduce them if you have to. And then invite them here, for me.
Come home with me. I can show you so many things…
There’s a hand, warm and unwelcome- just like Sebastian’s used to be- on his shoulder. He flinches away from it.
“How long?” Sebastian asks. He’s sunk down with his back against the wall. “How long has it been.”
Astarion nearly chokes on the answer. He feels more than sees Emerie’s concerned glance. “Nearly two hundred years.”
Sebastian’s tears loosen the grip Astarion has over his own and he takes in a shuddering breath as Sebastian laments his lost life.
He can’t.
This isn’t real.
This can’t be real.
How many of them are down here?
He’s startled out of the spiral of his thoughts when there’s a flash of light next to him and a cat takes Emerie’s place.
She walks through the bars of the cell.
—-
She can’t do anything for most of these people. She can’t offer them comfort. The best thing they can do is end Cazador and then…
She supposes they have some work to do after.
As much as it hurts- and gods, does it hurt - to see so much suffering all at once, she can’t fix it.
But she can do something for this one.
For the look on Astarion’s face when he recognized the man in the cell.
For the name.
For the fact that Astarion remembers after all this time and the way he looks so fucking broken about it.
She knows what he’s done. She knows why and how and she’s heard some of his regrets in the dark of night. She knows there is so much more that he hasn’t said.
so much more that he might not ever say.
She wishes she could fix it. Any of it.
But she can’t.
It’s hardly a thought at all to shift into a cat just small enough to pass through the bars of the cell.
“What are you doing?!”
He’s alarmed and distraught and it hurts to know that she’s causing him pain. She shifts back to her own body. “Trust me,” she says to him, then inspects Sebastian.
He hasn’t moved from where he sits against the wall.
He lifts his head from where he’d buried it in his hand with his arm propped on a knee, and looks at her.
“What are you doing?” He asks, and there’s a sorrow there even as she sees him focus entirely on her neck.
“Helping,” she says. She kneels in front of him, turning her back. “We’re going to get you out, but… until then.” She draws her hair over her shoulder.
“Emerie, he’s starving. Get out of there.”
She can hear the panic. Her heart clenches at the thought that now she’s causing him pain.
“It’ll be okay,” she murmurs to Astarion.
She hears the shift of the body behind her.
“Get out,” he growls.
She turns to look.
He’s standing, but he’s locked in on her pulse.
“I don’t want to…” he flinches. “I don’t know if I can control myself.”
He’s starving and he’s worried about her.
That…
Her eyes water.
“Trust me. I’ll be fine.”
It’s several pounding heartbeats before she feels him hit his knees behind her and grab her waist. He pulls her in and then he bites.
It’s clumsy and painful and it’s very clear that he’s ravenous from the way he tears at her neck. The dizziness creeps up so fast that she barely gets the restoration spell off.
He drinks deeply.
Blood spills down her back from the uncontrolled bleed, and she feels him pull away and gasp before coming back down to drink again.
“Stop,” Astarion says at the same time she casts the restoration spell again. “ Sebastian, stop.”
There are several moments where Emerie thinks she may have miscalculated.
Then the vampire behind her pulls away, panting. “I…”
She casts a healing spell and the wound closes.
“You idiot, ” Astarion seethes, eyes burning a hole through the bars of the cage that he has in a white knuckled grip. “He could have killed you.”
She rolls her neck. “He didn’t.”
“I thought we were done with the suicidal nonsense. ”
He still has tears on his face, but clearly his towering fury has eclipsed the horror of Sebastian’s continued existence.
At least for the moment.
“I feel… good,” Sebastian murmurs. “I… I’m not hungry.”
“It won’t last,” Astarion says softly. “It never lasts.” He closes his eyes. “We’re going to get you out. I promise.”
Emerie stands and turns to look at Sebastian. She wraps him in a hug. “We will be back. I’m so sorry.” He’s stiff and clearly uncomfortable, so she backs away and turns back into a cat to exit the cell.
The moment she turns back into herself, Astarion’s eyes flash. “You absolute sentimental idiot.”
“I’m fine, Astarion.”
A pained expression crosses his face. “Why would you risk it?”
She searches his eyes for a moment, considering whether it’s worth saying what she’s thinking.
But they’ve hurt each other before.
“Because in another life, that would have been me.”
Astarion flinches, hard, as if she’d hit him. It probably would have been kinder if she had.
She turns and starts down the spiraling path into the heart of Cazador’s lair.
—-
Notes:
This hurts and I have a feeling it’s gonna hurt forever. I’m never getting over Sebastian. Thanks, Larian, for the trauma.
Chapter Text
It’s one level down when it happens again.
“Hey!” The voice of a child calls. “You!”
Gods help him, he looks.
Narrowed red eyes in a child’s face meet his. “I know you. You’re the one who brought us here.”
It’s the Gur children.
He really kept them all.
The punishment Cazador had devised for the Gur for trying to take him on months ago was harsh. He’d turned most of the healthy adults into werewolves and then he’d ordered them to take the children.
Astarion had assumed he’d killed them. He hadn’t lost any sleep about it. They had made the mistake of crossing Cazador, and it wasn’t his fault…
It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t.
He turns and walks away from the child who is a ball of pure rage, screaming that she’s going to kill him, but he doesn’t miss the half dozen others, all the same size, sharing the cell.
No.
No no no.
He catches the wall several feet down.
He can see her in front of him. She’s been watching.
He can’t blink.
All of them. They’re all here.
She’s impossibly close now and he flinches. “I did what I had to do.” His voice breaks. “I swear. I only did what I had to do.”
Strong arms wrap around him and he hates it and he doesn’t understand and he hates her for thinking she can comfort him like this and thank the gods she’s holding him up because he isn’t sure where the floor went, and oh gods what has he done?
“It’s okay.”
It fucking damned well is not.
“I’m here.”
And why the fuck should she be?
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Does she think if she repeats it that it will make it more true?
“We will make the bastard pay.”
That.
He manages to blink.
“Yes, we will,” he says. He pushes her away. Gently, but away. She needs to stop touching him. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
—-
They catch up to the others outside a huge stone archway at the base of the stairs. Astarion is decidedly not fine, but Emerie knows that it doesn’t matter. This has to happen now.
The consequences can wait.
She feels horrible about what this is doing to him.
She feels guilty for the way she’d considered that he might not care about his victims when the Gur had kidnapped her all those weeks ago. From the look on his face, he cares far more than she ever would have given him credit for.
From the way Leon had reacted, it seems that he has known that all of this was down here. He’s always difficult to read, but he seemed very unsurprised. In the other hand, Aurelia was clearly shocked by the existence of this subterranean tower of horror, but she isn’t nearly as wrecked as Astarion is.
Then again, Astarion has victims who have been in here for centuries. From the admittedly limited information she’s gotten about Astarion’s “siblings”, Aurelia is only a few decades old as a spawn. She can’t have as many victims in here as Astarion does, and the tragedy of being locked up as a trophy to sacrifice for a few decades is admittedly not as bad.
It’s still fucking horrible.
It’s difficult to wrangle her emotions. Emerie is gutted by what’s been done here to these people. Thousands of lives have been ruined, and for what?
Then there’s Astarion.
He has suffered immeasurably at Cazador’s hands. He’s a victim. From what he’s said, he’s even a victim of some of his victims. But he’s also, to all of them, the monster who lured them here.
It’s…
So horribly fucked up.
“Are we ready?” Karlach asks, and there are a series of nods.
Then there’s a growl. “You knew.”
There is pure malice on Astarion’s face when he looks at Leon.
He stalks forward. “You knew they were down here. You knew how to get here. You knew,” he hisses and the dagger in his hand is likely just as dangerous as the hand that closes around Leon’s throat.
The other man doesn’t so much as flinch. “I did.”
Emerie revises her opinion about Astarion not being detail oriented. He doesn’t like to plan details. He’s incredibly perceptive of details that she would never notice- like the fact that Leon clearly knew about all of this.
The muscles in Astarion’s arm don’t give any warning before he takes the knife, lightning fast, and slams it into Leon’s shoulder.
There are several startles gasps and exclamations. Aurelia and Shadowheart both move to stop him before they all realize that Astarion stopped just short of actuallystabbing Leon.
The flash of fear in Leon’s eyes shouldn’t be gratifying, but it is. “Are you done?” he asks, appearing unruffled, but Emerie has already seen the fear. So did Astarion.
He lets Leon go with a frustrated growl and whirls, the hand he had been holding to Leon’s throat flexing as if still considering choking the life out of him. Astarion stalks past Karlach through the door.
“It almost makes me glad I’m an only child,” Gale mutters.
Emerie chokes on a startled laugh.
She doesn’t think Leon and Astarion’s issues fall under what constitutes normal for siblings. There’s the slightest flinch from Shadowheart, but Karlach says, “I dunno. I kind of like the idea of having a brother or sister.”
There’s a slight chuffing sound from Jaheira before she lopes away after Astarion, nearly disappearing with her dark fur blending in to the stone and gloom.
“I agree with whatever she said,” Emerie quips. Her heart pounds as she takes a step after Jaheira.
It’s time.
The cavern they enter contains a platform that looks more or less identical to the one Aylin had been captive on. It’s like the gods gave the same blueprint to every evil overlord and they all merely put their own personal touch on things.
It also vaguely resembles the temple of Bhaal.
If her blood wasn’t singing with the urge to run, fast and far, Emerie might laugh at the idea.
Ah, yes, an evil lair? I have just the builder for you…
Someone had to carve this place out.
Then again, perhaps the gods littered Faerun with evil lairs when they created the land from the ether.
Her thoughts bounce around from absurdity to outright ridiculousness instead of lurking in the nightmare of the moment.
Astarion is halfway to the circular platform, stalking across the path from the entrance to where Cazador stands. Cazador is relaxed as ever, hands clasped behind his back, in the middle of the circle. Behind him on either side stand two spawn, marked by their glowing red eyes. One of them is pale- haired and male. He appears to be-or have been, before being turned- a human.
