By Proxy

by alcetryx

Summary:

You've been jilted by Wyll - the man who you thought was your knight in shining armor. He's left you with the entire weight of Baldur's Gate on your shoulders, as you grapple with the potential of an impending power void.

Astarion, the ascended vampire lord, is always the opportunist. He is hungry for power... but didn't expect to be hungry for you.

Chapter 1: Grand Duke

Notes:

For some context, the politics of Baldur's Gate are adjusted slightly to fit the course of the story, including the makeup and hierarchy of the Council of Four. If you're expecting it to be perfectly canon accurate in that regard, it isn't. In this version, the Ravengard position is the only "Grand Duke" position and ranks slightly above the others. For the most part he is subject to the vote of the council, but also has some special privileges and is the "mouthpiece" of the group.

After several months left in agony, the thing that you’ve been waiting for arrives.

As these things often go, the letter arrives precisely as you reach the point that you’ve almost given up on it entirely, tucked between a pile of less important correspondences. You toss the other pieces of mail to the side, to be forgotten about until much later. That may come back to bite you. In the early days, you had hoped and prayed for the letter every day, unable to concentrate on anything else. The days since have not gotten any easier, but at some point it fell to the back of your consciousness and allowed you to go about life as normal again. You are no longer watching out the window for the mail to be delivered every day, hiding behind the curtains and holding your breath to avoid making awkward eye contact with the delivery person again.

 

“I’ll write as often as I’m able, I promise.”

 

The words have been a sour echo in your mind, but now you are able to cast aside the doubts that had been infiltrating and feeding a slow drip of poison to your heart.

 

The letter smells like the dying remnants of a campfire on a late summer night, mixed with sulfur, blood, and brimstone. It arrives in a yellowing envelope with an unrefined gob of black wax sticking it closed, with your name on the outside in a familiar, dancing script that doesn't suit the rest of the note. Finally, after months of silence... a letter from Avernus. A sign that your friends are okay, and alive. A sign that Wyll is okay. It is the best gift you could receive right now after being left in total darkness, to come up with your own terrible conclusions of what might have happened to them. Although you know that Wyll and Karlach are strong and you trust them to fend for themselves, the silence has left you with a rotting hole in your heart, infected with anxiety. All you can think is that if they both fell at once, you’d never know. They would be lost to the hells, and you would be cursed to wonder about their fate for the rest of your days.

 

Wyll.

 

The thought of him makes your heart ache. His touch, his kiss... your skin has stopped prickling up at the thought of it. Every day the memory fades a little more, and you have so little left to hold onto. His words might reignite that passion in your soul, so that you might remember how to hope for him again. So that you might remember what it feels like to be loved. To be known. Despite the knowledge of how difficult it might be to send letters across the planes... what has taken this letter so long? There's no doubt that you've been feeling a seed of resentment encroaching lately - a slow rising river in a season of rain.

 

Your hands tremble as you tear open the letter unceremoniously - you have no time to dig through his desk to find the letter opener and so instead you rip it open with your fingers. Heart beating to the pace of galloping hooves, your grip is clumsy and rushed. The envelope is a casualty of your carelessness, but you’ve never been one to save them anyway. The parchment inside is just as discolored as the shredded envelope, wrinkled and singed in several places - it seems that hellfire is no exaggeration. When you unfold it, your brow furrows in disappointment. You expect several pages worth of information from someone you haven’t seen in months - not a single measly piece of paper.

“I’ll write every night, I swear it. If I’m not able to send letters frequently, expect a heavy bundle of them by the time I can.”

A hollow promise. The letter in your hands is short. A little over a paragraph - if you can even call it that. You have to read it over dozens of times before it processes. The first time through, the words might as well be written in a long dead language, and you almost think it's coded. There must be a cipher to break.  You might as well be trying to read Infernal, as the words do not come to you beyond a string of meaningless letters strung together on a beaded necklace with no pattern.

The second time, you realize the words are indeed in your familiar tongue, and they take shape on the page but hold no meaning. It takes you ages to make sense of the simple sentences he’s written.

The third, fourth, fifth.... sixteenth time, the words take meaning, but you don't understand. Although the words now form legible sentences, you cannot process them. You read it over and over and over again. It still doesn’t make sense.

No.

 

This can’t be real. It isn’t real. It isn’t… it isn’t . You feel dizzy. There isn’t even a greeting or proper structure to the message that must have been a bear to get to you in the first place. As many times as you try to read it in Wyll’s voice, you just can’t make it sound like him.   

 

A dagger has just been lodged into your chest, and shimmied around for good measure to make sure that you’re good and hurt.

I am sorry. I agonized over the contents of this letter for weeks, but in the end I’ve decided it is best to keep it brief. I will not be returning to Baldur’s Gate. This is goodbye. 

 

I have found a purpose in Avernus far greater than I was ever expecting. Karlach and I make a good team, and we have discovered much about ourselves in our time here. I know this news will hurt you. I wish you had been able to come with us… maybe things would have been different. But then, the hells are rough, and I would never wish them upon you.

 

May you find happiness.

You’ve just been dumped… by Wyll Ravengard.

You rip the thin gold band, a promise ring, from your finger and send it clattering across the floor. You don’t take note of its final resting place, and you don’t care. It wasn’t an engagement ring - he had made that quite clear before he left for Avernus with Karlach. But it was a symbol of his commitment to you, and he swore up and down that he intended to properly court and propose to you on his return. You believed every word, and why wouldn’t you? He was your prince. He was everything.

 

Every night since he left, you’ve dreamed of nothing but him and the life you would make together when he returned. You sent letters back and forth with your family gushing about him. You agreed to look after Baldur’s Gate in his absence, acting as Grand Duke by proxy for gods’ sake. You hardly knew a thing about politics or leadership, and yet you took on his entire job. You learned. You thought he would come back. The entirety of Baldur’s Gate thought he would come back, and it was the only reason they tolerated your temporary hold on the position.

 

Except he’s not coming back. Now what?

 

Why couldn’t he at least be bothered to tell you what the fuck to do about the city?

 

You pace his bedroom in his estate, the place that you’ve called home for the past eight months. The letter gives no further instructions. So what then - are you meant to continue to rule in his absence? Find somewhere else to live? You agreed to be Wyll’s lover, his partner, and his eventual wife. You only agreed to take on the responsibilities of Grand Duke until he returned from Avernus, a tentative arrangement so he could help Karlach and settle a score. 

 

He’s not coming back. 

 

You stare again at the letter, looking for any sort of sign of a code, or a forgery, but you see none. The letter is authentic, it is written in his hand, and there is no secret code that begs for help or rescue. He has left you all alone, holding his bag.

 

For Karlach. 

 

Karlach.

 

You were so sure that Karlach was your best friend, the way that you had confided in one another on the road. You remember spending many late nights with your bedrolls pressed close together, giggling and whispering until the others begged you to shut up. You remember giving her a hug for the first time, and how she repeated tirelessly that she’d someday find a way to repay you. She didn’t know at the time that you just found joy in her exuberance. You helped her because you wanted to. You loved her almost as much as you loved Wyll, and it was why you allowed him to go with her when you couldn’t. You couldn’t stand the thought of her going to Avernus, the place she hated, all on her own with no one to support her. She swore she’d never go back there, and yet in the end the situation required it, because no one was willing to let her die prematurely on account of the infernal engine. 

 

Wyll promised. Just a few months. 

 

They’d be back in just a few months . He kissed you goodbye. Karlach gave you a long hug that left your shoulders aching in her memory for the days that followed.

 

You longed to go with them, but you couldn’t. The final fight with the netherbrain had nearly killed you, leaving you with a broken leg that was mangled beyond the healing abilities of even an experienced spellcaster. And so you were forced to watch your lover and your best friend traipse off into the hells together without you, carrying the flame of a life saving mission and a vendetta against Zariel.

 

And now they’ve found solace in each other’s arms.

