Chapter Text
Held still by the monster's magic, by the coffin-like whatever it was holding him, Vuld tried to focus his breathing. He tried to pray, tried to concentrate on studying the room, on thoughts of home, on anything other than the horror looming closer and the way he was held immobile, barely able to think, unable to fight. Powerless, helpless-
It looks like a dick, the thought came to him as the squirming little tadpole thing was brought close to his face. That’ll do. That's funny. Focus on that. This squirmy little monster looked like a penis with teeth, and an unfortunate amount of hair. Not something he'd want in his mouth, let alone his eyeball- shit. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about that.
He prayed through the pain and drifted away as the monster did, falling asleep too fast for it to be a willing or genuine sleep. It must have been the effect of the creatures' powers, he would muse later. Later, when he awoke again to whatever new torment awaited.
Well, the next torment was fire, because of course it was fire. His hands flickered as he tried to move them, to rub them together as the old habit demanded, to dispel the hot itch that the scars on his palms still felt sometimes when fire threatened him. Clearly he'd offended Helm and this was his punishment. The foggy thought made him laugh softly in spite of everything, even as he struggled to wake, but he offered a prayer anyway and drew up his shield of faith, just to make sure the silent joke really was just a joke, that he hadn’t somehow committed himself to damnation.
A groggy moment after he woke again, his chamber eventually released him into a strange room of flames and foul smells. He had to find a way out of here. He staggered through the first room- that door looks like a butthole. Ha ha, that’s funny. -and definitely didn’t hear a terrifying amalgamation of voices calling to him from a corpse’s revealed brain as he went.
A hellscape awaited him outside the strange vessel, and a foul woman quick to try and kill him.
“Abomination!" She exclaimed as she attacked. "This is your end!"
The first time his parasite activated, he had no idea what was happening. His head hurt, his stomach lurched, and that was all the warning he got before the visions began. The sense of the world falling away, and suddenly he was in the air, sailing through on the back of a glorious dragon. Only glimpses, visions of a silver sword and dragon’s wing, of a gust of air, the sounds of the wind roaring past as the beast screeched below him. A flash of his own face, seen through her eyes as he lay immobile.
The woman grunted, clearly suffering the same lurch and headache, the same visions. Except… presumably, she’d seen something else. Had she been one of those on the dragons outside? If so, if he’d seen her moments before capture, had she seen his? Had she seen his wife as he bid her goodbye, smelled the mountains as he breathed deep and began his walk to town?
He threw up another prayer that he alone had been taken from his home, and refused to think of Kaal and the others on board this ship.
The woman who attacked him was unlike any he’d seen before, warriors armour and heavy weapons like his, but her skin was a green-yellow he’d never encountered in another person, and many of her features betrayed some alien race unknown to him. A tiny nose pressed close to her face, spiked ears in an elegant pointed shape, sharpened teeth, though he wondered if that was a species trait or just her. She did seem the type to file them....
She was speaking to him, speaking of Vlaakith and chances of survival, and he focused on that, on getting through the flames and minions of this place, on getting home.
Thrall, she had called him, before their shared headache. That’s when he learned about the mindflayer parasites, that’s when he learned of the fate that awaited him. He knew about it already, to a degree. Some dusty old knowledge from his training. Ceremorphosis, the promise of transformation to come. Clearly this woman knew more than he, though, so when she bid him follow her, he did.
“First, we exterminate the imps," she declared. "Then we get to the helm and take control of this ship.”
Without another word, at least not one Vuld could understand, the woman turned and threw herself into battle, and he focused on the sword in his hands as he followed her into the fray.
Corpses littered the rooms, which themselves seemed made of flesh, while dragons and their sounds surrounded him. He focused on what was ahead, on the fleshy nightmare soaring through the hellscape, on the demons and aberrations between them and the helm, on-
“Get me out!”
On the unexpected thudding? He followed the sound and found another of those tomb-like pods, this one holding a young woman pounding frantically for release.
“You!” She screamed when she saw him. “Get me out of this damned thing!”
“We have no time for stragglers,” his companion cautioned him, but what else could he do? Leaving her there to die would go against everything he was, he had to try and help her.
He searched for a latch and found none, searched for some sort of interface for the console, but nothing.
“This ship is crashing!” the woman at his side scolded him. “Do you intend to die for a stranger?”
“I’m not leaving her,” Vuld stated and began trying to rip the pod open with brute force.