That has to be Petras.
The other is a dark-haired female who is at least partly elven, though she’s taller than elves usually are. Emerie can’t remember her name. She isn’t sure she’d ever known it.
“How delightful, Leon, that I get the pleasure of turning you twice?” Cazador says, a smug smile on his face. “I admit, I am looking forward to it.”
He pauses, then turns his eyes to Astarion. “You, however…” His gaze narrows. “I do not think that I require you alive.” Cazador takes the staff he’s holding and taps it on the floor, his eyes flashing a bright red as skeletons rise from the floor. “I can always bring you back from the dead to fulfill your final purpose.”
Astarion shifts his weight, ready for a fight. “You will never use me again. Fuck. You.”
Shadowheart and Emerie cast the daylight spell they had prepared exactly for this moment, forming a circular barrier around the large space so that even if he turns to mist, Cazador can’t escape.
Shadowheart follows her own spell with a protection spell that prevents her from being able to be injured.
As long as one of them maintains concentration, the plan should work.
Emerie’s heart stops and she nearly lets the spell drop when Cazador blasts Astarion with the staff, sending him tumbling backward. He scurries to his feet, and the fight begins in earnest.
A cloud of bats descends on the group, making visibility difficult and scratching at exposed skin. Wyll and Gale blast through clouds of them, but they have a hard time destroying them all. Halsin and Jaheira are locked in combat with a half dozen skeletons, leaving Karlach, Leon, Aurelia, and Astarion to fight Petras, the female, and Cazador.
It’s chaos.
Aurelia tosses holy water at the vampires, making them hiss in pain. Emerie does what she can to blast beams of moonlight at them, but it’s difficult while dealing with the bats and holding the wall of daylight up at the same time.
Shadowheart has her eyes closed, brows furrowed, and is chanting the spell nonstop.
Her heart is in her throat watching Astarion take hits from Cazador. He’s holding his own, but the blasts from the staff have already left him visibly bruised and she doesn’t know how much more he can take.
Jaheira is backed to the edge of the platform, one skeleton down but two ripping at her flanks while she tries to destroy them with her claws. Karlach has Petras in a heap on the floor, but she is obviously reluctant to actually kill him, so she seems to be making sure he doesn’t rejoin the fight.
The sounds of fighting echo and make her ears ring. Cazador’s taunts to Astarion make memories echo in her head.
Pretty screams…
“Worthless boy.”
“Haven’t I given you everything?”
“And to think, I graced a useless wretch like you with our eternal gift.”
Astarion, for his part, seems to have decided to channel his fury into movement rather than words. He takes more hits than he lands, having trouble getting close enough to Cazador before Cazador hits him or turns to mist to move away, but Cazador is taking plenty of hits from Wyll and Gale as well. They’re giving Astarion just enough room to take his own revenge.
Leon is hyper focused on the female spawn, who seems to be mad with the desire to claw him to pieces with her nails.
Between the bats, Cazador turning to mist, and trying to continue to cast, Emerie struggles to keep track of everything but she does her best to keep her eyes on Cazador and Astarion.
Shadowheart is sweating and Emerie feels the tug of exhaustion when Cazador finally stumbles. Astarion manages a slice to Cazador’s bicep that has the vampire lord hissing, and then it’s a whirl of the staff and Astarion dodging and swiping with his knives while Halsin jumps in with bear claws shredding Cazador’s leg.
One good blast from the staff knocks Halsin out of wild shape.
Wyll catches Cazador with a searing wall of flame.
Aurelia shoots and the arrow lodges in Cazador’s shoulder.
Leon throws a ball of fire that just misses Astarion and singes Cazador’s sleeve.
Jaheira leaps in and takes her Claws down Cazador’s face.
Astarion is spattered with blood, bruised and limping, and Emerie throws what strength she has left into a beam of moonlight directly on Cazador, who screams with rage. “I am eternal.”
“Not anymore, you utter bastard,” Astarion growls, slamming his knife into Cazador’s chest. Cazador nearly immediately dissolves into a red mist and flies for the barrier of light.
“Oh no you don’t,” Astarion says. “You do not get to heal. No restoring sleep for you.”
Cazador hits the barrier and returns to his body, falling to his knees. “Astarion, boy, think of the power you could have… just one bite is all it would take. Go on. Do it.”
There’s a moment- the briefest moment- when Astarion just looks at Cazador.
Then he kneels in front of him and leans in.
For a second, Emerie thinks he might do it. She nearly screams at him to stop, but then Astarion plucks a knife out of Cazador’s belt.
“You’re pathetic,” he hisses, and then plunges the knife into Cazador’s throat.
He withdraws it and seems to hesitate.
then he plunges it in again with a cry.
And again.
And again.
He sobs.
And again.
It’s like he’s gaining momentum with every stab, brutally butchering the body of the monster who owned him for so long.
Emerie drops the spell and runs to him.
Cazador is lifeless on the floor.
Gone. Forever.
She slips in the blood, ending up practically coated in it when she hits her knees at Astarion’s side and does her best to wrap her arms around him despite the awkward angle.
—-
He weeps.
He doesn’t know exactly what he’s weeping for. Certainly not for the fucking piece of shit lying dead- finally completely dead- in front of him.
His chest hurts.
Each sob deflates his lungs, which automatically suck in more air that he doesn’t need because he’s dead too and his life was destroyed by this pathetic thing in front of him and it’s finally over but it isn’t over and it will never be over because he’s ruined and they are ruined too and gods, how could one horrible fucking monster destroy so fucking much.
It’s over.
It’s over.
He repeats it to himself with each shuddering breath, leaning heavily against the warm body wrapped around his.
He hears the crunch of bone against bone and is startled into looking up.
Aurelia, tears streaming down her face, just sent Petra’s sprawling back down to the floor with a fist to his nose. “Ow. That hurt,” she complains.
Notes:
I am both looking forward to and dreading all of the conversations and emotional fallout from this.
For now, he’s fuckin dead.
Chapter 60
Notes:
Previous two chapters notes:
I chose not to deviate from canon much for Cazador because quite frankly nothing that has happened in this story could meaningfully change the effects of what Cazador did and how facing that affects Astarion in the immediate situation.As for spawn characterizations, ages, etc. we *really* don’t see much of them in the game, so it’s about a paragraph of game info that I’ve thrown a crap ton of my own interpretation on and there are at least a hundred other ways to interpret them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Her knees are sticky with blood. For that matter, all of her is sticky with blood. Her face stings where it has been scratched by tiny claws.
Astarion is calmer now, though she’s sure he isn’t okay. How could he be? But…
Now that Cazador is gone, maybe he can start to be.
“It’s over. It’s finally over,” Astarion says softly- so softly, like he’s trying to convince himself- and looks around at the carnage. He reaches forward for Cazador’s staff, and a red glow flares in his eyes. “This controls the cells,” he murmurs.
He uses it to stand.
Several things happen all at once.
Time seems to slow as Emerie stands, and an eerie feeling has her turning to look behind Astarion. Leon is several feet away and his eyes are beginning to shine with a golden light. The same gold coats his skin in a sheen like sweat, but there is nothing human in the normally stern face of Emerie’s one-time torturer, Victoria’s father, and Astarion’s “brother”.
He raises his hand and she can feel the crackle of power in the air before a cone of pure sunlight erupts in the room. She can hear screaming for a moment, then the light dies and she sees Aurelia scramble backward, away from the smoking remains of what was once Petras.
Emerie doesn’t need to turn to see what happened to the other female spawn.
She meets Gale’s eyes for a split second and sees the horror in his face. She knows that he knows what’s happening here.
That’s not Leon. Not right now.
Lathander’s eyes narrow and his hand rises, pointed at Astarion. Emerie moves, but she also throws out a desperate plea to the universe.
No.
He’s right next to her. She’s in front of him at the same time the ray of flame reaches them, but it meets a wall of green light in front of her all at the same time that she feels herself lose control of her body.
Time feels like it stops.
She is everything and nothing all at once and she wants to scream with the power and pain in her as her body tries to contain the goddess. She is only vaguely aware of Mielikki and Lathander having it out over what she sees as him overstepping.
We do not interfere.
It is the mortals’ choice.
You left this scourge here for half a century. What is half a century more?
Emerie has the vague impression of what Lathander meant to do- exterminate the remaining spawn, including the ones in the cells. She isn’t sure if Astarion is alive. She desperately tries to feel or see or hear with a body that isn’t hers anymore and won’t cooperate
Calm, little one.
Where is he where is her where is he
He lives. Be still.
What does that mean, when she can’t force her body to do anything?
—-
Astarion isn’t sure of anything anymore.
He can see his feet under him, but the world feels strange and dreamlike.
Cazador, dead at his feet.
In what world could that be real?
Petras and Violet, both smoldering piles of death, and isn’t that equally strange? Killed by sunlight underground.
The staff in his hands sends shivers of power through him, along with the knowledge that it controls life and death and doors and he can almost feel Mephistopheles’ eyes on him from within the staff, narrowing in recognition that the person holding it belongs to him.
He’d drop it, but the god possessing Leon seems to want the staff.
It doesn’t seem like a good idea to let him have it.
He laughs at the absurdity of it all.
After everything, after every desperate prayer and groveling promise to gods who never listened and never saved him, Cazador lies dead at his feet and finally a goddess appears to protect him when it’s all over.
It has to be a dream.
Or he’s going mad.
He’s mad. A laughing, raging madman coated in Cazador’s blood, with the power of life and death in his hands and a god and goddess fighting over whether he gets to live or die.
—-
The power fizzling through her veins thicker than blood fizzles out all at once and Emerie hits her knees and vomits.
Leon, several feet in front of her, outright loses consciousness.
“What in the hells was that?” Shadowheart asks loudly, coming to her- brave of her, really- and touching her shoulder with a glowing hand. A cool sensation flows through Emerie and she feels marginally better, but still stretched thin and completely fucking exhausted.