 

Of course you shouldn’t be surprised. Avernus is notoriously awful, and they are likely bombarded by terrors at all hours of the day in an endless onslaught. Trauma is the very thing that brought all of you together in the first place. The thing that brought you and Wyll together in the first place. It’s hard not to get close when you walk through the same darkness together - and now they function as the other’s only comfort in the world. You should have expected this to happen, and yet you didn’t. You trusted both of them.

You shouldn’t be surprised because everyone loves Karlach. She’s impossible not to adore, and it’s maddening though not misplaced. Even now there is a tiny part of you that is relieved she found a shred of happiness after everything she’s been through. You see now how perfect the pair were for one another all along.

You fight the urge to scream aloud.

                          

---

 

 

You don’t know how to break the news to the city officials, so you don’t. You convince yourself that you will when the time is right, because it isn’t like you want the power that you currently hold. It isn't possible that Wyll isn't coming back. He has to. The city will burn without his leadership - everyone is convinced of it.

 

However, even trapped in a state of self-pity that leads you to neglect properly caring for yourself in the weeks that follow, you find yourself hesitant to share word of Wyll’s abdication of his position. The city is still in a precarious state as it struggles to rebuild itself, and a void of power will weaken it considerably. Internal and external forces will fight tooth and nail to establish a new order if given the opportunity. And so you decide to remain quiet, burning the evidence of his letter to ash. You will tell them eventually, but first you have to write back to him, somehow. The letter didn’t include a return address, and how is one meant to send a letter to Avernus, in any case? Wyll isn’t likely to have a mailing address on the front lines. The longer you wait to share the news, the heavier the burden of the knowledge weighs on you.

 

He has to write again eventually. That can’t be all he has to say - surely he didn’t forget that he’s responsible for an entire city now. He can break up with you, but he can’t break up with Baldur’s Gate. He has to address his responsibilities at some point, because he can’t intend to leave the city in your hands forever. Without further guidance, you have no choice to continue business as usual, trapped by your own sense of duty.

 

Several more weeks pass, and decisions become easier to make, because you no longer pressure or expect yourself to be a reflection of Wyll, nor do you spend hours agonizing over what choice you believe he would make. You just choose, and so far there have been no catastrophic consequences. You don’t shoulder the entire burden anyway, still held to the existing processes of the Council of Four. You know that they grow increasingly resentful of you as Wyll remains away, although they feign politeness in your presence. It is only a matter of time now before things reach a boiling point and someone brings up Wyll Ravengard’s absence again. 

 

 You are more isolated than ever. Before, you were able to convince yourself that everything you did and every choice you made led towards a higher purpose as you planned your future life with Wyll at your side.

 

 Now, there is only loneliness. Life in Baldur’s Gate goes on… the city starts to rebuild in earnest. You try to rebuild the broken pieces of yourself alongside it.

 

You continue to care for the Ravengard Estate, if only because you have to. If you move elsewhere, word will get out, and it will bring with it questions that you can’t answer without exposing the deep hole of lies that you’ve started to dig. It’s a large, lonely building in the Upper City that had been spared from much of the damage from the final battle that felled the netherbrain. Any damage it had taken was now repaired, a ‘priority’ on the city’s dime. You hadn’t protested it at the time, but now you wish you had. Lately, the financial matters of Baldur’s Gate are looking rather grim, and it doesn’t sit well in your gut to have used its money for rebuilding private estates of government officials. But it was decided upon by all of the Councilors in a meeting soon after Wyll left to Avernus - and of course it was. They all benefited from it.

 

Without a Ravengard to make decisions for the estate - the repair choices came down to you, and the home now feels, at least partly, yours. You’ve selected a new bedroom for yourself in a refurbished part of the manor - one that Wyll has never touched or slept in. It helps distance you from him, no longer able to smell his cologne in the air or in his old clothing. Still you spend your nights awake, staring at the ceiling. You torment yourself by reliving every interaction between yourself, Wyll, and Karlach - wondering just for how long and how deep the feelings ran. There’s evidence that something more was budding between them even while he courted you - inside jokes, stolen glances, and private moments that would leave both of them smiling. They have always been good people at heart though, and you know that it never went further than a wistful longing or a comment that could easily be written off as something between close friends. You suspect that the emotional chasm started in earnest after Karlach could be touched again. Before that, she never would have considered the possibility of romance - a means to guard her heart and the heart of another. To protect them from the cruel reality that they might never touch. 

 

Was it Wyll she was looking at over your shoulder as she hugged you the first time?

                              

---

 

 

By the time the first anniversary of the battle comes up on the calendar, you have released most of the servants that care for the home from their contracts, save for two. You would release them too, if only they had anywhere to go. Barnabus Shackleford and Gretta Forsyth have served the Ravengards for decades, live on the estate, and don’t have many years left by the looks of them. Casting them out would be a cruelty. They’ve earned their retirement sum by now according to the accounting books you taught yourself to read, but it isn’t enough to afford a place to live on their own for whatever years remain for them. You don’t ask much of them, choosing to take on much of the home’s workload yourself.  It keeps your mind clear, and there’s little else to do in the life of a politician. You have nothing but time.

 

Neither of them appreciate having their duties relaxed, and both hold strong opinions about your way of doing things. When she isn’t asking you when Wyll is coming back and fantasizing about helping to rear another generation of Ravengards, Gretta is hovering over your shoulder trying to coach you on housework. All you can do is grin and bear it, doing things her way if only for the reason that you don’t want her to push you away and take things over herself.

 

You are surprised when Barnabus comes to get you in the ballroom, where you’re scrubbing the marble floors for the fourth time this month. No one comes in here, and they are just as spotless as they were last time, but having your hands idle for too long is a torment. There are some days you clean until your hands are red and raw, the skin around your nails peeling and dry.

 

He sneaks up on you as he always does, giving you a dusty cough as a warning of his approach. He is still alive and yet he already haunts the manor, well practiced in the art of navigating it without disturbing the family he serves. His wrinkled face peers down at you in concern and disapproval. You know he hates that you perform household duties now, but he gave up protesting it months ago. Gretta is a much more stubborn creature.

 

“There are guests calling at the door to see you, My Lady,” He says with a bow. 

 

You freeze where you are. Guests? You’ve never had guests at the estate. Not for you, anyway. In the beginning, people had come in search of Wyll, but soon word got out that he had gone away, and the callers stopped not long after.

 

“To see me?” You clarify, pointing at yourself in disbelief.

 

He nods, hobbling over to take the sponge from your hand. “Yes.”

 

“Who?” You presently don’t have a social life. Your longest interactions are with Barnabus, Gretta, and the Council - all who interact with you out of unwilling responsibility.

 

“Friends of yours, they said.” The frustrated fog of age passes over his face as he tries to recall information. “It seems I’ve already lost the names.”

 

You look down at yourself, considering whether it would be more impolite to greet them like this, or to make them wait while you change. You never use the personal budget you are allotted for nice clothes, and you currently wear a shirt you wore in your days of adventuring, and an old pair of servants’ pants that are rolled up to your knees. The clothes are good for cleaning, but not so acceptable for taking guests in. You wipe your wet hands on your thighs and stand up. You carefully exit the ballroom, taking great care not to slip. Your bare feet leave damp footprints down the hall.

 

When you open the door, you’re greeted by several familiar faces. Shadowheart, Gale, and Jaheira.

 

“Oh,” you say in surprise. It doesn't feel like you're here and awake. “I wasn’t expecting you all.” You can’t help but look down at your clothing again, uncurling the length of your pants with your opposite foot. You don’t feel decent.

 

“That’s certainly an underwhelming hello,” Shadowheart crosses her arms. At her side is a large leather satchel.

 

“Ah, right. I’m sorry,” you give them the warmest smile you can manage, trying to feign a more polite welcome. “It’s good to see you. It’s been... a while.”

 

You stand aside to let them in. Jaheira is carrying a large wicker basket in her arms, and Gale’s bag seems to be clinking with the fervor of someone who has just robbed a winery. 