The woman with him swore - at least he assumed it was a swear, it wasn’t a language he knew but some things required no translation - and she began to scour the room, looking for something to help free the trapped girl.
“Come on! There’s got to be a way to open it!” The poor woman was terrified, and it made him strain at the pod until he could feel the fibres that made up his muscles tearing with the exertion. “Don’t give up! Rip this thing open!”
It eventually gave with a satisfying crack, like some vile egg opening to spill out its contents. The woman fell forward into his arms and he helped steady her, taking in a slightly better look at her. She seemed uninjured, like the rest of them. She had her own scar across her elfin face, but she seemed fine, if scared.
“At last..." she panted, leaning on him for a moment longer before pushing away to stand back. “I thought I was done for. Thought that damned thing was going to be my coffin. Thank-"
Another lurch and his head throbbed, but instead of memories this time it was thoughts, emotions. Gratitude, yes, but wariness, too. She eyed his companion suspiciously. ‘Gith’, she was named in his mind.
“You keep dangerous company,” the young woman said with a scowl, almost accusing him. The woman with him, the gith, crossed her arms and scowled straight back.
“Dangerous might be what we need right now,” he argued, and the young woman acquiesced.
“Fair point," she agreed. "It seems there’s a lot of fighting ahead. Let me come with you. We can get off of this ship, and watch each other’s backs along the way.”
Vuld nodded and introduced himself, as did she.
“Shadowheart,” she told him simply, then hesitated. “One moment.”
She stepped away to fetch something from the pod she’d been trapped in, hiding it as quickly as she could. Something personal, then. It’d wait until later. Though his trained eye noticed now that she wore the armour of a cleric, with some very interesting colour choices and symbols.
Later, indeed. He’d definitely be questioning the Sharran if they were to travel together beyond the confines of the nautiloid.
None too soon they were crashing to the ground outside of Baldur’s gate, the terrible ship fragmenting over the sand, spilling them like a tipped out crate. They were scattered along with the rest of the debris, Vuld quickly losing sight of the others before he too slipped from the wreckage. Falling, falling... there was nothing he could do to save himself or cushion his impact, just pray and futilely maintain his shield. He braced for the landing, knowing his meagre defences would do nothing-
But it didn’t come. Be it Helm or some other force of god or nature, something, something, caught him and held him suspended just a few inches from the ground, before he finally dropped down without injury. He... hadn’t expected prayer to work, truth be told. Prayer so very rarely did. But he wasn’t one to second guess the gods when they were in a good mood. He stood and checked himself quickly, assessing that he was indeed fine, before he began to search the area.
He found Shadowheart first, still clasping her secret device, then Lae’zel in a goblin trap, being poked at by a pair of anxious tieflings. They met some new friends too - a wizard who needed a hand out of a portal, and then a haughty being by the name of Astarion who decided to try Lae’zel’s approach to diplomacy and start their working partnership with threats of violence. They all agreed, though; they needed to find a way to deal with the parasites behind their eyes.
They’d barely travelled on from the crash when they found themselves caught in another battle, this one an attack on a druid grove. Whether they wanted to intervene or not didn’t matter - the goblins came at them as surely as they did their initial quarry, and when the last goblin lay dead, Vuld and the others were hastened inside the safety of a massive gate, along with the three they had just assisted. Aradin was the one responsible for leading the goblins to them, Vuld learned. And Zevlor was the leader of a group of refugees seeking safety in this place, this druid's grove, he quickly came to learn. Vuld diffused things between the two as best he could, earning him a scoff from Astarion, and as soon as Aradin was gone he began probing Zevlor for information. As quickly as they could, hoping someone here would have news of a healer, or of someone who could help them with their little stowaways.
By the time they finally settled down for the night, far more had happened besides. Bugbear assassins, a dead child and mourning parents, a hiding woman in need of healing. And the quarrels - endless quarrels - between the druids and the refugees. Sometimes among themselves, sometimes with each other, it didn’t seem to matter. It was as though every single one of them was determined to pick a fight with anyone who came their way.
Lae’zel and Astarion weren't much better. Vuld had found them terrorising one of the refugees shortly after parting ways with Zevlor, and though neither protested when he hardened his voice and ordered her to step down, neither of them were exactly happy about his softer, weaker (as Lae'zel put it) approach. Astarion was worse than her, even. Lae’zel’s cruelty was at least born of fear and culture, she acted like she was superior because it was what she'd been raised to believe.