“That,” Emerie says, getting to her feet with a grimace, “Was a celestial pissing match.”
Gale, hands in his pockets, shifts his weight uncomfortably. “That,” he says, “Is what happens when a god decides they own you.” He looks pityingly at Leon’s crumpled form. “He might not wake for days.”
Emerie rolls her neck side to side. “Good.” She needs a few days to recover from all of this, and she will feel better about that if Leon is out of commission.
Because he’d almost…
She whirls, finding Astarion behind her, still standing exactly where he had been when Lathander had tried to blast him from existence. He’s looking at her strangely.
“What now?” he says, and he looks so lost it hurts.
She shakes her head. “I have no idea.”
“Well, I for one could use a bath,” Karlach groans. “Killing people is a messy business.”
Jaheira walks closer and breathes deeply. “We will have to figure something out for…” she gestures upward, toward the curving ascent of cells leading out of this place, and grimaces. “It’s going to take a very long time to help the ones who want helping.” Astarion flinches. “I can probably get some of my people down here for that,” she says.
Emerie nods and bites her lip. “I can give you the cure,” she says, not looking directly at Astarion. “For those who want it.”
“I can teleport us out,” Gale says. “Whenever we’re ready.”
There’s a slight pause.
“I need to take care of some things here,” Astarion says softly. “You all can go. I know my way.”
She can’t decide what hurts worse- that he might think she doesn’t want to be here for him, or that he doesn’t want her here. “I’m staying,” she murmurs, and he gives her the barest nod of acknowledgment.
“I’ll stay, too,” Shadowheart says, stretching. “Just in case.”
Jaheira takes stock of the group and nods, a general surveying her troops. “Right. I’ll be back with help,” she says. “Do what you need to do.”
Everyone but Shadowheart, Emerie, and Astarion is gone a few moments later.
“I should have thought this through,” Shadowheart grimaces. “It’s all uphill from here.”
Shadowheart shrouds them in darkness for the ascent.
Astarion seems to know exactly how far up Sebastian is by the way he slows when approaching his cell. Shadowheart drops the wall of shadow blocking them from the view of the cells when Astarion stops.
Sebastian is sitting propped against the opposite wall of his cell from where he was when they left him. He watches Astarion come closer, a predatory glint in his eyes. “It’s over,” Astarion says hoarsely. He raises the staff hesitantly, and his eyes glow strangely. There’s a grinding noise and the front of the cell slides into the floor.
Sebastian stands.
He puts his hand through the air where the bars used to be.
He steps through.
The look in his eyes changes from predatory to dazed in the space of a breath. “I’m… free?”
Astarion flinches. Sebastian notices.
In the space of another breath, he’s lunging for Astarion. The staff falls to the floor with a clatter, and Sebastian’s hand closes on Astarion’s throat.
Emerie’s heart stops and then starts again, thundering against her chest. “No!” she yells, and time seems to stand still for a second.
The empty look in Astarion’s eyes is terrifying.
Shadowheart swears quietly, sizing up the two vampires as if trying to figure out what she can do to separate them without hurting Astarion.
“Go ahead,” Astarion says quietly, and Emerie’s heart feels like it truly stalls when she realizes that Sebastian has taken Astarion’s knife.
“Don’t. Please,” Emerie cries, stumbling a step toward the two. Exhaustion is a lead weight slowing her down for what feels like the longest seconds of her life as she tries and fails to stop the inevitable.
“Why,” Sebastian croaks, his head turned ever so slightly in her direction.
“It won’t change anything. It won’t make any of this better. Please,” she says, trying and failing to call on any of her power.
Astarion’s eyes flit toward her for a second, but then they return to Sebastian. He looks so, so tired. As tired as she feels. “I got my revenge,” he says. “You should have yours, too.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenches.
“Don’t be an idiot, Astarion,” Shadowheart says. “There are less dramatic ways to die, and I for one am too tired for this.”
Emerie shoots Shadowheart a look that she hopes conveys just how unhelpful she finds that.
It seems, however, to get through to Sebastian. He lets go of Astarion and the knife at the same time.
“What now?” He whispers. The empty look on his face is too much.
“I don’t know,” Astarion says blankly.
“Now we start walking. I’m not sleeping down here,” Shadowheart says testily.
It’s insensitive, considering how Sebastian has spent the last centuries, but it gets the vampires to start walking.
She’s going to kill him later, Emerie resolves. Or kiss him until he loses the vacant look in his eyes. Or both.
—-
Dalyria is clearly surprised to see them.
It would be gratifying if he could feel anything anymore.
“You survived,” she whispers when they open the door. “You…. You survived?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Shadowheart drawls.
Astarion almost wants to laugh. Almost. Shadowheart is a nightmare when she’s tired.
He releases Dal’s arms from the shackles and is grateful that the stench of Cazador’s blood on him drowns out the old smell of Emerie’s blood in this room. Dalyria massages her wrists when she’s freed. “It’s over?”
“That does seem to be the theme of the evening, yes.”
He actually does laugh slightly at that. The look one Emerie’s face is a small part relief and at least part anger and part pure exhaustion, and he feels crushing guilt for keeping her.
Then again, he didn’t exactly ask her to stay.
It’s not much of an excuse. He knew she would stay without being asked.
“Let’s get out of here, at least. I don’t ever want to see this place again,” Astarion drawls, trying to at least act normal.
Dalyria and Emerie both have looks on their faces that tell him that the attempt fell flat.
Gods, but he’s tired. The specter of Sebastian with them haunts his every step and thought, making him wish he could turn back time.
A fantasy.
Then again, Cazador being dead is also a fantasy.
Jaheira meets them at the stairs. “I brought some assistance,” she says. “You all look dead on your feet.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Astarion says. “Very funny.”
She waves off his annoyance. “Lyons can teleport you to the Elfsong. I have a few trusted people who will keep this secure until we can come up with a real plan to deal with everything down below.”
“Sounds good,” Emerie says quietly. “Are you staying?”
“For now,” Jaheira says.
Emerie nods. She grabs onto Astarion’s hand. “Let’s go,” she says to Lyons, who makes a complicated gesture and they reappear within the suite of rooms upstairs at the Elfsong.
Emerie immediately takes over Sebastian, herding him toward a room that Astarion knows has a single bed. He can hear her telling him where the bathing rooms are and telling him that she will find him some clothes.
Aurelia stands from one of the tables. “Dalyria,” she says warily. “Hello.”
“I’m going to bed,” Shadowheart announces. “If there are any emergencies, don’t wake me.”
Dalyria looks Aurelia up and down. “You look… good.” Astarion snorts. Dalyria rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what am I supposed to say? Hello, sister, I’ve noticed you’re mortal now?”
“It would be more honest,” Aurelia observes.
“Where are the others?”
“Leon is… indisposed,” Aurelia says. “But alive. Yousen is I have no idea where. Violet and Petras didn’t make it.”
The smallest tinge of sadness registers Dalyria’s face before she schools it back to neutrality. “I see,” she murmurs.
“You can sleep in my room,” Aurelia says. “There’s plenty of room. I’m sure they’ll break out the cure for you when everyone is clean and rested.” She gives Astarion a pointed look.
He clears his throat. “Right.” He looks down at his blood-caked clothing. He should probably take care of that.
Emerie reappears, making her way toward him.
And he’s going to have to face her.
He beelines toward their shared room, knowing that it will only give him a few extra seconds, but it’s a few seconds he needs.
She knew what he was like before, at least a little, but now she knows. She had seen cells upon cells of his crimes, displayed like old furniture left to rot in an attic. That would have been me. It echoes in his head. There are hundreds of her down there.
Maybe not her, specifically, but close enough.
She shuts the door behind her and it almost sounds like a casket snapping shut.
He knows what’s coming.
It’s been nice, since the nautiloid, to be judged solely on the basis of his own choices. He’s made mistakes, but they were his mistakes. He’s done good things as well, and it was him.
The evidence of his past has caught up to him.
The problem is, all of the terrible things he’s done are such a blend of what Cazador forced him to do and what he did to survive it that he can’t separate what horrible things are him and what are Cazador- if they can even be separated. He doesn’t know if he would have been the same if Cazador hadn’t turned him into this monster.
A warm hand touches his shoulder and he flinches, but he turns around anyway. He refuses to meet her eyes.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says softly, and he’s so startled that he looks up. He can’t tell if she hates him now. She’s so tired that her face gives nothing away, but she steps toward the vanity and pours water from a pitcher into a basin. She wets one of the soft towels next to it and turns back to him.
She reaches for his face. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Her brow furrows. “What you would do for me. Be still.” She gently starts to wipe his face clean, and he’s so shocked that he catches her wrist on the second swipe of the cloth over his cheek.
“Don’t.” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Just don’t.”
She brings her other hand up and swipes moisture that isn’t blood off his cheek. “Are you sure?” she asks, and he can’t answer that. He doesn’t know the answer. He just knows that if she’s kind to him now and then leaves, he’s going to fall to pieces and he doesn’t think he will be able to put them back together.
She searches his eyes for answers, but he has none to give her. “Okay,” she says mildly. She hands him the towel.
He stares at it while she goes about cleaning herself up. After the third time she looks over, he starts to scrub his face. When she peels off her leathers and cleans the congealed blood from her neck, he nearly flinches again. That would have been me.
He’d picked Sebastian. Cazador didn’t do that. Astarion chose Sebastian.
Astarion chose Emerie.
She’s done. She’s cleaned up and changed and she watches him stare into the broken mirror on the vanity for a moment, the bloodied towel in front of it damning him as much as Sebastian and the hundreds of others do.
“I’m going to go get something to eat,” she says, and his heart sinks.
He doesn’t want her to leave. He nods, needing to let her choose, and she hesitates for only a moment before leaving.