 

“A while?” Shadowheart asks unhappily. “You never bothered to answer any of our correspondence - and from what Gale tells me I’m not the only one. Surely being the Grand Duke's proxy doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to ever go out. And even if it did, you couldn’t even be bothered to write us back?”

 

“Well…” You follow them into your sitting room, a warmth rising to your face. She has a right to be angry... but why? Your time apart has been much longer now than the few weeks you spent together. “Things have gotten away from me. It’s true.” There’s still a pile of unanswered mail that sits on the table by the door that you struggle to acknowledge. They had walked right by it.

 

“We decided to pay you a visit, given the occasion.”

 

“The occasion?” You don’t know what they mean.

 

“The anniversary!” Gale exclaims, giving you an unexpected pat on the back like he would a close friend. As if you aren’t strangers now. “Of the day we went down in history. No longer just ordinary men.”

 

He earns the judging glares of three women and quickly corrects his error.

 

You wonder how different their lives have been as established heroes. All of your names made the Gazette in the beginning - but soon your existence was overshadowed by the duties you performed in Wyll’s name. Wyll Ravengard was the celebrity and household name. You were the accessory. In the heart of the Lower City stands a mural commemorating the battle with the Absolute. Wyll is front and center of a group of five, his face taking up the largest amount of real estate. Immediately to his left and right are Shadowheart and Gale respectively, and then Astarion and Jaheira at the back. The rest of you only earned your names on the plaque below. You've been reduced to Wyll's proxy - no longer a hero in your own right. Few even acknowledge you as his lover - he ran off so quickly that it wasn't ever established as common knowledge. Most days, a stranger on the street wouldn't recognize you.

 

“Oh. Has it been that long already?” You’re vaguely aware of the date. Time moves differently for you now.

 

“Have you heard from Wyll?” Shadowheart asks.

 

A tick in your jaw. Things are suddenly much more personal. You have been able to handle the questions from total outsiders, because they had never seen your relationship with him. But these people know. The only other witnesses, and the only other proof he ever loved you at all and it wasn’t just a part of one long fever dream. The fact that they’re here and asking sends shockwaves down your spine.

 

“No,” you lie. It comes effortlessly now, after so many months. That’s all anyone can ask about now. Wyll.

 

Where’s Wyll? Have you heard from Wyll? How’s Wyll?

 

No one ever asks about you. “But I can’t imagine that sending word from Avernus is easy.”

 

The same lie you told yourself, repeated over and over in your head - now repeated aloud.

 

Your companions appear mildly concerned. Jaheira throat quivers as she swallows a lump.

 

“No… but It’s a wonder that you’re still able to keep the faith after all this time,” Shadowheart runs her hand along the bottom of a portrait of the Ravengard family. Wyll and his parents. Although his mother died in childbirth and he had never known her, someone had taken great care to paint her into the treasured picture. A collage of people who never stood together. An impossibly young woman, frozen in time beside the aged face of her widowed husband. “Though I suppose if anyone is capable of it, it’s you. Wyll is lucky to have someone so devoted.”

 

The loyalty feels more like a curse.

 

You shudder, suddenly nauseous and unsure if you’re going to be able to keep this lie up with them for much longer. Every bone in your body screams at you to come clean. But instead, you drag up a weak shadow of a smile. You hardly know these people anymore - there's no telling what they might do if they find out Wyll is gone for good. An empty seat of power is a dangerous instability that Baldur's Gate cannot afford as it continues rebuilding efforts. “Thank you.”

 

“I’m a little surprised you didn’t run off after them as soon as your injury healed,” Gale says.

 

You almost did. You imagine how that would have gone - fighting your way through the creatures of hell only to catch your lover and best friend in the act.

 

You play it off. “They’re in Avernus . How would I ever hope to find them on my own? I doubt I’d last five minutes. And anyways, I have a job to do here.”

 

Several jobs really. Juggling the position and the household. A heavy load meant only to be temporary.

 

“I don’t know how you wait for him. Lae’zel - she at least writes to me,” Shadowheart says wistfully. “Don’t you worry that he might be-” 

 

Jaheira jams an elbow into her ribs before she can finish. “Sorry,” she grumbles.

 

Dead. She was going to say dead - but in some ways the truth is more tragic. At least there would be honor in death.

 

If you still held anything but bitter resentment towards Wyll and Karlach, Shadowheart’s tactlessness might have inspired anger. Instead you feel almost nothing. She's only doing her best to relate to you. “It’s okay. And no… I don’t worry. Karlach and Wyll are capable fighters. They know what they’re doing.”

 

In more ways than one. You bite your lip.

 

“So... Lae’zel, huh?” You raise an eyebrow at Shadowheart and hope to change the subject.

 

She tucks her chin, trying to mask the shy smile that creeps to her lips.

 

“Oh please,” Jaheira rolls her eyes, finally breaking her silence. “You might be thankful that you haven’t answered her correspondence - The gith is all she ever speaks of.”

 

You chew on that information for a few minutes while Jaheira and Gale begin laying out a generous spread of food and drink on the table of your parlor. Your mouth waters at the sight - you haven’t been eating all that much lately since you dismissed the other kitchen staff and stopped allowing Gretta to cook for you. When you made yourself responsible for your own meals, it came with the consequence of skipping more of them and opting to sustain yourself with scraps of ingredients scavenged from the cupboards that didn’t require preparation. You eat a lot of deconstructed sandwiches these days.

 

“Where is Lae’zel now?” You ask. If you were still with Wyll, you and Shadowheart would be kindred spirits. Instead you’re forced to pretend.

 

“She’s been entrenched in a gith civil war,” Shadowheart sighs. “Speaking out against Vlaakith brought her no shortage of enemies to fight.”

 

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

 

Shadowheart fidgets with her silver braid. “It isn’t my fight. This one belongs to the gith alone. If I went I’d be just as likely to be struck down by someone on our side than an enemy. Lae’zel needs to focus right now.”

 

“Shadowheart also has failed to share with her paramour the critical fact that she cares for her at all,” Gale says, beginning to pour several glasses of wine for your party.

 

“As I said, Gale,” Shadowheart glares at the wizard, but she can’t hide the rosiness of her cheeks. “Lae’zel can’t afford to be distracted right now. She talks of returning soon - some matters are best left face to face.”

 

A confession of love through a letter is less cowardly than breaking off a relationship through a letter.

 

“What about Halsin, then?” You ask. “Has anyone spoken to him?”

 

You certainly haven’t, and it feels a bit disingenuous to ask about him now.  Your question is met with shrugs and silence. It isn’t too surprising. In all likelihood he snuck back off to nature, back to his grove. It would have been a cruelty to expect him to go anywhere else. He was someone you would have written back to, if he’d written you first. He always radiated with worldly experience and acceptance - his fairness in judgment a welcome boon. But much like Wyll and Karlach, you have no address for him. If you address a letter to the grove, would it be delivered? There are magical channels for sending letters long distance, but the postage is expensive. Without a very specific location for it to come out on the other side, such spells are known for failure. Physical deliveries are still the preferred option to prevent important correspondence from inadvertently drifting through the Astral Plane or Feywilds.

 

Thinking about it now, you might have luck sending a messenger bird to him - but what would you say at this point? You have missed your window.

 

No one dares bring up Astarion. The Vampire Ascendant is still in Baldur’s Gate, lording over the Crimson Palace as he has since the fall of the Absolute. He so far hasn’t tried to meddle much in political affairs, but he has forever. He can afford to be patient. You suppose he’ll stay out of it until just before you and Wyll die, as a courtesy to the brief friendship you had and the power you helped him achieve. You hear of him occasionally holding galas or parties, but you’ve so far rejected every invitation. Now several are ignored in your growing stack of mail, the unique black envelopes with silvery adornments standing out against the rest of it. You know he only invites you now because of your status - not out of any friendship fostered.

 

With just the four of you here to celebrate, the affair feels hollow. The absence of your other companions hangs in the air, a void so obvious and large that it is nearly palpable. Early in the day, it becomes obvious that the only thing the four of you ever had in common was your circumstance. In a traditional setting, you never would have kept the company of one another.  