Astarion on the other hand, if his snide comments were to be taken at face value, was simply malicious. Tormenting people when they were scared or ill, lying to that poor girl’s parents about her fate, murdering prisoners in their cells, abusing animals and the injured... perhaps he was joking, but they were all things he encouraged or condoned, either directly or behind Vuld’s back to the others. Any time Vuld offered anything without cruelty or extortion, there would be an eyeroll or a groan or a tsk of disapproval, even if it was clear Vuld was trading favours or simply being diplomatic instead of making everyone into an enemy. By their first night at camp, Vuld was about ready to ask him to leave, or at least to stay behind and “guard the camp” tomorrow so he wouldn't have to deal with the asshole.
Vuld avoided it as long as he could, checking in with the others first. Lae’zel spoke impatiently of Githyanki protocol and the importance of finding the creche that could help them, while Shadowheart politely but firmly made it clear that she wanted to talk about nothing at all. She wanted to sleep and then focus on finding a cure so she could get back to her life, and while she seemed perfectly content to make friends as they travelled, she was in no rush to share herself or her business with anyone.
Gale was much more open, both in terms of conversation as well as how he was doing. While Lae’zel hid her fear behind aggression and Shadowheart cloaked hers in privacy, Gale reflected openly about their ventures into hell, their supposed fate as the parasite took over. Gale was well educated, he knew exactly how much danger they were in, knew the fate that awaited them, and he was afraid. Vuld stood with him for a while and let him talk, offered him what comfort he could. He took his time, well aware that the only other person to talk to tonight was Astarion, but all too quickly Gale was done with his musings and waved Vuld away, bidding him rest.
As soon as Vuld approached Astarion though, the elf surprised him. He nodded to Gale with uncharacteristic concern and commented, “he seems dour.”
Vuld followed Astarion’s direction, to the robed mage still staring into the fire, still apparently lost in haunted introspection, and nodded. “As any of us would be, under the circumstances.”
“Perhaps,” Astarion said agreeably. “I can’t say I’m relishing the thought of sprouting tentacles either. It’s just… well, all of this seems so new.”
Vuld’s attention returned and he asked, “how so?”
“Well, the night normally means bustling streets, bursting taverns.” Vuld remembered the flash of a memory he’d seen with their minds linked earlier, the feeling of stalking the streets, not just walking them. “Curling up in the dirt and resting is… a little novel.”
Astarion looked lost, far from his norm and comfort. Vuld could understand that, sympathise with it. He’d spent many nights sleeping in these conditions, but the idea of doing so now, after having been plucked from his home so unexpectedly, pinched him painfully. Perhaps Astarion’s nasty comments throughout the day were nothing more than edgy humour to hide his own anxiety. He probably had a family he’d been snatched away from, too.
“It's not so bad with a good pile of pillows," he said, trying to offer what comfort he could. “And we need to be fresh tomorrow.”
Astarion made a dismissive gesture. “I’m in no place to sleep yet,” he said. “Today has been… a lot.”
“That we can agree on,” Vuld said with a humourless chuckle, and offered genuinely, "is there anything I can do to ease your burden?"
Something flickered behind Astarion's eyes, and he smirked as though he was going to make a lewd comment or flirt, but the smile softened to the tired, genuine stress he'd displayed a moment before.
"I just need some time to think things through," he said. "To process... all of this. But you should rest. I’ll keep watch.”
An olive branch, Vuld wondered? Or a chance to steal their food and draw willies on them while they slept? He wouldn’t put it past Astarion to offer to make the morning porridge only to piss in it for fun, gods only knew the state they’d wake up in with him watching over them. But still, again, Astarion hadn't done any actual harm, in spite of his comments throughout the day. Perhaps he really was trying, really was just stressed.
“That’s reassuring, thank you,” Vuld answered politely, if not entirely honestly.
If he didn’t already have his doubts about the man, the way he purred “the pleasure is all mine” and bid him sweet dreams would definitely keep Vuld from his sleep. One way or another, he supposed, they would learn more about Astarion’s true intentions soon enough.
The next day they found a healer (though the most useful thing she did was make them promise to kill themselves if they started to change into mindflayers. Vuld agreed, to be diplomatic if nothing else (which earned another moody grumble from Astarion), and they went about seeking Halsin, another druid with apparently greater power. The politics between the druids and the tieflings seeking refuge with them also necessitated this, and it seemed like the generally right thing to do. So of course, that annoyed Astarion too, though he did seem to perk a little at the prospect of carnage of the goblin camp.