He waits a minute before he starts going through the motions of shucking off the bloodstained leathers and scrubbing himself clean. He finds soft pants and a soft, billowy black shirt in their bags- and he’s glad Emerie left them- and underneath them a familiar potion vial.
The mind reading potion.
He takes it out, turning it over in his hand while he wonders if he should drink it. Maybe if he knows what she’s thinking, he will be able to explain…
He sets the potion on the vanity and pulls on his clothes.
When he sits on the edge of the bed, he stares at the potion for so long that he’s fairly sure the silent tears have dried up, and he still isn’t sure what he should do.
It can’t have been long-he’s still undecided- when she returns.
She shuts the door gently and takes in the scene.
He sees when she spots the potion on the vanity. She goes over and picks it up, looking at it, then him. “Here,” she says. “Drink it.”
He doesn’t want to. He shakes his head.
Emerie frowns slightly. “Astarion?”She reaches out to touch his cheek, then hesitates.
It hurts.
It shouldn’t hurt. He’d known it was all borrowed time anyway.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, and he watches the conflicted flicker in her eyes.
He shakes his head at her. She shouldn’t do anything for him.
A hand, warm and kind, runs along his cheek and back into his hair. His eyes drift shut against his will.
His throat gets tight, but he forces words past it anyway. “You shouldn’t touch me like that.”
A slight hesitation. “Like what?”
Like she cares. Kindly. Warmly. He doesn’t suppose she can help being warm, butane she should try. “Like you love me.”
The hand stills. “I do love you.”
He shakes his head again. “You shouldn’t. I’m…”
She sighs. “You’re the strongest person I know,” she murmurs. Her hand withdraws from his hair and she perches on the bed next to him.
His eyes fly open and he follows her every move. “What?”
“Astarion. I…” she inhales slowly. “Look, I had people too. People who knew me before I was… you know.” She pauses for a second. “I could go back, I suppose, after all of this is over, but I won’t. I can’t face them. I can’t bear to see what they think of how I’ve changed. Why I’ve changed. Where I’ve been.” She sighs. “I certainly never want to face the people who beat me or used me or sold me again. You just faced all of it. Your demons, your “family”, your friends, Cazador- you faced them all.”
His chest aches. He thinks his face might be wet again.
She rests the side of her head against his shoulder. “You are so strong,” she says softly. “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve you.”
He makes a pathetic noise that he wishes he’d held back.
Emerie stands and pulls back the blankets. She tugs on his hand to get him to move, so he lays down on the bed facing the wall.
At least it gives him a modicum of privacy.
Emerie tucks herself around him, wrapping him in warmth as she pulls the blankets over them. “Sleep,” she says. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
Notes:
😭
Chapter 61
Notes:
As a blanket response to last chapter’s comments, I know.
I planned it from the beginning, but it still hurts. 💔❤️🩹
It’s all uphill from here, folks.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Emerie wakes, she hardly feels like she’s slept at all. Her body hurts all over, and she only has the barest reserves of power to call upon.
She’s lucky it hadn’t come down to an actual fight between Mielikki and Lathander. She doesn’t think Mielikki would have won that particular battle. Even if she had, the power usage would have had her asleep for a week.
Astarion lies next to her on his back. Bruises cover most of his face and she imagines that the rest of him is just as battered. He had taken the brunt of Cazador’s wrath, and he didn’t have any healing powers of his own and hadn’t been seen to by any of the others yet.
The tiny reserve of magic is enough for her to cast a healing spell that at least fades some of the bruising under his eyes.
They slide open, crimson and exhausted.
He catches her hand in his and holds it to his cheek, his eyes shutting again. “Good morning,” he says hoarsely.
“Good morning.” She runs her thumb along the fading bruise on his cheekbone. “How are you?”
He blinks up at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he says at length.
After everything he’s been through just in the last week, she would be surprised if he did know how to feel. “Alright,” she says. She runs her fingers down his jaw, then his neck, and stops when her hand is over his heart. She presses her forehead into his upper arm and closes her eyes.
She’s sinking into the blissful oblivion of sleep again when he starts talking.
“When Cazador turned me, it was the worst pain I had ever felt. I still remember the agony as my heart beat its last. It was hours of paralyzed agony before I could move, and then I had to claw my way out of my own grave.
“I was rebellious at the start. Cazador was still learning, then, how to keep control and how to stay under the radar. He lost several spawn to his own or their own carelessness. After a few years, people started asking questions. He made enemies. Then he became a recluse.
“It was awful before that, but it became so much worse.”
He’s silent for a minute, then, “I told you once that he locked me in a coffin for a year. There was a boy. Man. Young and handsome. I would flirt with him any time I went out. I had my favorite haunts, back then. He was… wonderful. And then one night, I felt the compulsion begin to take hold and I couldn’t bear to be the one to hurt him. So I ran. But I couldn’t run far or fast enough to escape.”
He takes a breath.
“I tried to claw my way out like I did with my own grave, but I couldn’t. I still remember how it felt. How the silence was so loud it was painful. How I would scream sometimes just to be sure that my ears still worked. How I begged the gods for mercy or death or both.
“I never ran again.”
She fists her hand in his shirt.
“There were hundreds. I don’t even remember most of them. Some of them were terrible. They weren’t all… they weren’t all sweet or kind. Some outright disgusted me. But I didn’t have a choice. I was a puppet and I had to bring him someone. I stopped caring.
“But every now and then, there was a Sebastian.” He inhales raggedly. “Sweet and shy and a little naive.”
His hand comes up to cover hers.
“They were often the easiest to… manipulate. To get to follow me back.”
He drifts into silence, and she waits to see if he speaks again before she clears her throat. “You know why, don’t you?” she says softly.
“Why what?”
“Why the sweet ones were the easiest for you. And the hardest.” She feels the shift in his body as he shakes his head. “It’s because you understood them best. Because that’s who you are. So you knew how to manipulate them.”
His chest rises and falls and his hand squeezes hers.
“That’s who you are without Cazador,” she murmurs tiredly. “Without the fear and the pain and everything else, you are sweet.”
“And beautiful,” he says, and she can hear the tears in the way his voice trembles. “You can’t forget that.”
She laughs softly. “And beautiful,” she agrees. “And not just because you’re pretty to look at.”
—-
She fell asleep.
She’d eviscerated him thoroughly and then she just… fell asleep.
Astarion marvels at the way she manages to both destroy him and knit him back together all in the same breath. She’s been doing it since they met. It’s strange to be seen and understood in such a way. It’s liberating too.
It has been over a century since he last trusted his own mind. The fog he’d lived in when he was a starving spawn is nothing but a memory now, but he had hardly felt like a person then. With his body not being his and his mind always succumbing to Cazador’s commands, he hadn’t been certain of anything in so long.
But she is.
Emerie is certain of who he is when he still doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what that says about him or about her, but it’s surprisingly… nice… to be able to just be and to have the ugly and beautiful parts of him sorted through by a caring hand until his pieces begin to resemble an actual person. A person worth existing.
He stares at the ceiling for a while longer. He watches her sleep for a while after that. Eventually, though he dreads it, he extricates himself from the bed and leaves the room.
It’s a strange world where Jaheira, Wyll, Aurelia, and Dalyria are all sitting around a table together, eating what appears to be a large breakfast. He blinks in surprise when Dalyria turns green eyes on him.
They work fast, it seems.
“Good morning,” Aurelia says. “You look like shit.”
He isn’t surprised. His body is one big ache from being slammed around yesterday. “You have such a way with flattery,” he drawls. “I’m blushing.”
“Be grateful you didn’t spend the night next door to Halsin, or you would really be blushing,” Shadowheart says sourly.
Astarion quirks an eyebrow at her.
She glances over at Dalyria with a pointed look.
Oh.
“Enjoying your freedom, then, Dal?” he teases. “Not even a day. I’m impressed.”
She takes a dainty sip of whatever is in her cup. “Not that you can talk,” she says to Astarion. “Aurelia tells me that it wasn’t even three weeks after you left that you took up with the half-elf.”
“Emerie,” he corrects, sliding into a chair next to Jaheira. The surreal feeling only increases. A hero of Baldur’s Gate, the Blade of Frontiers, a former Sharran, and two former vampire spawn all sitting around eating breakfast is strange enough. Stranger still is waking up to a sunrise where Cazador no longer exists.
Even stranger is seeing Aurelia and Dalyria in a patch of sunlight.
“How is she?” Wyll asks. “She seemed dead on her feet at dinner last night.”
“She’s exhausted, but fine.” He shrugs. “She’s been through worse.”
An understatement. Shadowheart grimaces, clearly remembering the same thing he is.
She catches him looking toward the door he knows Sebastian is behind. “He’s adjusting,” she says. “I think it’s a shock.”
It’s a shock to Astarion. He can only imagine what it is to Sebastian.
He debates for only a moment before he gets up. “I’ll be back,” he says, and makes his way to the door.
When he knocks, a gruff voice tells him to enter.
He’s sweating.
It’s not something that happens often.
He turns the knob and goes in, shutting the door behind him. The window is open, sunlight streaming into the room. Sebastian is on the floor, cross legged, with his back against the side of the bed. He glances away from the window for a moment to see who it is, then looks back outside.
“Hey,” Astarion says, not knowing what else to say.
Sebastian doesn’t say a word.
“Is there anything…” he trails off, unsure. “Is there anything you need?”
Gray eyes flit to his, then away. “I don’t know,” the quiet voice of his one time victim sounds so empty. “I haven’t had anything in so long.”
Astarion shuts his eyes for a moment.
He tries to imagine being starved and alone and without a single comfort for nearly two centuries. He can’t wrap his mind around it.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, because it seems like the right thing to start with.
Sebastian shakes his head.
“Well, let’s start with that,” he offers. He reaches out a hand to help Sebastian up. He feels like crying- again- when the man reluctantly takes it.
Notes:
Everyone needs a hug.