 

Still, life-altering catastrophes have a way of bringing people together. You admit that it’s nicer than you thought not to be alone, and your reservations fade over the course of the hour together again. The tension of the room eases as the wine continues to flow, and soon you are all talking like old friends again. It does more to raise your spirits than anything else in the past four months has.

After several hours of merry-making, you head to the washroom. As you look in the mirror and splash water on your face, you are aware of the buzz of wine that burns in your veins, warming you. You aren’t drunk, but it is enough to make you a little more sociable. It’s been ages since you’ve talked so much…

 When you go to leave and return to your guests, Shadowheart is waiting outside of the door in the dim hallway, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, a goblet of wine in hand. The candles in this hallway are enchanted, and at this hour they burn low. It's enough to guide you down the hall, but not enough to be intrusive.

 

“It’s all yours,” you say, thinking that she’s waiting her turn.

 

But instead she approaches you, walking up close enough that your noses could touch. Her eyes look you up and down several times, like a guard deciding whether or not to allow you entry.

 

So you’ve misread her then. Is she angry about something? You smell the alcohol on her breath. “Oh… yes?” You gulp. She hasn’t stared at you like this since after you left her behind on the nautiloid. Since then, your relationship has improved.

 

“You aren’t fooling me.” She takes another sip of her cup and wrinkles her nose.  Her voice is accusatory, but it lacks the heat of anger. Instead she keeps it low, like the light of the enchanted candles. You catch her eyes fall to your hand. “What happened?”

 

“What do you mean?” You ask carefully. You won’t accidentally give anything away.

 

She snorts, and you can tell she’s tipsy. She grabs your hand and holds it in hers before you can tuck it behind your back. “I mean Wyll. You aren’t wearing your ring.”

 

How had she noticed such a silly detail? You brush some of your hair behind your ear, pulling your hand away from her and placing your other hand over the empty one. “I don’t have to wear it all of the time.”

 

“It would be customary to. That is sort of the point.”

 

Your heart is pounding in your chest as your throat squeezes, caught in a vice. You think you might choke. “I’ve lost a bit of weight is all - it doesn’t fit right anymore. I haven’t had the opportunity to get it resized to fit. It isn’t like it was an engagement ring.”

 

Just a promise ring. An empty promise ring. A pretty little gold-plated lie with a gaping hole in the middle

 

The alcohol hasn't dulled her wit. She isn’t falling for it. It’s little more than a desperate lie. Her calculating eyes analyze you, trying to discern your game. “You aren’t being honest. It’s all over your face.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” With the alcohol lowering your inhibitions, you must not be keeping your tells in check. You're stumbling around your words, and the wine is not to blame.

 

“Well you’d better start. You live in his house. You hold down his job. So what happened?” She demands that you answer, but whether she is accusing you of something or just concerned, you can’t gather.

 

“I just… I don’t think he’s coming back.” You flinch. It doesn’t give everything away. It is a partial truth. 

 

He isn't coming back.

 

Shadowheart softens, and she abruptly reaches out to hug you, wrapping her arms around you while she balances her goblet in hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She gently pats your back. “You should keep your faith though. It’s as you said - Wyll is strong. You don’t have to try and forget him.”

 

The hug catches you off guard. The last person to hug you was Karlach. She mistakes your words and writes everything off as the actions of someone drowning in grief. She pities you. It stops the line of questioning in its tracks. 

 

There’s a sour taste in your mouth as you curse your own lies. It isn’t safe for anyone to know the truth. Not yet. “I know. Thank you.”

 

She doesn’t know that you do have to try and forget him. Because even months later, he’s all you can think about. Your lifestyle requires it. Your entire existence is dedicated to him in one way or another - you aren’t sure you’ll ever be free now from the Blade of Frontiers. Grand Duke Ravengard.

                                               

---

 

 

Once a month, you hold audiences at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress for anyone who wishes to speak with the Duke or the Council of Four. It is probably your least favorite part of the entire job, and today is worse than ever. It’s the day after your reunion, and you slouch on the throne as your mind buzzes quietly from a whisper of a hangover. A nest of slightly agitated bees making a home in your mind. After your confrontation in the hallway with Shadowheart, you had tried to clear everything away with the sweet empty bliss of more alcohol. It hadn’t been strong enough to crush every painful thought, but it had made the rest of the evening more tolerable.

 

The audience chamber feels especially tedious today, and your teeth clench. The lights are brighter today, and the voices louder. It pushes you to the edge of your sanity. You want it to be over with. You want to call a recess early. But the Council is here with you, observing, and you’re determined not to make a misstep under their critical eyes. It's best not to give them any more reason to doubt you.

 

With every month that passes, those that would come to bow before the Grand Duke grow more frustrated with Wyll’s absence. Where is he? Why does his woman continue to speak for him after so many months? Valid questions that you can’t answer. It’s exhausting to keep up the lie, and more exhausting to face countless people who are disappointed or even angry to see your face instead of Wyll’s. You can’t keep up with it much longer. The rage is slow to bubble up inside of you, but it does as the minutes tick by, and as you are confronted with dozens of meaningless interactions. 

 

Anyone could show up on audience days. It might be someone who wishes to bless the birth of their baby. It might be two disputing neighbors. It might be a foreign official beseeching aid. It might be someone simply dropping off overdue taxes. Today, it is all of the pointless drivel you could possibly imagine, and then some. You yearn to leave. More than ever before you want to stand up and scream at the Council “Wyll is gone. He isn’t coming back!” So that you might finally be done dealing with his messes. To abandon you with the whole of Baldur’s Gate is worse than if he abandoned you with child. Thank the gods you had never gotten the opportunity to lay together, or you might have been cursed with both. This never should have been your responsibility. 

 

Every time you come close to snapping, you swallow a piece of ice from your cup of water, pressing it against the roof of your mouth. The sensation grounds you, and forces you to keep your mouth closed instead of screaming.

 

I’m sorry I’m not Wyll. He’s not coming back. I don’t like this any more than you do.

 

Right when you think that you’re about to lose yourself entirely and give up on the farce, a familiar face walks in. It immediately sets the other voices in the room to a sea of soft murmurs and whispers. He hasn’t ever shown up for an audience, but everyone has been speculating that it was only a matter of time due to the murmurs of recent political movements he’s been making. He’s finally here. You stand from your chair still gripping the armrest when you see him walk through the door, unable to believe your eyes. When you feel the collective stares of the room on you, you immediately throw yourself down again, rubbing your sweating palms against your thighs. 

 

“Astarion,” you choke. “Or… are you going by Lord Ancunin, now?” 

 

He smirks. “No need to be so formal, dear. After everything we’ve been through? Though... I’m never opposed to titles.”

 

You tense at the word dear while Astarion straightens himself, sure to let the entire room take in and appreciate his full form. His casual tone with you doesn't lend itself to the reputation that you've been trying and failing to build for yourself. He makes a purposeful slow twirl as he approaches you, letting everyone see him at every angle. Of course none of them are aware of his vampirism aside from you, but he has certainly been responsible for his fair share of rumors regardless. It’s no surprise that unkind words spread like wildfire when one lives in a large and foreboding palace and makes few appearances in public.

 

“It’s good to see you again,” you say, not entirely truthfully. You never trusted him after he chose to ascend, even if you did play a part in it. “What have you come to ask of the Council?”

 

“Not of the Council,” he waves a hand dismissively towards where they sit, leaving them to murmur words you don't quite hear. You don't need to - their expressions say enough. “Of you.” 

 

“Of the Grand Duke?” You ask in an attempt to clarify. You have to separate yourself from the role you carry. No one sees you as you anymore.

 

“No. Of you.”

 

He means the words that come out of his mouth. You, specifically. Not the Council, or the Grand Duke whose behalf you work on. Of you.