Curious, Vuld thought later that afternoon, watching Astarion as they caught their breath after a fight against a group of gnolls. He had every tell of a vampire, but without their usual powers or limitations. Some lesser spawn, perhaps? But that still didn’t explain why he was walking in the sun without a care. The glimpse Vuld got into his mind revealed only city streets at night, and a horrible fear, just a flash but as bright as the blinding light that took them. But the predatory way he stalked the streets in his own memory, the way he’d come and gone in the night from camp when he thought everyone was sleeping… what was he hunting for?
Vuld used his divine sense discreetly as they travelled. Yep, definitely undead... though interestingly he lacked the unholy stench that usually clung to such beings. Whatever he was, he wasn’t evil, apparently. Just an ass. Or perhaps just scared, but Vuld would argue one could be both. Shadowheart and Lae’zel were both, to varying degrees. Honestly the only ones who seemed to be taking any of this in stride were Wyll, their newest member, who had that familiar (if more youthful) fearlessness that comes from virtue, and Gale, who handled it all with the friendliness and poise of someone confident he could kill them all if need be. Curious too, Vuld thought, that Gale claimed to have also been aboard the nautiloid, but somehow didn’t cause the same instinctive response from the mindflayer parasite that meeting the others had triggered. Either he didn’t have have one, or he had some ability to control his better than the rest of them and was keeping it to himself.
They spent their day exploring the area, looking for any other leads. The goblins were more a hoard than a group, spreading over two separate camps, and the gnolls had been rather formidable, so they chose to fall back to camp and reassess. Perhaps they’d find someone to aid them elsewhere? Or something that could strengthen them, for their return. Wyll mentioned a devil nearby he needed to hunt, and they’d found a curious old woman in the grove who claimed she might be of some assistance. Both were worth investigating.
Well, Vuld thought so, anyway. Lae’zel was getting more irritable by the hour that they weren’t exclusively pursuing the creche, and Vuld had to promise to do so tomorrow to calm her. Everyone seemed to have the tadpoles on their minds (and, well, in them) tonight. Gale used magic to check himself for signs of ceremorphosis and launched into gruesome detail about how the transformation usually happened, Lae’zel added her own knowledge to the pot, even Astarion had clearly been thinking about it, though apparently not with quite the same amount of dread.
“Of course, the first sign of change and I’ll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours,” Astarion told him delightfully. “I’m open to suggestions, however. Knives? Poison? Strangulation? Whatever you prefer.”
Vuld chuckled at Astarion’s theatrics but took the question in good faith. When facing the possibility of a fate worse than death, an exit plan was always wise, even if you hoped to never have to use it. He lifted the pendant of a necklace out from under his shirt. Astarion wouldn’t know it, but the strong woven cord was part of his wedding ceremony to Kaal, a symbol of their bonds. He had one for each of his four, each somewhere meaningful, and this was theirs - the pendant of a necklace, holding a small, sturdy vial with a cork and wax stopper.
“Poison,” he answered simply, holding the vial aloft for inspection before tucking it away again. Astarion looked surprised and delighted at Vuld’s candid response, prompting a grin from the Paladin. “You?”
“Oh! Well, I always thought decapitation was the way to go. One good swing and- but of course, we’re getting ahead of ourselves….”
The most normal conversation he had was with Shadowheart. She hadn’t initially taken much liking to him, he was much more interested in getting to know people than she was in being known. He’d respected that, and of whatever boundaries she drew around her privacy, but that night even she confessed she was afraid, and struggling to sleep.
“And I,” Vuld offered with a tired smile that she echoed.
She went on to claim she heard a soothing voice on the ship, telling her she’d become ‘a beautiful weapon.’ “What do you make of it?” she asked.
He considered a moment, and offered the explanation he hoped would bring her the most comfort. “Perhaps it was your Lady Shar?”
Shadowheart hesitated, eyes flaring, then she looked down at the ground ahead of her and shook her head. “No. I’ve heard Lady Shar’s voice before… she’s never that gentle.” She hesitated a moment longer, voice tight, and said, “I never told you I was a Sharran.”
“I figured it out myself,” he told her with a friendly smile. “Your armour gave it away a little. It’s alright, I’m not worried about it. I’m curious, more than anything. I know very little about her.”
Shadowheart regarded him warily. “What is it you think you know?”