Much love to you all and thank you for reading 💛
Chapter 62
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The hot water of the bath soothes some of her lingering aches. The exhaustion that had weighed Emerie down has faded somewhat- at least to the point that she can manage a true bath. There is something healing about soaking in warmth compared to simply wiping the grime from her skin with a rag.
There’s a quiet knock on the door and then the knob turns. She already knows who it is before the door opens, but when Astarion appears in the opening she is still relieved that it’s him and not someone else. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She leans her head back against the edge of the tub. “How are you?”
He shrugs. He shuts the door behind him, then leans back against it. “I don’t know,” he says in the same tone one might use to comment on the weather. “I never thought I’d live to see a world without Cazador in it. It’s… strange.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” she jokes.
He quirks a small smile at her. “I just never considered what I’d do if I ever had… well, freedom.” He shrugs. “Revenge was as far as I ever planned.”
She tilts her head. “Sometimes, I think making plans for the future is the hard part. If you have something to look forward to, it means you can be disappointed.” She shrugs. “I’m not going to get too ahead of myself, though. We could still turn into tentacled monsters any day.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “A lovely image,” he says sarcastically. He steps closer to the tub, pulling the stool near the wall so that he can sit on it behind her head. He absently combs his fingers through her hair. “Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to think that we might just survive all of this.”
“I do, too,” she says softly, her eyes drifting shut. She luxuriates in the soft scrape of his nails against her scalp.
They’re silent for a while. He uses his hands to guide her head back into the water, running his fingers through the strands in the water to clean them. “He’s never going to be able to forgive me,” he says after a while. His voice is low and soft. It’s a confession meant for her ears only.
“Maybe,” she says. Sebastian has spent centuries hating Astarion. The fact that he can accept being in the same room with Astarion is a miracle.
Astarion might think that what he’s talking about is Sebastian’s forgiveness, but she knows what he really means.
He might never be able to forgive himself.
Astarion is generally practical. He has said repeatedly that he didn’t have a choice- that he did what he had to do- but she can see the look in his eyes that says that he’s trying to convince himself of that as much as he’s trying to convince anyone else.
“At least now he has a chance to live his life,” she says.
Astarion hums slightly. His fingers work through a stubborn knot in her wet hair. “A life forever tainted by what happened to him.”
“Just because something terrible happened to someone doesn’t mean the rest of their life isn’t worth living.” The words are out of her mouth before she’s fully thought them through. Her heart stalls momentarily in her chest as she realizes that she actually means it. She tilts her head back to look up at Astarion. His eyes are distant and thoughtful. He twists her hair up and squeezes the excess water out, then lets it fall over the side of the tub.
“Dalyria and Aurelia are going to go deal with the situation at the Szarr Palace,” he murmurs. “Jaheira has ironed out most of the logistics, I suppose. She works fast, that one.”
Emerie makes a noise to indicate that she’s listening, even though she’s let her eyes fall shut again.
“She offered Sebastian a place with the Harpers.”
“Is that what he wants?”
“I don’t know.” Astarion sighs. “I doubt he knows what he wants, after everything.”
Silence again. Fingers lightly trace one of her collarbones for a while.
“I wish I knew how to help him,” Astarion says softly.
Emerie opens her eyes to look up at him.
It’s a strange sentiment, coming from Astarion. When she’d met him, she couldn’t have imagined him caring so much about helping someone who could do nothing for him.
He’s changed.
Or he’s finally able to be himself.
It’s hard to say what he would have been if not for Cazador, but she’s starting to think it might have been something like this.
“I know,” she murmurs, because she thinks he just needs someone to understand right now.
—-
There isn’t a moment of peace for days.
Astarion thinks that the world should stand still for a while. It’s a strange new place without the specter of his former master hanging over everything.
The world does not stand still.
As a matter of fact, it’s like everything speeds up to the point that he can hardly comprehend what’s happening anymore.
Mizora alerts them to the urgent need to rescue Wyll’s father from an underwater prison before he’s assassinated. They are fortunate enough to have information on where to get on the submersible craft that takes them to the prison. Astarion manages to talk the pilot into taking them down, but it’s a mad dash from there to save Daddy Ravengard and (of course) the other prisoners.
Saving them all may be the right thing to do. Astarion still isn’t sure. The rescue mission almost ends in a watery grave for all of them.
It’s not the most dangerous thing they’ve all done together.
They blow up the factory that makes the giant steel monstrosities that make up the Steel Watch the same night.
The billowing smoke can be seen from everywhere in the city, and the glow of the flames is visible from the window in their room at the Elfsong for most of the night.
Sebastian and Dalyria and Aurelia are all gone.
It’s a relief to Astarion. Every time he sees them, he has to try not to think about his complicated history with them. Killing Cazador has already dredged up a thousand horrible memories, and facing his siblings or his victims makes it a thousand times more difficult to shut those memories down.
Leon hasn’t woken by the third dawn post-Cazador.
Astarion had thought Gale might have been exaggerating how much sleep would be necessary to recover from channeling a god. It appears that he was not.
He wishes Leon would wake up so that they might be rid of him.
That third day begins with a pale-faced and anxious Shadowheart coming upstairs with a breakfast tray, setting it down with shaking hands. “I think…” she says, then trails off, staring into space.
“Shadowheart?” Karlach asks after it becomes apparent that the other woman isn’t going to finish speaking.
“Sorry.” Shadowheart takes a shaky breath. “Sorry,” she mutters. She shakes her head. “I think I know where to find my parents.”
And she does. And they rescue her parents. And she cries.
And there’s something about Shadowheart crying for the parents she doesn’t remember that stirs something in Astarion. There’s a deep longing for the family that he can’t remember.
He hugs her while she cries.
She stiffens in surprise for all of a second before she buries her face in his shoulder and sobs.
He waits until Emerie falls asleep every night to curl up against her back, pressing his face between her shoulders.
He isn’t sure where they stand.Nothing seems to have changed for her. She treats him more or less the same as she has always treated him, even though she’s seen enough to know better.
Everything has changed for him.
He is both well and truly free and somehow more shackled to his past all at once. It’s as if destroying Cazador has cracked the armor he’s built within himself to survive. He can’t distance himself from the fact that he’d destroyed lives anymore. When he’d thought that his victims were dead, it was easier. Now he has to face the fact that there are hundreds of people who now have to live with what he’s done to them.
He has to live with it, too.
He also has to find a way to live with what was done to him, as well, rather than just surviving it.
It’s terrifying. It’s strange. It’s…
Nice.
The companionship of the others, while originally strange and terrifying, is nice too.
He breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of the woman in front of him.
This thing with Emerie, also strange and terrifying, is undeniably nice as well.
“Hey,” she whispers into the dark.
He freezes. “Hey.”
After everything, he’s afraid to overstep with her. She may accept him. She may even have feelings for him, still. That doesn’t mean that she wants… whatever this is… with a monster.
He’s been waiting and wishing for some sort of indication from her that she still wants him.
They’ve been busy.
And he had asked her, all those nights ago, to not initiate anything.
He regrets it at this moment.
“I missed you,” she confesses.
It’s something. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a soft inhale, and then she rolls over so that she’s facing him. She tries to read him. He can see the questions in her eyes, but he doesn’t have answers for her. He doesn’t even have answers for himself.
She rises up on one elbow and kisses his forehead. “Don’t be sorry,” she says, making something in his throat tighten. She settles back down to sleep, as if nothing of importance had happened.
—-
Leon wakes the next morning.
“Well, well. Welcome back to the land of the living.” Astarion gives him a sideways glance when he appears, looking haggard, in the common area. “Is it a normal day, or are we going to start blasting people from existence? If it’s the latter, I have some suggestions.”
Leon all but collapses into a chair at the table.
“Graceful,” Astarion drawls.
Leon reaches for a cup and pours himself some water, then downs it in one gulp before refilling it. In the most undignified manner Astarion has ever seen from his ‘brother’, Leon’s head falls forward and his forehead makes hits the table with a thud. He groans. “Never again,” he says weakly.
“Funny.” Astarion tilts his head. “I didn’t think the gods asked before borrowing bodies”
“They don’t,” Emerie volunteers helpfully from the other side of the room. “Some seem to be kinder about it than others, however.”
—-
Jaheira takes them to her house.
It’s a lovely and sprawling affair on the edge of the river. The stone is light and vines trail almost lovingly along the walls and curl around the windows. A bald man dodges the strike of a wooden sword aimed at him by a child and laughs. An orange cat lounges on the rail of the porch that ascends from the path, half in the sun and half out. Jaheira stops to give it a scratch, and the child with the sword sees her and bolts for them. “Mother!”
Emerie blinks.
Somehow, despite the fact that Jaheira has a slighy maternal air to her, Emerie never actually pictured her with children.
The bald man approaches at a more sedate pace while the child launches itself into Jaheira, wrapping her in an enthusiastic hug. “It is good that you have come to rescue me, my friend. Boo and I were in grave peril from the small human.”
Jaheira laughs. “I see that.” She pushes the child back slightly by the shoulders. “Where are the others?”
The child shrugs. “Inside, probably.” He leads the way through the door into the estate. “RION! JORD! MOTHER’S HOME!”
Emerie shares a look with Astarion that leaves her grinning. He looks floored. “I never pictured Jaheira as a mother,” he mutters.
A tall, green, half-orc pokes his head out of a door to the right. “Mother!” he says with a smile. A thunder of footsteps can be heard above, as well as several shrieks and what sounds like claws skidding on wooden floors. “Jord,” Jaheira says warmly and steps into the Half-orc’s open arms. “How are things?”
Jord looks at the ceiling. “As good as can be expected,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Rion’s at her wits’ end with the children.”
Jaheira cackles.
“DON’T RUN ON THE STAIRS!” A young female voice rings through the house, immediately follows by a series of thuds that makes Emerie wince.
Leon, behind her, curses softly. “This is a madhouse.”