 

“This isn’t the venue for personal affairs,” Councillor Florrick snaps. “Right now she works on behalf of the Grand Duke. Your private matters can wait until the open session has concluded.”

 

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Astarion says with a distinct pout. “I simply could find no other opportunity to speak with my old companion.”

 

“What do you want, Astarion?” You ask through gritted teeth. He had sworn to never ask anything of you ever again. You helped him get his revenge. You helped him get his power. That is as far as your relationship would ever go. He had already pushed you to participate in choices well beyond the guidance of your moral compass.

 

You thought that helping him take back his life would save him. But you were horribly misguided.

 

You can’t believe he would come back now to push you even farther. 

 

“Your friends don’t seem too inclined to let me speak right now,” he laughs. He’s trying to play it cool, but you sense the faintest trace of unease radiating from him. “But perhaps you might finally consider speaking with me elsewhere?”

 

“Where?” You ask. You can hardly believe that you’re even entertaining the idea.

 

“I’ll leave a carriage,” he says cryptically. “For whenever you finish playing Duke for the day.”

Chapter 2: Resentment

After Astarion’s visit to the audience hall, you find it increasingly difficult to focus on the remainder of the session. You squeeze the old wooden armrest of the chair you sit in until your fingernails leave tiny pockmarks in the grains and your wrist starts to spasm from holding the position for such an extended length of time. You force yourself to let go and shift to the other side, resting your chin on the elbow of the arm that still has sensation. You drum your numb fingers on your leg, trying to subtly restore the blood flow. You are heavily preoccupied with your own questions rampaging through your crowded head, overlapping with the words of those who actually try to speak to you. The voices of the citizens that come to hold a meeting with you are drowned out by the oppressive volume of your own head. Losing track of when it is your turn to speak, you start to give lazy, stilted responses.

 

Why should you put any more effort in? None of them appreciate you to begin with. The next hour becomes an experiment of sorts, as you are coming to terms with the realization that what you say doesn’t actually matter at all. What you do matters only marginally more. In any case, the Council is always reminding you of what you can and cannot do, should or should not do. You are just a talking head, a puppet, a mouthpiece for a man who has abandoned his people. The words of those that come before you are heard but not listened to.

 

No one in this room respects you. They don’t even appreciate you. They couldn’t even be bothered to include you in the mural, despite the fact that you’ve arguably been the most accessible of anyone in the party since the catastrophe. But for whatever reason, you aren’t interesting enough. They can only speak of Wyll, their savior, the beloved son of the late Grand Duke Ravengard. The man who can do no wrong. Prince Charming. Savior of Baldur’s Gate. On and on the stories go, singing his praise. Even the bards hardly mention that Wyll didn’t defeat the Absolute by himself. Day by day his legend swells larger and larger, taking on increasingly outrageous and ridiculous qualities. In comparison, you are a nobody. Destined to become a footnote in a textbook. A friend of Wyll. An advisor. A proxy. Years down the line some may speculate about your relations - short-term lovers with a love story not interesting enough for the bards to sing about.

 

Florrick touches your shoulder between visitors - you hadn’t even noticed her approach your side. She leans over and whispers in your ear. “What are you doing? Are you even paying attention?” She snaps at you as she often does. Her gratitude to you for saving her life is dwarfed by her annoyance with Wyll leaving you in charge. 

 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” you say. It’s innocent enough, but it is a lie. You stopped paying proper attention at least a quarter of an hour ago.

 

“Are you well? Nothing you just said to that gnome made any sense in context.” She’s angry with you, but it’s no different than normal. You have been genuinely trying at this for months, but still she always finds a way to dissect and criticize every choice you make. It should be her in your shoes. She's better suited.

 

“It made sense. He was wasting our time. I’m so tired of dealing with neighborly disputes. Isn’t there any way to screen these audiences first so we don’t have to deal with these trite matters?” You press your eyes shut with your hand and take a deep breath. Your headache won't settle - you could do with a potion. “Does no one remember that we’re recovering from the city nearly being wiped off of the face of the Faerun? The Council should not be responsible for deciding whether someone’s flower bed is within the boundaries of their neighbor’s property.”

 

“You told him to grow a cactus and-” Florrick is seething, but you don’t let her finish. It was something vulgar. In truth, even you were surprised at your own audacity. A callous remark that won't win you any favor if it gets out to the larger populace. It's a good thing that reporters from Baldur's Mouth are barred from the sessions.

 

“Isn’t there a zoning board or a residential committee that can handle this nonsense? The gnome was an ass. He’s just stirring up trouble because more buildings are being erected in his neighborhood. What kind of fool complains about flowers?” The Ironhand gnome is especially concerned with the matter because his new neighbors are Gondians. Someone had been taking a page out of Wulbren’s book lately.

 

“It is fair to have concerns over one’s property.”

 

You look at her, entirely exhausted. You can’t believe this is a conversation that you’re even having - why can no one see it but you?  “The Council should exist for more serious matters. Imagine the good we could do if we left these petty matters in the hands of some other responsible party.”

 

“The Ravengards have always believed in taking time for every citizen, no matter how small the issue.”

 

“That’s very noble and all, and I’m sure that worked when the population was smaller. It isn’t going to work forever. These stupid disputes are only going to take up more and more of our time as more of the destruction is repaired and more homes are rebuilt. We can assign someone else to it.”

Things are getting more crowded within the city, and resources more strained as a result of rebuilding efforts.

 

Florrick’s eyes narrow. She isn’t trying to keep her voice down any longer. “You would shirk your responsibilities to your people? You would pass off your duties by leaving someone else to do them? Wyll would never approve.”

 

The rest of the Council seems to share her sentiment from what you can gather of the horrified looks on their faces. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought you blacked out and suggested kicking puppies or putting orphans to work on construction projects.

 

Something inside of you snaps. You have been patient with her before today. You have been patient with the entire Council. You have been patient with the citizens of Baldur’s Gate. You’ve handled every stupid dispute and meeting with a perfect, diplomatic, saccharinely sweet demeanor. You’ve put up with every nasty underhanded comment whispered by the Council. Everything you have done has been fair and reasonable. You never push your own agenda. You defer to their advice every time on critical issues. You are punctual, prepared, and researched. They have no reason to hold such animosity towards a perfectly compliant proxy. And you did all of this while under the sway of a broken heart. You didn’t take even a day off to sit with your grief.

 

Yet your patience has earned you nothing. Your only sin is that you aren’t Wyll.

 

“What the hells do you know about Wyll, anyway?” You spit. “What would any of you know about him? You hardly knew him - the man has become little more than a legend. I’m done for today.”

 

"Wyll Ravengard is the hope of the people. Can't you see that they need that?"

 

You stand up and descend the few short steps from the platform the Council sits on. Wyll Ravengard is a false hope.

 

“You can’t leave! We still have another two hours of this.”

 

“Figure it out. I’m just the gods’ damned proxy.”

 

What would they do? Fire you? Some days you wish they would. Let them deal with the fallout.

                                                 

---

The outburst is out of character for you, and as you step outside you are crushed between the force of two very conflicting feelings.

 

Embarrassment. 

 

Satisfaction.

 

You don’t cry, but you do come close, if only for a moment. Your hands are shaking with all of the fervor of someone who has committed a murder and enjoyed it. You just stood up for yourself for the first time in months, instead of meekly cowing to their every whim and complaint. You are tired of acting as scapegoat for every decision that they make that goes wrong. Someone to point the finger at because Wyll isn’t here. Because Wyll would magically somehow make everything better. Wyll would make all of the right decisions. 

 

You believed that once too. You believed that you were just a temporary measure until he returned - and that all of the problems of the city would improve under his leadership. But as the months have fallen off of the calendar, certain decisions were no longer able to be put off. The long term effects of those decisions haven't come to fruition yet.

 

 As you cross the bridge back into the city from Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, you spy the carriage Astarion spoke of. Lost in the labyrinth of your mind, you’ve almost forgotten that Astarion said that one would be waiting for you. You are lucky that the flashy thing is impossible to ignore, as it looks like something straight from a fairytale that high elves tell their children before their nightly trance.