“She’s usually regarded as evil,” he answered honestly, “but her domains are night, the dark, loss, and forgetfulness, if I remember correctly. She’s often worshipped by miners, and those who have something they wish to forget. They pray to Shar to take their memories, no?”
It seemed he stumbled upon something in his answer, for Shadowheart’s eyes sparked with something precious and she went on to reveal a surprising amount about herself and her beliefs. As soon as she started to share her hand flared with agony and she cried out quietly, but in spite of it she continued.
She confided in him about not only her goddess, but of her own lost memories, even of her love of night orchids and the fact that she couldn’t swim. They spoke until late into the night, until they sat side by side as she offered up almost every precious memory and philosophy she still had. They talked until she called him sweet, and rested her head on his shoulder as she started to fall asleep. It was only then, when they were at their most relaxed, that he asked her about her earlier pain.
She stayed where she was against his shoulder and held her hand out as though to study. “The wound on my hand,” she explained. “It never quite heals. Sometimes it causes a terrible pain to rip through me.”
He cupped her hand protectively and she twitched as though to close it and draw it back, but she left it there in his scarred palm. “It’s my burden to bear,” she said simply as though to argue against the comfort. “It’s from Lady Shar. I can feel her influence, somehow….”
“Why would she do that to you?” He didn’t want to judge her goddess or her beliefs, but as a rule it was never wise to love someone who hurt you.
Something in Shadowheart’s tone told him she knew it, too, even if she wasn’t able to accept it. “I cannot say - not with what I can recall. But even then, it would not be for me to question her will. Lady Shar has her reasons.”
Bullshit, he wanted to say. If she had her reasons, and she had respect for you, she’d let you know what they are. You hurt because she wants you to hurt.
He didn’t say it, it would help. “Is there anything I can do?” He asked instead.
Shadowheart shook her head. “I don’t think so, but you’re sweet to ask,” was her heartfelt answer, then she offered, “Maybe just be patient with me the next time you see me wince or cry out. It’ll pass quickly enough. It always does.”
He bid her rest and took to his own bed, pleased to have had that moment to distract him from the grim conversations with the others, the talk of tadpoles and transformation. As soon as he thought to appreciate it, however, his thoughts shifted again.
It wasn’t exactly surprising that he couldn’t sleep. He never did, when he was alone. As a boy he’d always slept in the shared quarters at his father’s mine, surrounded by the sounds of dozens of other people. After that... well, after that had been Kalina, and the girls. Three years in one room, only being pulled out for torment, but at least they were never alone. It had certainly done little to help with his sleeping habits, and though it was long in the past now, the need for company and a fear of fire were the two lingering wounds that had never quite healed.
He shifted to thoughts of his family, to those who held his heart now. He hadn’t been alone in more than a decade. He was happy, he was content... at least he had been until the nautiloid. But thinking about that wasn’t helping him sleep either.
If he couldn’t simply ignore the worry he could perhaps channel it. He let himself think of them, encouraged the memories of home. He thought of Kitty’s salt-scented curls and the way the weeks at sea darkened her tan and freckles, but his mind came back from the sea to the beach, to the spot where they’d crashed. He tried to think of Donatien and his endless patience and beautiful eyes, but he ached as he thought how those eyes would darken when he heard Vuld was missing. He thought of Woal and the way Vuld often didn’t realise how stressed he was until he saw Woal putting the kettle on, knowing the paladin needed a cup of tea and a chat. Gods, he needed him now. And Kaal… Kaal, and their enduring years, their love that had not only survived their time in Kalina’s underground house, but thrived in its ashes.
He could almost feel them in his arms now, pressed to his sides as he nuzzled the sleek hair at the top of Kaal’s head or buried into Woal’s untamable fluff. The gods gave him his power, his ability to help people, but his lovers gave him his peace, his strength to rest and use those abilities. Without them he was an exhausted meatsuit with nothing to keep it going, but the hope of getting home and finding them safe.
He might have slept with the illusion in his arms, but seemingly as soon as he started to relax and drift, he felt someone approach. Felt them lean down over him. When his eyes snapped open, he was face to face with Astarion’s bared fangs as he leaned down to bite.
Astarion recoiled, a look of genuine fear in his face as he realised he’d been caught in whatever crime he’d been trying to commit. He let out a soft “shit” as he backpedalled, clearly waiting for the Paladin to attack. “No no! It's not what it looks like, I swear!” he tried to defend.
Vuld stood, folded his arms, and raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear what the vampire had to say for himself.