A huge ball of feathers comes barreling down the hall, a chorus of shrieks and giggles somewhere behind. Pounce skids to a halt in front of Astarion, then launches himself at him.
Emerie giggles at the annoyed sound Astarion makes when the cub knocks him back a step. “Hello, you feathered menace,” Astarion mutters. “I see you haven’t learned any manners.”
A squeak from the end of the hall has Emerie looking up. “Astarion!” Victoria shrieks, running and flinging herself at the vampire.
He looks floored.
So does Leon, for that matter.
Astarion pats Victoria’s shoulder gingerly. “As lovely as this is,” he says, “I think there’s someone here who you are more anxious to see.”
Victoria pulls back and looks around.
Her face freezes when she sees her father. Then it crumples. “Father!” She scrambles away from Astarion and launches herself at Leon.
He lifts her into his arms, holding her tight and burying his face in her hair.
Notes:
This is so not my favorite chapter by a long shot, but transitions are necessary, I guess.
💙
Chapter 63
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Victoria chatters at a dizzying pace, trying to fill her father in on everything that has happened to her in the last few weeks. “And THEN Pounce got us banned from the park even though there weren’t any rules about owlbears, but the lady was really loud about how scared her dog was and I’ve been trying to teach him not to chase the other animals but he really likes to play and it’s not his fault that they’re scared of him…”
Astarion grins at the stunned look on Leon’s face as he listens to his daughter, who has changed immeasurably since leaving the Szarr Palace. Mol and Arabella’s influence is undeniable, but there’s a strong thread of wonder at the world that is Victoria’s own. The leather leggings and braided hair give the child an air of toughness that is wildly different than the silent ghost of a creature she used to be.
It’s satisfying to see her beginning to discover her place in the world. It’s more satisfying to imagine how terrifying that is for Leon.
Jaheira left them in some kind of living area- dominated by plants- while she left to take a meeting with her ‘daughter.’ They may as well have stayed in the room, because the shouting match is audible enough that they can hear most of the conversation.
“— COME AND GO AS YOU PLEASE AND THEN MAKE DEMANDS OF ME—“
“And there are so many flavors. Have you ever had lemon candy? It’s sooo good. I think it’s my favorite…”
“—DON’T CONTROL THE UNIVERSE, NO MATTER WHAT YOU BELIEVE—“
“And Jord took me to this place that sells food from Calimshan and you haven’t lived until you try it. We have to go there, father.”
Astarion barely sees Emerie duck out of the room in his peripheral vision and he follows. She walks through the house , glancing into two doorways before stepping into a darker room that appears to be little more than a storage room.
She’s leaned against the wall, eyes closed and breathing deeply, when he steps in and shuts the door. She jumps. “Gods!” Her hand flies to her chest. “You scared me,” she accuses, her glistening eyes narrowing.”
“Flattery will get you anywhere,” he jokes. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”
“Even better,” he says, leaning against the door. “I’m tired of discussing only important things all day.”
She giggles at the same time a tear falls, and he’s surprised that he has to resist the urge to lean forward to wipe it away.
She wipes it away for him. “It’s just…” she gestures loosely around them. “This house. Victoria. It’s so…”
“Lovely, but vaguely threatening?”
She laughs outright. “No. It’s not that. She just… loves life. And I’m so happy for her. And this house is so perfect. It’s the kind of place I would have loved to live.”
He raises an eyebrow at her. He isn’t sure why that would make her cry. “Well, Jaheira is quite old. You could try to get her to leave it to you when she inevitably croaks, but from the sounds of it, you’d have to fight her spawn. The shouting one is a little terrifying.”
She laughs again. It makes something warm take root inside him. He did that.
“I don’t want Jaheira’s house. I just haven’t considered where I might live in so long. And I never actually expected that Victoria would get to have a family, much less…” she gestures vaguely at the door and Astarion tilts his head.
“Much less start her own candy thieving enterprise? It’s not terribly shocking, considering that she’s best friends with Mol.”
“She’s not stealing it!” Emerie protests, but then there’s a dawning look of horror on her face.
Astarion grins. She’s realized that they don’t exactly have a source of money.
“Oh my gods. They’re stealing it.” She looks at him with wide eyes.
“Or they’re stealing the money to buy it. Either way, I’m impressed,” he drawls. He steps closer and cups her cheek. “You’ll get to have your plant infested house and you can fill it with whatever stray creatures you find. If you’re anything like Jaheira, you’ll still run around half feral in the woods most of the time as well.”
She blinks up at him. “What about you?”
He pauses, a little startled. At some point, he’s started to see their futures as inevitably intertwined. “As one of your stray creatures,” he says, going for charming instead of desperate, “I suppose I’ll be wherever you put me.”
She smiles, her eyes sparkling. Then there’s a knocking on the door. “Are you eating lunch?” Karlach calls from the other side of the door.
“We’ll be out in a second!” Emerie calls back, then lets her forehead drop against Astarion’s chest. “I’d rather you go wherever you want to, if it’s all the same to you,” she murmurs.
It’s exactly the kind of sentiment he would expect from her, but it makes his heart clench with affection all the same.
“Who said that’s not where I want to be?” he says lightly, dropping a quick kiss to the top of her head and stepping away. He opens the door and steps out, walking back toward where he thinks the dining room is.
“Astarion! Here! Try this!” Victoria presses a piece of candy into his palm and his heart clenches for an entirely different reason.
—-
It takes him all of an hour to make the decision.
It takes a little longer to find a moment to slip out the door and tread the familiar paths back to the place that he’d always called home.
It takes only a few minutes to find Dalyria. She’s converted their old bedroom into an infirmary of sorts.
When he tells her why he’s there, she merely shrugs. “It isn’t so bad, it’s just a bit of a shock.” She studies him critically. “It might be worse for you, because it’s been longer, but I think it’s a good decision.”
He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t care what she thinks, but it’s hard to ignore the part of him that relaxes a bit at her assessment.
It shouldn’t matter to him what anyone thinks. It’s his life. His opinion is the only important opinion. It’s a difficult thing to convince himself of after centuries of never making his own choices.
—-
He’d slipped away almost unnoticed after whispering in her ear that he’d meet them back at the Elfsong.
She’s curious about where he might have gone. She wishes she’d gone with him. The sheer amount of people and chatter at Jaheira’s is overwhelming and Emerie has nowhere to go for even a moment of respite.
It’s a relief when Karlach and Gale are ready to leave.
Back at the Elfsong, she immediately beelines to her room just to get away.
As soon as she’s inside the door, she pauses. Astarion is on the edge of the bed, staring into the cracked mirror on the vanity. When he turns his head to look at her, she sees why he’d slipped away.
His eyes are silver-gray. His chest rises and falls, almost rapidly. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks.
He goes for nonchalant. “I thought it was time for me to start to live again.”
It takes her several blinks to process what feels like an overwhelming amount of information, but really is nearly nothing at all.
He’d done it.
She shuts the door.
Notes:
I’m not sure how many more chapters we have, but we’re definitely getting to the end now. I’m having all kinds of feels about it. 😭💙
Chapter Text
The first thing that strikes him about being alive is the sheer relentlessness of it all. He’d been able to breathe as a spawn, but it was never a necessity in the same way it is for the living. The only true purpose to it had been to have enough air for speech. Over time, taking in enough breath to be able to speak had become almost a reflex, but not the same way true breath is.
Now, he isn’t sure he could stop breathing if he wanted to.
He tries, for the sake of learning this new body, to hold his breath. Inevitably, his body forces him to take a breath after a minute or so when his head starts swimming and his lungs feel as if they are on fire.
His heart pounds away in his chest while he catches his breath.
It’s a strange feeling. It’s like a pixie has been caged inside him and is battering on the inside of his ribs to be released. At first, it was very nearly painful. Now, it’s merely…
Strange.
It’s all strange and new. Smells are different. They’re less powerful, but they also feel flat, in a way. It’s as if they’re missing something.
He feels vulnerable.
He’d been able to bleed as a spawn, but it wasn’t a death sentence to bleed out. Now it is.
If he’s buried alive, he will suffocate.
His heart pounds away, a dead giveaway to the anxious turn of his thoughts.
But.
He’d eaten. It was the first thing Dalyria had insisted on. It’s been hours and he doesn’t feel the need to feed again.
He had been able to slake his thirst with water.
He’s warm. All on his own, he is warm.
And he can see himself.
It’s earth-shattering. Strange. Dizzying. He has to sit down in order to have something solid beneath him.
He can just… look. In the mirror. At his own face.
And it’s knee-weakening relief to see that Cazador doesn’t stare back.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been there when the door opens. He sees the falter in Emerie’s step, then the widening eyes and the quick assessment of it all. He knows an explanation is called for, but he doesn’t have one, really. He’d just finally realized that it didn’t matter to him what anyone thought or if it hurt. He wanted to live. He wants to live.
“I thought it was time for me to start to live again.” It’s both an all-encompassing statement and woefully inadequate. How could he explain that he’s jealous of the way Victoria had grown into herself, free of Cazador? That he’d wanted to taste the candy she’d given him and he had almost hoped it would solve all of his problems?
It won’t.
He’s realized that he will have to do that himself.
There’s a moment when he just stares at Emerie and she stares back.
“I… you…” she makes a strangled noise. “How do you feel?”
He almost wants to laugh. “Eloquent as always, darling.” He looks back into the mirror for a moment, seeing for the first time exactly what she must see when he tries to be charming. “I feel strange,” he admits. He turns his body toward her to avoid getting lost in analyzing himself in the glass.
There will be time for that.
All the time in the world.
“I can imagine,” she says, coming closer. Then she pauses and tilts her head. “Well, no. I can’t imagine. But…”
Her hand reaches out to ghost along his cheek and he can’t help but feel relieved that it’s still pleasantly warm. The sensation of her skin against his is the same as it has always been.
From the way her eyes widen ever so slightly, he’s not sure it’s the same for her. “What are you thinking?” he whispers. As much as this is for him, he still needs… something from her.