 

The ornate carriage is coated in a glossy, ivory-white paint that glitters in the afternoon sunlight, immaculately clean even after being pulled through streets muddied from a recent rain. Every detail and edge of the carriage is trimmed with gold, including the spokes of the wheels. It’s pulled by two beautiful white horses, with golden and red strands woven into their full manes. A driver beckons you over, calling your name when he sees you. Astarion must want something, because the driver addresses you with the title of Grand Duke. You feel cautiously optimistic, but it wouldn’t be the first time Astarion tried to win you over with false flattery.

 ***

 

Spirits are high in camp tonight, as everyone enjoys the well-deserved fruits of a victory celebration. The success brings you a level of relief, but you also find that you can’t relax as much as everyone who doesn’t have a ticking time bomb in their brain. It is a small win, but there’s still so much left to come, and you don’t allow yourself to let your guard down tonight. You try to ignore the more raucous corners of the party, choosing the only quiet spot in the clearing - near Astarion’s tent. He looks to have a lot on his mind, and you’re surprised when he strikes up a conversation with you first.

 

“This wine is awful,” Astarion scoffs and scowls at the silver cup in his hands before taking another long sip. “I’m willing to bet the goblins would have thrown a better party.” He crosses his arms and observes the rest of the camp, currently flush with acquaintances and perfect strangers - druids, tieflings, and anyone else that the wind blows in.

 

That may be an unfair assessment. Even the several other victims of the nautiloid are still strangers to you, really. You have put a lot of trust in one another in a short amount of time, forced together through unfortunate circumstances. Astarion is the greatest stranger of all to you. He still makes you uneasy. Every word the elf speaks to you is laced with pretty lies. You’ve so far shut down his suggestive comments and slightly flirtatious banter, but you haven’t figured out the motivation to it yet. You aren’t the only one he speaks that way to, but still it feels targeted. You notice the way he carefully crafts his words to manipulate the person he speaks with - a shapeshifter in his communication style.

 

Still… every time he looks at you with his peculiar red eyes you start to wish you were a more foolish woman. 

 

But you aren’t. You know his game, and you know his type - and you won’t play into his hands like putty. It doesn’t stop him from accepting you as a silent challenge. His methods have evolved since meeting you - you know that he’s still looking for an angle in. You continue to reinforce your defenses every time he starts to chip away at them.

 

You look down at your own cup and swirl it around. The druids brought barrels full of the wine to your camp in celebration. The more of it you drink, the less you notice the taste. You sigh, hating that you see eye to eye with him on something. “You’re right. It’s awful. It tastes like lake water that had a few sour grapes sitting in it for an hour. With notes of… barrel wood. Oak, perhaps?”

 

“Oak wouldn’t leave much of a taste unless it was straight from the tree and not properly handled - I think it might be cedar.” His lips curl up mischievously, before he downs the final sip, shaking it to get every last drop.

 

For someone who just complained about the wine, he certainly doesn’t intend to waste any.

 

“Do you know much about barrel-making, then?” You raise your eyebrows and polish off your own cup.

 

“Why yes, I was a cooper before all of this, weren’t you aware?” He doesn’t leave you to consider that piece of information for very long before he lets out a sharp laugh. “Gods, no. I don’t know or give a damn about what the barrel is made of - I was jesting. You can’t possibly be that gullible - I’ve already told you I was a magistrate. The wine is awful. That’s all there is to say about it.”

 

“Awful enough to lick every last drop from the glass.”

 

His eyes flash in the firelight, his smirk rekindled. “Thinking about my tongue, are you?”

 

“What?” You don’t process what he’s said until after you say it. When it dawns on you, you feel a warmth crawl up your neck and settle in your cheeks. You try to swallow it away. “Gods! No. Your tongue is sharp enough to draw blood. I don’t make a habit of kissing rakes.”

 

The color momentarily drains from his face and his mask falls, but he quickly restores it. “Who said anything about kissing?” His smoldering eyes bore into yours, and you have to fight to break eye contact before it awakens something in you that you won’t be able to ever put to rest again.

 

“I’m going to get some more wine.” You shake your head and rush to change the subject.

 

He grabs your forearm before you can step away from him. Surprised, you shudder under his touch and immediately yank it away.

 

“Jumpy little thing, aren’t you? Calm down, I don’t mean any harm. Don’t sully yourself with that garbage again - here.” He disappears into his tent for a moment before reappearing with a corked wine bottle. “Vintage.” He has the cork off in less than a second and pours himself a generous glass before extending it towards you.

 

You hold your glass out, still cautious. You wonder why he didn’t drink his own in the first place. “Terribly sorry. The last time you touched me you wrestled me to the ground and held a knife to my throat.”

 

He pours your glass slower than his, keeping the stream steady even as he laughs. “You should relax though. I would never do a heinous thing like that again.” His eyes flicker up to you again, devilish. “Unless you want me to.”

 

You pull your glass away before he accidentally overfills it, and he ends up pouring some into the dirt in a moment of distraction. “Goodnight. I’m going to find better company.” You say icily. “Thank you for the wine.” 

 

“Suit yourself,” he says in a singsong voice. “Go spend the night with someone boring then. But don’t come back looking for more.”

 

You hate that stupid smirk that never leaves his face. Does he ever take anything seriously?

 

You know that you should keep walking away from him, but you can’t stand the thought of him getting the last word. “No one is forcing you to keep company with us.”

 

“Safety in numbers or something - I’ll need this damned tadpole out of my head eventually. You might be a boring bunch, but I do trust at the end of the day that you know what you’re doing. You all have that cute hero attitude about you - I trust that I’m in capable hands.”

 

“Clearly not. If I knew what I was doing I would have killed you the moment you threatened me with a blade.” You narrow your eyes at him. He’s insufferable and unappreciative.

 

And unfortunately, extremely useful to keep around.

 

“I’m hurt,” he feigns a pout, bringing a hand to his chest. “And to think I chose you of all people to share my hundred year old bottle of wine with.” He punctuates his sentence with another generous gulp. “Next time I’ll keep it to myself.”

 

“Take it back then, I don’t care. There’s plenty more barrel wine to go around.” You shove the goblet towards him, the liquid inside sloshing precariously close to the edge. Knowing its age, you feel a little guilty for letting him spill some from the bottle as he poured for you. It’s likely expensive.

 

Then he does something unexpected that drives you mad for weeks to come. He gently wraps his fingers around the rim of your cup, but not enough to hold onto it himself without your hand continuing to support it. You think he’s about to take it from you. Before you realize what’s happening, he takes a swift step towards you and presses the cup to your lips. You open your mouth to protest his proximity, but you end up having no choice but to swallow the wine as he tilts it down your throat. Your choices are to drink, or let it spill all over you - and you hate that neither choice is dignified.

 

You tear it from his hands and stumble backwards, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. “What the hells was that, Astarion?” If you weren’t blushing already, you certainly are now. 

 

He shrugs. “The wine was a gift. It’s polite to at least taste it before rejecting it. What do you think of it?”

“It’s… better than the garbage the druids came up with,” you admit, taking another sip.

 

“Is it?” He murmurs, suddenly pensive. “Because if I’m being entirely honest, all wine tastes the same to me.”

 

“It’s considerably better,” you reassure. It goes down much smoother. You’ve already had three glasses from the barrel at this point, and you start to approach the ledge of intoxication. You’re already feeling a bit unsteady on your feet, but you’ve always been able to mask minor drunkenness well enough.

“I think the point of expensive wines is to savor them,” he chastises.

“Hypocrite,” you say from under the cup, before knocking the rest back just to make a point.

“You didn’t strike me as a lush.” His tone is more curious than cruel. He pours himself another glass and takes yours from your hand before you can protest, returning it replenished.

 

“I’m not. But today… it was difficult.” Taking out the goblin leaders and freeing Halsin in one day took not only a heavy physical toll, but also a heavy emotional one. There were several moments where everyone’s survival hung in the balance.