“I- I wasn't going to hurt you!” Astarion insisted, “I just needed... well... blood.”
“That much seems apparent.”
“It's not what you think!”
Honestly, Vuld wasn’t sure what he thought. He didn’t exactly have a high opinion of Astarion, but when the vampire went on to plead his case - that he wasn’t a monster, that he only fed on animals, that he was simply too weak to hunt right now - Vuld wasn’t surprised. He softened, if anything, sympathetic. Hunger had been weaponized against him too, years ago. He knew all too well how it could weaken a man. Could he really judge Astarion for trying to steal an easy meal, when he was unable to do anything else? It wasn’t his fault he was a vampire, after all, people were rarely turned willingly, and whilst doctrine about the undead was fairly clear... well, doctrines were rarely as nuanced as the world around them, in Vuld’s experience. He knew for himself that Astarion, whatever he was, was not the being of pure evil that the dogma claimed him to be. A jerk, perhaps, but he didn't deserve to starve for that.
Astarion’s usual theatrics were sneaking back in now that he was calming down, but there was something heartfelt in his “please” that bothered Vuld’s heart.
The parasite stirred unpleasantly and Astarion’s mind unfolded, seemingly of his own free will. Had he initiated that? Vuld didn’t know, he had very little grip on how the connections worked. It was as though Astarion was trying to show him something, but he was holding so much back that almost nothing could be gleaned. A clumsy attempt to appear honest without giving anything away, perhaps? Or a move of genuine desperation, born of hunger?
He didn’t mean to push deeper into Astarion’s mind, it was as though the tadpole did it instinctively in response to Vuld’s curiosity. He regretted it at once as Astarion realised what was happening, his voice and expression of dread both deepened as he felt Vuld slip deeper than he had intended to permit.
“What- what’s this?” There was something horrible in his eyes as he looked to Vuld as though for help. “What’s happening?”
Vuld focused and withdrew immediately, shutting down the link, but the unintentional peek had shown him a clearer image, like a new memory he’d forgotten, now returning to him. A horrible hunger, familiar but unique, desperate to be quenched. In his mind he felt himself bite down desperately into his meal - not a tender neck, but a rat, reeking of the sewers as it twisted and screamed and bit, hoping for freedom. Disgust threatened to send the remembered meal back up, but in his mind, he was used to it. It was the only thing he’d eaten in decades. The only thing he was ever allowed to eat.
“You had no choice.” He wasn't focussed on the words, but on the struggle to keep the glimpse away from his own memories, worried they’d merge and collapse his mind into chaos, and he needed to be present to deal with Astarion. He composed himself as best he could and clarified, “I saw a glimpse into your mind, just then. You weren’t allowed to feed on anything else, were you?”
“I-” Astarion straightened, hands curling into fists then releasing as his expression became guarded, then open once again, choosing to show something like vulnerability. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked.” He spat the title with genuine venom, face twisting into a pained scowl. So he was spawn, then. A slave. “So you can see why I’m slow to trust you.”
“Certainly,” Vuld answered honestly, his tone intentionally sympathetic.
Astarion shifted his scowl as best he could to a mask of sincerity too intense to be genuine and tried, “but I do trust you. And you can trust me.”
That was a bare-faced lie on both accounts, but Vuld understood it. He could even understand why Astarion had hidden being a vampire. Vuld knew something of how his kind were hunted, especially by Paladins. He almost smiled at the realisation that their animosity suddenly made perfect sense - they were natural enemies, after all.
“I don’t trust you,” he told Astarion honestly, stepping closer to him. He kept things slow and relaxed, he didn’t want to hurt him or scare him away, harsh though his words may have sounded. “Just as you didn’t trust me, hm? We barely know each other.”
Astarion shrank back from him, he was trying to hide it with humour and faux confidence but he was so afraid. Was it just because he’d been caught, Vuld wondered? Or had his earlier theory been correct, that Astarion’s general nastiness was a front to help him cope with the mindflayers and the crash? And what of the memories he’d just witnessed? They weren’t exactly clear, but the whole thing reeked of suffering, of ill treatment. What other horrors did the man’s sharp humour hide?
“No... no of course,” Astarion said in the same silky purr as before, eyes down as he leaned away from the bigger man. “Silly of me to even ask. I'll just go and, ah, find something on four legs to eat I suppose....”
Vuld caught his wrist, not surprised when Astarion flinched at the touch.