“You’re warm,” she says wonderingly, her other hand coming up to hold his other cheek. The fingers of the first hand ghost down over his neck, landing on his throbbing pulse. He’s hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart.
“Yes, I’ve learned that that is a side effect of being alive.”
Her lips quirk up slightly for a second. “What changed your mind?”
What, indeed? “I just thought it was time.” He reaches out to grasp her hips in his hands. “I think we need to talk. About us.”
He sees the shift in her face as her fingers twitch, then her hands drop to rest on his shoulder. “Okay,” she murmurs, as if she’s preparing for something terrible.
“It’s nothing bad,” he huffs. “Why would you…? Never mind. I’ve been thinking. Whatever we are, I don’t want it to end when all of this is over. Assuming we survive, I still want there to be an us at the end of it.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
He arches an eyebrow at her.
“I want that too,” she says on a shaky exhale. “I just kind of assumed that we would continue on unless you decided to end it.”
Unless he decided to end it?
He’d assumed she would end it after seeing what he’d done to his victims. He’d assumed she would end things half a dozen times over already. He laughs softly. “Well, good. I’m not done with you yet.” He draws her slightly closer. “We need to talk about this as well.” He nuzzles his face into her stomach and then looks up at her through his lashes. He knows what kind of effect it will have, but it’s still gratifying to see the slight flare of interest in her eyes.
He runs his hands down the back of her thighs. “I think I want to try to be normal. Or whatever passes for normal. I want real intimacy. I want to know when you want me and how much you want me and I don’t want you to hold back on my account.”
It feels good to say it. He’s terrified that it won’t work, but he wants it to work.
He needs the reassurance of knowing what she wants from him.
“I…” she hesitates, but her hands card into his hair in a way that tells him she’s not pulling away. “I don’t want to push you. I’m fine. You don’t have to… you don’t have to force it for my sake.”
He knows that.
“I know. I want to try. I know you aren’t going anywhere if I ever tell you no.” He pulls her forward and she loses her balance with a gasp, and he lets himself fall back onto the bed with her on top of him. He pulls her thighs up so that she’s straddling him while her arms bracket his head. “I want to be alive.”
She releases a stuttering breath. “I… good. That’s good.” She searches his eyes for all of a moment before she ducks her head and her lips glide over his. It’s soft and sweet and different. Now, he’s all too aware of the need to breathe as well as the need to pull her closer and not breathe.
She doesn’t let him. Emerie pulls away slowly and shifts off of him. “Slowly. We will work on it slowly.” She collapses onto her back next to him and runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. “We’re going to have time.”
“If you say so,” Astarion drawls, sitting up. “Then again, with the kind of trouble we both draw, who knows. Maybe we should do as much as we can before some other crisis arises.”
The affectionately exasperated look she gives him is delightful. “If you insist, I won’t argue.”
“Of course you won’t.” He gestures at the mirror. “Look at me. How could you resist?”
She laughs and closes her eyes. “What did I do to deserve you?”
A strange emotion lodges itself in his throat. He clears it. “Something terrible. Probably involving puppies.”
—-
It strikes him later that evening that with this one action, he has effectively eliminated all of the reasons he had originally been drawn to Emerie.
He doesn’t need protection from Cazador. He doesn’t require a blood supply. He doesn’t need the warmth she creates with her own body. He doesn’t need her to allow him to see himself with her sketches.
He doesn’t need any of it.
It’s a relief.
And suddenly, he understands a few more things about the world.
“I love you,” he says into her shoulder in the darkness.
He hears the catch in her breathing. “I love you, too.”
And it feels right.
Notes:
Is everything fixed? No. But they’re in a good place with huge progress.
I was legitimately *very* nervous to do a vampirism cure in a fic because honestly Astarion doesn’t need to be cured to heal and I didn’t want to send the wrong message, but I did want the other spawn to get a cure, soooo yeah. That’s why I did that. It had nothing to do with Astarion but I don’t regret it.
Chapter 65
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you nervous?”
Emerie can see Astarion look up at her over the edge of the book he’s reading. She can’t seem to make her hand move to make lines on the paper in front of her anymore. It’s as if the fear of what’s to come has left her paralyzed. Gortash and the Elder Brain are all that stand between them and freedom from the parasites, but it feels insurmountable.
“Not particularly,” Astarion says, and nonchalantly turns the page of his book. She stares at him for a moment in surprise. He seems to feel her stare or to anticipate it somehow, because after a moment he looks back at her and sighs. He shuts the book and places it next to him on the bed. “Either we survive and free ourselves from these things in our brains, or we die trying. Both options are infinitely preferable to being mindless drones for the Absolute.” He tilts his head. “Besides, we have allies now. There will be a veritable army with us, unlike when we rescued Halsin or killed Ketheric.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Emerie says, looking back down at her sketch. It’s supposed to be a ship, but she seems to have lost all sense of what she was intending somewhere along the way.
Astarion smirks. “Of course I’m right.” He rises up on his knees and gently removes both sketchbook and pencil from her hands and drops them over the side of the bed.
“Hey!” she protests, but he leans over her and catches her lips with his, stifling any further complaints.
There’s some sort of magic in it, she’s sure. The thoughts in her head melt away with exposure to his warmth, leaving her to simply bask in the physical sensation of being drawn against her lover.
He expertly maneuvers them so that they’re lying on their sides. One of his hands is trapped under her cheek while his other hand runs up under her shirt, coming to rest on her ribs.
There’s something electric about the small sounds he makes. The way he has to pull back every now and then to take a breath and then come back for more is a marked difference from the way he’d always done this before. There’s a finesse that’s missing that makes it feel like he’s just as lost in her as she is in him.
When he switches from his gentle assault on her lips to kissing and sucking down her neck, she makes an embarrassing sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. When he guides her head backwards and bites lightly at her throat, she gasps and presses her body into his.
He pulls back.
There’s amusement in his gaze.
“It’s too bad,” he says with a sigh, “that we are taking things slow.”
Oh.
Oh, the utter bastard.
Her eyes narrow and then she throws a leg over his hip, pushing his shoulder so that he is on his back and she can climb on top of him. The look in his eyes shifts to something smug when she settles her hips over his.
The utter manipulative bastard.
Leaning forward, Emerie cards her hands into his hair and kisses him thoroughly, determined to not give him any room to catch his breath.
—-
She’s a fierce thing.
It’s what he wants.
He doesn’t want to take anything slow, despite what she’d said. Astarion wants to jump in feet first and drown or swim and to hell with the consequences- if there are any. As far as he’s concerned, even the difficult moments of their relationship have been worth it. Even if something goes wrong, he can’t see it being bad.
He can’t catch his breath between the intense crush of her lips against his. Emerie seems determined to suffocate him with sheer passion.
Not a bad way to go.
She licks into his mouth and he groans.
She bites the skin under his ear gently, then lower down his neck, then the crook of his neck, all while he gasps for breath.
She rolls her hips against his and he can see the satisfied smirk on her face when he moans.
A slow, sweet melding of her lips against his is his reward. She pulls back an inch, so their breath mingles in the space between them.
It’s intimate in a way that he’s unfamiliar with.
“It’s too bad,” she croons.
He stiffens. “What?”
She sits up and rolls her hips against his rock hard length. “That we’re taking it slow,” she says slowly, the mischievous glint in her eyes as delightful as it is infuriating.
She moves to get off of him, and he catches her hips and pulls her hard against him.
Time for a different game, since she’s thoroughly won this one. “I don’t want to take things slow,” he growls.
The smile on her face shifts to something less mischievous and more satisfied and sweet. “Fine,” she says, ducking down to tangle herself in him again.
Hands in hair-
Lips against lips-
Sweet sighs and moans-
The delicious dizziness of not breathing and gasping for air only to return to each other in a clash of lips and tongues and arching bodies-
Thundering heartbeats that he can’t tell apart, they’re so nearly in sync-
It’s all so very much the same as it has always been and also so very different. It’s as if the beat of his heart and the burn in his lungs adds a desperation and urgency to it all.
He nearly panics when they’re undressed and she slides down onto him and he actually forgets how to breathe for one perfect terrifying moment.
His body seems to remember for him after several long moments where the heat and grip of her is definitely going to kill him.
What a way to die that would be.
When her hands grip his and pin them to the bed while she rides him to oblivion, an uncontrollable groan escapes him.
It’s the strangest realization- the sounds he’s always mimicked and produced purposefully for sex are drawn from him without his even thinking about it. The slight moans and whimpers escaping Emerie above him are a sure sign that she’s as lost in him as he is in her.
He grasps her hips and helps her keep going when her fingers curl into his chest and her rhythm starts to falter. “Gods, yes.” His eyes fall shut.
A few stuttering rolls of her hips later, her thighs clench hard around him. “Astarion,” she gasps. When his eyes open, he can see her flushed face, glazed eyes, and the perfect ring of her mouth. He uses his hands to pull her harder against him.
“Emerie,” he says breathlessly. “Fuck.”
“Astarion.” His name sounds better on a broken moan. It might be his favorite way to hear it. “Astarion Astarion Astarion...” She stiffens entirely and moans long and loud as she comes apart around him.
He uses every bit of strength and leverage he has to flip her over and press one of her knees up. “Fuck yes,” he groans when she clenches around him. He presses his forehead into hers and plunges into her. “Yes.” Her leg wraps around him. “Yes.” He crashes his mouth into hers.
Breathing is overrated.
The incessant pound of his heart and the burn in his lungs is good because this is good and if he stops to breathe…
Pure pleasure suffuses every part of him. “Fuck. Yes.” He pours himself into her with a shuddering gasp.
It’s strange. He collapses next to her and gasps for breath, but his heart thunders on with no relief in sight. He hasn’t been alive in so long that he has to rack his brain to try to remember if his lovers hearts had pounded this hard when it was all said and done.