 

“What, is being our fearless leader not as fun as you thought it would be?”

 

“Leader?” You snort. “I’m no leader-”

 

“Of course you are.” He interrupts you. “You are the glue that holds us all together. You can’t deny that without you we’d never get anything done. We’d all have killed each other on the beach. Who do you think would have won?” His smile is taunting, but you both know it wouldn’t have been him. Your money would have been on Lae’zel. More than likely Astarion would have tried to scurry away the moment he realized he couldn’t take her.

 

“Speak for yourself. You might be rash enough to kill someone without a second thought, but I have faith that our companions are a little more patient than you give them credit for.” Maybe. Lae’zel’s loyalties are unreliable at best, and you know that she is always carefully scrutinizing everyone for signs of the transformation. Something as small as coming down with a head cold or food poisoning could spell your demise at her hand.

 

“Give me a little more credit than that, darling. I clearly gave it a second thought before I dragged my dagger across your pretty throat.” His eyes hold yours over the rim of his goblet as he takes another long swig, drinking it like water.

 

You frown. The words ‘pretty’ and ‘darling’ make your chest flutter - like a single bee slamming around inside your ribcage trying to free itself. You crush it. “For someone who seems to be trying to win my favor, you do so love to bring up the moment you almost murdered me a surprising amount. You wouldn’t have succeeded, by the way.”

 

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have. I was too enamored by your enchanting eyes.”

 

“Oh please.” You can’t possibly roll your eyes any harder. “If you’d tried, Shadowheart would have been on you in an instant. I’m not falling for… whatever it is you’re trying to pull.”

 

He can’t stop himself from slipping in flirtations to everyone he speaks with, and you get the sense it’s a sloppy coverup for something else. It might be as harmless as his own insecurities, or it might be something else. So far he hasn’t robbed you all blind in the night, but you haven’t put that past the rogue just yet. Shadowheart better keep a close eye on the artifact she carries.

 

Astarion sighs. “A pity. I was so hoping to have a little fun tonight.” He scans you up and down, slowly enough that you can tell he wants you to notice. “I thought you might be a little less boring than the rest of them.”

 

He’s trying to get under your skin, but your awareness of that fact doesn’t make it any easier to maintain your cool.

 

“A little fun?” You put a hand on your hip. “What exactly is your idea of a little fun?” You know what he means, but you dare him to be bold enough to say it to you.

 

“Please darling, playing dumb isn’t a good look on you.” He puts his empty cup down on a crate beside him that he’s fashioned into a table, next to the slightly over half empty bottle of wine.

“Dumb?” You flutter your eyelashes. “I just prefer that if my men aren't romantic, that they're at least direct.”

 

“What’s more romantic than wine?” He asks, lips turning down into an irritated frown.

 

“You’re clearly used to getting whatever you want with a face like that - but I’m afraid you’re going to have to try harder than a glass of old wine.” You finish your glass and plunk it down next to his. “No matter how divine it is.”

 

His jaw tightens. You can tell that your rejection has flustered him, though he’d never admit it. He bends over to refill his cup again. “Fine then. Leave me be - I think Prince Wyll is trying to get your attention - he keeps looking over here.”

 

“Have a good night, Astarion.”

 

***

 

The carriage pulls into the driveway of the Crimson Palace from the Upper City entrance. By the time it drags itself to a stop, you’re reeling with nausea. The ride through the Upper City is a bumpy one, with many of the roads still under construction and littered with holes and debris. You don’t typically ride in carriages, often choosing to walk. You are often confined inside the manor or Wyrm’s Rock, so the occasional long walk between them refreshes and reinvigorates you.  Although you have noticed the state of disrepair that the roads are in, it is amplified under the wheels of the carriage. You’ve grown used to avoiding the divots and scraps in the road unconsciously with your steps. The state of Baldur’s Gate has improved over the months, but it is not yet restored to its glory days despite the round the clock ongoing work. Crews have prioritized the homes of nobles and those with enough money to push themselves to the front of the line, causing public works projects,  like roads, to fall to the bottom of the list. 

 

You haven't given much thought to it before now, but it’s unconscionable that the Council is allowing that sort of corruption. They had prioritized the rebuilding of their own homes over bettering the city, and you had gone along with it to try and appease them. It had been so soon after the battle at that point - you had known so little then. Over the months you studied and gained a further understanding of the issues that the city was facing, but in the beginning you relied heavily on the Council’s guidance, never intervening with an opinion of your own. Construction resources are still limited even now, as shipments of lumber and stone make their way up and down the Sword Coast. The existing population of Baldur’s Gate currently doesn’t meet the labor demand. You have the able bodies, but not the skills necessary that would speed up the pace of construction efforts.

 

The Crimson Palace has had a facelift since you last saw it - Astarion has clearly been monopolizing construction workers himself, despite the fact that it was remarkably unscathed after the battle. He’s been remodeling not of necessity, but vanity - which feels worse than those who paid extra to have a roof over their heads at all. The giant monstrosity of a building takes up a large part of the city’s real estate, too -perched on the border between the Upper and Lower City, all for one man and his servants. Once, the stone fortress barely had any windows to speak of - the trademark protection of a reclusive vampire lord and his spawn. 

 

Astarion the Vampire Ascendant, on the other hand, has installed giant arching windows lined up like a row of soldiers along the entire length of the front of the palace. Blessed with the gift of sunlight again at the heavy cost of seven thousand souls, you’re at least pleased to see that he isn’t taking it for granted. The driver opens the door for you and leads you inside.

 

On the inside, the palace is just as unrecognizable as the outside. Astarion has worked hard to scrub away all traces of Cazador. It no longer feels oppressively dark, threatening to suffocate you like grave dirt in the air. It is bright and open, with gauzy semi-translucent curtains lightly filtering the most direct rays of the sun. The floors have been replaced with white marble. The red carpet runners are a stark contrast against the floor, and are slightly reminiscent of Cazador, but they are updated and plush, the pile not yet beaten down from centuries’ worth of footsteps. The furniture and artwork is absurdly ostentatious with gold leaf used quite liberally - but it is all modern in form and design. There are large porcelain vessels of fresh flowers in front of every other window, adding a pleasant floral scent. You remember before when the scent of death carried so strongly on the air it was hard to breathe.

 

You are led to meet with Astarion in an intimate solarium - a recent extension that sprawls into the surrounding garden. The plants inside of the glass walls give the illusion that the plants outside have crept right through the panes. The room is circular and almost entirely made of glass except for several supporting pieces of wall. The ceiling spirals upward to an intricate convex circle of metal and glass, a swirling design of artisanal glass work reminiscent of roses. You can’t get the thought out of your head of how beautiful it must be in here at night with an uninterrupted view of the constellations.

 

He is nested inside of an egg-shaped chair fashioned from white wicker that swings from above from a chain, one leg on top of the other, a thick book on his lap. He looks up at you with an unreadable expression as you approach, closing the blue book with a heavy thud.

 

“Welcome to my humble abode. Take a seat.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm towards the low-backed couch across from him, the fabric the same color as the cloudless afternoon sky above. 

 

“Humble.” You laugh. “Hardly. Why did you invite me here?”

 

“I was feeling a little sentimental after yesterday - our anniversary of defeating the Absolute.” 

 

He’s drinking wine again - there’s a large crystal decanter of it on the table between you. A hearty glass, pre-poured, waits on a lace doily in front of you. You consider it, but don’t move for it yet. You don’t consider yourself a suspicious person by nature, but given what you know of Astarion, you’re wary of poison.

 

“You don’t get sentimental. Cut to the chase.”

 

He clicks his tongue. “Who says I don’t get sentimental? I’m actually feeling quite hurt by your little party yesterday that I wasn’t invited to. And after I’ve sent you so many unanswered invitations to mine.”

 

“You’re not special. I haven’t been answering anyone’s mail - and they weren’t invited. They dropped by unannounced.” But after you say it, you feel unsettled. How does he know about that? Has he been watching?