“I didn’t say no, Astarion.”
Those ruby red eyes flicked back to him in unmasked shock, anxious hope.
“I don’t trust you,” Vuld clarified. “But I won’t let you starve. I know what that’s like and I’ll not inflict it upon you.”
It took a moment for Astarion’s confusion to be replaced by barely restrained, hungry joy, which he worked to hide, presumably so as not to seem too eager.
“I- thank you,” he purred, and looked back to their bedrolls. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable then, shall we?”
Vuld nodded and moved to the bedroll as he assumed Astarion intended, but hesitated. He wasn’t planning to lay down for this, and doing it so close to the others seemed dangerous for Astarion, should they stir.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Astarion asked, trying and failing to hide the desperation under his silky words.
“No,” Vuld promised, and looked around for a better spot. He found one and shot Astarion a reassuring smile then said, “just reassessing,” before he headed towards the edge of the forest instead, towards a sturdy tree.
Astarion followed him, hunched slightly. Sitting seemed to be the best position for this, providing easy access for Astarion without the risk of them falling. Vuld sat and gestured for Astarion to... what? Sit in his lap? That seemed awkward. Kneel beside him and lean over, perhaps? The position seemed no less awkward, but awkward in a more tolerable way, perhaps.
Apparently, Astarion had none of the reservations Vuld did. He sank down into the paladin’s lap like they were lovers, his knees straddling Vuld’s hips as he sat on the bigger man’s thighs, his hands resting on Vuld’s shoulders with unearned familiarity.
“Oh, hi,” Vuld greeted, a little startled but mostly just amused by their sudden uncanny position. And oddly comforted by it, though he wouldn't admit it if asked. Astarion’s body settling against his was new to him, certainly, but the weight of the contact, the familiarity of someone in his arms, the closeness, so close you could share breath... gods, he hadn’t realised just how terribly he’d missed those things until Astarion pressed against him.
“Hello,” Astarion purred, but otherwise wasted no time leaning Vuld’s head to the side and sinking his teeth into the paladin’s flesh, one hand on his shoulder as the other laced fingers in his long, dark hair.
It was a quick pain that faded fast, sharp and cold like a chilled dagger. It soon turned into a numb, throbbing feeling that reminded him of smacking his elbow and the radiating sensation that would follow as his arm fell asleep. That’s what it felt like - his body falling asleep as the cool throb radiated through him. Surprisingly, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though that might have more to do with the other parts of the experience than the bite itself. Astarion clung to him desperately, arms and legs wrapped around him, and the lips at his neck as he sucked were not dissimilar to those of a lover, sucking love bites in the throes of passion. There was a little pain, but, well. That was often true when one was swept up in the moment. More than painful, it was intimate.
Vuld jolted back to himself as he started to slip into unconsciousness, his pulse quickening and beating harder. He pressed against Astarion to indicate he was done, but the vampire’s grip on him tightened and he curled into Vuld’s body in a desperate attempt to stay there, to keep feeding.
“Enough,” Vuld ordered, the word a whisper though still harsher than he’d meant it to be. He pushed Astarion away with a touch more force, easily prying the little blood sucker off of him.
The rogue stumbled away gasping and moaning, forcing Vuld to bite his tongue lest he start teasing him.
“That- that was amazing,” Astarion exclaimed quietly, apparently surprised at just how good it had been. “My mind is finally clear,” he continued, face unguarded as he offered the words. “I feel strong. I feel… happy.”
Vuld held his neck as he rested his head back on the tree, looking up at the other man with a smile, genuine warmth in his voice as he teased, “you’re welcome.”
“Ahh... yes, of course, thank you.” It sounded entirely insincere but honestly, Vuld understood. Astarion didn’t care about him right now, he didn’t care about niceties or manners. He'd had his first proper meal in gods knew how long. He wouldn’t begrudge him the moment of rude indulgence.
Astarion ducked out of their conversation a moment later with a refined, “now, if you'll excuse me, you're invigorating but I need something more filling.”
“Pass me something first,” Vuld asked, gesturing to the camp pack, and Astarion obliged. Vuld didn’t want to waste his magic on healing himself, the wounds had already stopped bleeding, but he needed a sandwich and something sweet if he was going to be of use in the morning.
He assumed Astarion had finished their conversation and taken his leave, but the man halted at the far edge of the firelight and added, needlessly, “This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it.”
It was as close to a genuine “thank you” as Vuld imagined he would ever get.