He isn’t sure.
He hasn’t been in love before.
There’s a relief in knowing that the body next to him belongs to someone who is safe. She’s safe for him and safe from him and it’s lovely.
They’ll survive Gortash and the Brain. They have to.
Then they get to live the rest of their lives.
Alive.
Notes:
There will be one more chapter after this one. I appreciate you all. You have no idea how much this has meant to me 💙
Chapter Text
After everything they’ve been through, the rest of it feels anticlimactic.
There’s no satisfaction in ending Gortash. From the look on Karlach’s face, Emerie is sure that Karlach is thinking the same thing she is. He was just a pathetic little man who wound up with too much power.
The brain, considering the veritable army they’ve assembled, isn’t so much difficult as it is destructive. It does enough damage to the city that it will take years to fix it all, but with the help of the Harpers, the Gur, several of the city’s less reputable groups, and the mind flayer who calls himself the Emperor, it’s finally dealt with.
They’re all free.
No more parasites. No more scrambling to find answers or fight for safety or justice or anything else.
It’s terrifying to no longer have a mission.
It has never been necessary for her to make the kind of decisions she has to make now. She’d lived with her mother as a child, as children do. Then she had lived with the Druids of her circle in the forests near Waterdeep. After she was captured, her only purpose was to escape or to die trying. Then, her purpose was to free herself of the parasite or die trying. Now, there is simply the world and she has to figure out where she fits in it.
That can probably wait while they all recover, however.
Duke Ravengard has offered them all a place to stay. It’s lavish. Decadent. Astarion is right at home- or he’s better at faking it than she is. The room they share is huge, with a large bed decked out with down pillows and a cloud-like duvet. Everything is the kind of white that seems like it would be impossible to keep clean. The balcony has sliding doors and is surrounded by gauzy curtains that add to the general feeling of being stuffed into a cloud.
That may also have to do with the buzzing feeling in her head. Adrenaline has her wired while exhaustion weighs her down and it combines into a slightly drunken and slightly electric feeling. She’s bruised. So is Astarion, whose cheekbone is black and blue with a red split through it. The worst of their injuries have been cared for, but it wasn’t enough to erase all of the damage.
It takes every ounce of self control she has inside her to clean herself up instead of throwing herself into the bed and letting it swallow her up while the world drifts away.
There’s a bath in their suite.
There is a bath with running water in their suite.
“Wherever we end up, I want a bath,” she says. “With warm water. Every day.” The tub is porcelain. It’s decadent. Divine. She turns on the tap, and the water comes out steaming.
“I thought you wanted to be a wild forest creature. Baths like this are city luxuries.” Astarion rolls onto his side and watches her, amused. “Rich city luxuries.”
With a deep sigh, Emerie looks at the water wistfully. “Do you think we have enough leverage as city heroes to get one?”
Astarion laughs outright. “Perhaps. You could always ask. The worst thing that will happen is you’ll get funny looks from the Duke.”
Considering everything they’ve been through, she thinks she can withstand a few funny looks. She strips off the dirty leather armor, hopefully for the last time, and sinks into the water.
It’s glorious.
She lets her eyes shut.
—-
Astarion is fairly certain she’s fallen asleep in the bath. He can’t figure out if he should leave her or not.
If he knows anything, she will wake when the water starts to cool. He could let her rest until then. Gods know they’ve all earned it.
But, if he leaves her, she will get cold.
He uses the fluffy rags from the wardrobe to clean himself up. There are huge towels and fluffy robes and he changes into one of them.
He can’t wait to use the money stolen from the counting house to buy a new wardrobe. There’s no longer a need to be practical. He can purchase all manner of fine clothing and comfortable clothing and pretty clothing…
It’s a dream.
He’s free of the parasite and of Cazador and it’s like the dreams he’s heard described by humans. Euphoria. Madness. Fantasy.
He gently wakes Emerie, who opens bleary eyes. “Oh no.” She grimaces, looking around. “I fell asleep.”
He holds out a towel. “Let’s get you dried off and you can go right back to sleep.”
She sighs dreamily. “That sounds perfect.”
“Food sounds lovely, but sleep does, too. I think perfect is a bit of a stretch.”
Emerie stands, water dripping off her, and takes the towel from his hands and starts to dry herself off. When she steps out of the tub, she lets the towel drop to the floor and goes to take a robe from the open wardrobe. “It sounds perfect,” she insists. “I can eat when I won’t fall asleep in my food.”
It’s a strange reassurance. There will be food. There will likely always be food. He won’t starve. Nobody can stop him from eating. Even if the food in the city magically disappears, he can leave and go hunt. He can move to a new city. He can move to the forest. He can just leave when it suits him.
He can do anything.
Right now, he’s going to burrow under the blankets with his love and then wake her up to watch the sunrise.
—-
Several weeks after the battle for Baldur’s Gate, as the bards are calling it, everyone has moved on.
Gale returns home to Waterdeep.
Shadowheart finds herself a cozy house outside the city walls to live with her parents.
Karlach, Dammon, and Wyll return to Avernus with Mizora to attempt to find some kind of cure or solution for Karlach’s engine problem. Mizora is strangely helpful. It’s likely because she wants Karlach out of the picture but knows she probably won’t win that fight, but it’s still oddly nice.
Emerie is fairly certain they will figure something out.
Halsin returns to the grove, though he seems somewhat reluctant to do so. She can see the itch for adventure in him. He isn’t the type to sit in one place, and he very obviously doesn’t not relish being in charge of others. She thinks it will only be a few years before he quits for good.
Jaheira goes home. Emerie gives it a few months before Jaheira tires of the monotony and goes off on some other adventure.
Sebastian, who seems to be slowly adjusting to life, takes a temporary assignment in Neverwinter. Jaheira lets them know about it when she visits.
Aurelia shows up from time to time, bearing gifts of fruits, confections, and art supplies. She takes a particular delight in causing messes that make Astarion make a face at them.
Dalyria opens a clinic in the middle of the city. It’s accessible to both the lower city and the upper. Sometimes Emerie stops in to help out with some of the cases that call for magic over medicine.
They settle into a house along the river that was half decimated by the Elder Brain. The former residents didn’t feel like rebuilding, but in Emerie’s mind, it’s the perfect opportunity to create a place that is just theirs.
What that really means is that she makes plans, and Astarion bribes the builders into altering them to suit his tastes.
She doesn’t mind. It’s fun to watch it all come together.
And the stone bath in a lovely touch, she has to admit.
There are only a handful of functional rooms when they move in. They replace the furniture, filling the bedroom with light woods instead of dark. Astarion buys a huge mirror that takes six men to carry up the stairs, but he is so thrilled by it that she supposes it is worth the hassle.
As long as it doesn’t get broken, that is.
She has a desk. There is a treasure trove of charcoals and pencils and brushes and every other instrument she could possibly want for drawing in the drawers. She has real sketchbooks instead of stolen journals she’s repurposed for the task. She has paper- large, small, and every size in between. There’s linen paper and parchment and even some glossy paper made from some oily plant. The glossy paper is awful to draw on, but it’s interesting nonetheless.
She’s made a hundred sketches.
When she walks into their room after visiting Victoria and Pounce, she finds Astarion flipping through the stack of finished drawings on one side of the desk. He looks up when she comes in. “Hello, stranger. Where have you been?”
“Trying to teach Pounce some manners. He’s getting big. I don’t know how much longer he’s going to be able to live inside the city.” She goes to the wardrobe and finds something comfortable to lounge in. “Did you eat?”
He shakes his head. “No. I was waiting for you.”
She smiles at him and starts tugging off her boots. “What are we having?”
He shrugs, then stands up from the desk. “I hadn’t decided yet.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, but strips off her shirt. “Well, I guess we should figure that out.”
He steps closer, reaching out to grasp her lightly around the waist. She stops unlacing her pants to look up at him.
“So, I was thinking…” he begins, tracing his hands up her sides. “You have all of these drawings…”
His hands are so warm and perfect against her skin. “Yes?”
“And so many of them are me. But there aren’t any of you.” He kisses her slowly, until she’s just a little dazed. Then he slowly turns her in his arms to that he’s behind her and she’s facing the huge mirror. “There aren’t any of us.”
“Okay?” she asks, not sure what he is getting at.
“I think we need some drawings of the two of us. Together.”
Oh.
She frowns slightly. She’s never tried to draw herself before. “I guess I could try to do that.”
A hand fumbles with the laces of her pants. They drop to the floor.
“Do you do nudes?” he asks mischievously, his eyes sparkling when they meet hers in the mirror.
Notes:
To anyone who made it this far, I wanted to leave a note about how this thing came to exist:
I went into BG3 blind. I had no idea what it was other than a DnD based RPG and I was absolutely blown away by the characters. I was blindsided by Astarion’s story. I’ve *never* run into something that hit so close to home and hurt so much in media, and I’ve read some pretty dark things. When I got to Astarion’s confession after Moonrise, I straight up quit the game for two weeks.
It was so obvious that the writers/creators/actor(s) (especially the ones who worked on that scene) knew exactly what that kind of trauma can feel like. I felt seen and understood by the game in a way I never expected to (or wanted to) be seen and understood.
My best friend saw herself in Astarion in a different way. The trauma of his complex family situation and being the scapegoat was what got to her about him.
Then I got to Cazador and the end and it all broke my heart. I turned to AO3 and read a few stories, but I couldn’t find the closure I needed so I decided to write what I needed to read.
I quite literally had a panic attack after posting each of the first three chapters. Then it got easier. Then I started to really enjoy this. Then I started to hit the points I really really wanted to write and I *had* to finish.
Thank you all for going on this journey with me. It’s been healing for me. I don’t even know how to begin to describe how much this has all meant to me, but thank you for every kind word. 💙 May we all find a little peace.I did leave room for a second story, but I’m not 100% sure I’ll write it so I won’t make any promises. At some point, I should probably actually edit this one 😅
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