 

“I see. Mrs. Grand Duke Ravengard is too busy to keep up with her friends, hm?”

 

You feel guilty when he says it in that context, and you shift in your seat. Although the couch is pretty, it isn’t comfortable. The cushioning is thin and stiff underneath the silky blue fabric. It makes you aware of every bone in your body that isn’t properly cushioned. “I… yes. I’ve been quite busy. The city never sleeps, and it isn’t an easy job.”

 

“The bags under your eyes tell that much.”

 

You reach up and touch your face at his comment, trying to remember if you had even looked in a mirror this morning. If you did, you didn’t bother applying any makeup to your face. Had you even brushed your hair? It’s pulled back in a low knot at the base of your neck - utilitarian and out of the way, but more than a  little scruffy by this point in the day.

A servant comes in like a silent ghost and places a tray on the table that offers a selection of meats, cheeses, fruits, and breads in a colorful wheel pattern. You wonder about her - if she’s a spawn - but she doesn’t stay turned towards you long enough and doesn’t raise her eyes so you can judge their color. Everything else about her is unassuming enough - if she is a spawn, Astarion’s protection from sunlight must extend to her - this room would incinerate any proper vampire that entered.

 

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says with a wave of his hand. He leans forward to pop a grape into his mouth.

 

“You didn’t,” you reply flatly. You know you don’t look well. You haven’t looked well for as long as he’s known you - you don’t know how he sees any difference now. The bags under your eyes must be a permanent fixture on your face by now.

 

“Has Prince Wyll written you?” He asks. The nickname grates on you even now.

 

You close your eyes. Here you go again. It’s always Wyll. It’s never about you. “No.”

 

“Hm. Trouble in paradise?” He cocks his head. The corner of his lip twitches upward - such a minute motion that you would miss it if you hadn’t been paying attention. He’s mocking you.

 

“Trouble in Avernus, I would assume. I doubt letters travel easily from the hells.” The same, rehearsed line you’ve said hundreds of times. You’re tired of it.

 

Astarion studies your face as he takes a thoughtful sip of his wine, swishing it around in his mouth before he swallows. “I don’t think you believe that, do you?”

 

It’s the first time anyone has questioned it, and your brain fires in a panicked frenzy. You’re off-script now.

 

“I… Why wouldn’t I believe it?” You stammer. “It isn’t like I’ve ever tried to maintain regular correspondence through the planes before.”

 

But now the lie that you’ve been telling yourself has been shattered, too. Shadowheart hadn’t said anything about it yesterday, but you realize that she and Lae’zel have been keeping more regular contact than you and Wyll. And really… your circumstances weren’t much different. Same shit, different planes.

 

“There are plenty of magical means of correspondence - with or without proper letters. There’s no reason he wouldn’t be able to keep in touch.”

 

His tone isn’t accusatory, even though you feel yourself getting defensive. He doesn’t think that you’re lying. He’s trying to make you upset about it. To guide you to a conclusion you already know.

 

“It would be unlike Wyll,” you allow yourself to say finally after nearly coming clean to him. The worst part is always the next thing out of your mouth. “Wyll cares for me. If he could write to me, I know that he would.”

 

“It’s been a year.” He’s direct. “There’s no reason he wouldn’t have been able to pop by for a visit by now.”

 

You dig your nails into the side of your thigh. The wine in front of you suddenly looks more and more appetizing, promising to take off some of the edge that you’re feeling. You rarely drink in a typical month, let alone drink excessively - and now you might do it again, even fresh off of the tails of yesterday’s hangover.

 

“Why have you called me here, Astarion? If it’s only to remind me of Wyll, I’ll be taking my leave.” You stand up and flex your hand at your side.

 

“I’m trying to help you.” He shrugs. 

 

“Help me.” You repeat, unable to believe your ears. “I don’t need any help from you.” If he is offering you anything , you don’t want it. Nothing from Astarion is ever selfless. There are always strings attached - much like a devil. You have already made a deal with a devil once - you won’t make the same mistake twice.

 

He stands up from his chair, leaving it swinging in his wake. You know what it reminds you of now - it reminds you of the hanging cages in Cazador’s dungeon. He strides towards you, and you take another large step back from him. He seems to be taking a particular interest in your hands. You tuck them behind your back.

 

“I have two theories. One of them paints you in a more favorable light, but the other… intrigues me.”

 

You’re frozen now as he invades your personal space, leaving less than a foot between you. “What do you mean?” You can’t break your eyes away from his.

 

“Theory one is that you’re telling the truth, and being Wyll’s obedient little lapdog while he gallavants off through the hells slaying minions and helping Karlach repair herself for good.” 

 

You flinch. “That is the truth.”

 

“Theory two, is that you aren’t telling the truth.” He circles you, his eyes trailing from the top of your head to your feet. “For one reason or another - you’re lying. Whether you have heard from Wyll and his letter disclosed something unfortunate, or you’ve learned of his death.”

 

You turn to face him, uncomfortable to leave your back open to him. “What would even make you come to that conclusion? Why would I lie?”

 

“That’s the part that I find so intriguing, darling.” He bears a wide smirk. “Perhaps Wyll is dead, and you’re hiding it so that you can hold on to power for as long as you’re able.”

 

“Wyll isn’t dead.”

 

“You can’t be sure, unless you’ve heard from him. And you say you haven’t heard from him.”

 

“He’s more than capable of handling himself, especially with Karlach by his side.”

 

“You sound… resentful.”

 

Your temper is growing short now. If you aren’t careful, you’ll say something you regret. You try to swallow it, and say your next words evenly. “Everything is as I’ve said already. You know the truth. There’s no reason for me to lie about it - especially not for power. I’ve never desired power. I’m eager to shed this burden the moment he returns.”

 

“I suppose you always were boring, weren’t you?” He frowns. “But it’s strange. I really did have you pegged for the honest type - always so good and righteous.”

 

A rock forms in your gut. Not always. Helping him ascend hadn’t been a very good or righteous decision. You only wanted him to be able to make a decision for himself for once. 

 

“But, since you insist that you’re telling the truth… I really must take pity on you.” He doesn’t believe you. “It isn’t fair, what Wyll has done to you. He’s left you behind, off on another plane with another woman - don’t you think the two of them had some real chemistry, by the way? Never mind that. He’s left you with every worldly burden he has - running the affairs of an estate and a city. And he hasn’t even sent word to you. Hasn’t come back to visit.”

 

“Astarion, stop,” you’re barely able to choke it out as you quickly wipe away a traitorous tear before it can betray you to him. If he doesn’t stop, you might break.

 

“It isn’t very chivalrous or noble of him to shirk his responsibilities. He gets to go have fun in the hells while you stay here and keep house?” He shakes his head. 

 

“I very much doubt he’s having fun.” You say softly. For all you know, he might be having fun. The reoccurring image of Wyll and Karlach, intimate, invades into your mind again. You’ve recovered your senses enough not to cry now, but he’s reopening wounds that you aren’t in the mood to revisit. 

 

Did Astarion really just bring you here to torment you?

 

“Aren’t you angry ?”

 

The question hangs in the air.

 

You are. But you’ve been processing it. Working through it slowly - though it’s hard as everything in your life is so closely intertwined with Wyll.  “I can’t afford to be angry. It won’t change anything. I’m stuck.”

 

“No one would blame you for stepping down. They’ll manage without you. At some point they’re going to have to assume Wyll is dead, whether he is or not. Life must go on.”

 

“I can’t step down.” You shake your head. “Only Wyll can name another proxy. It would be chaos.”

 

“Interesting.” Astarion reaches out and guides your chin up to face him with a single finger before pulling it away. You didn’t even realize that you had been staring intently at the floor.  “In everything that you’ve said so far, I haven’t heard a single comment that suggests you still care for him. All I hear is concern for the city.”

 

Your face gets so warm that you think you might faint. You’re positive that the vampire must be able to hear the way your pulse quickens - though it might be paranoia. You can hear your own heartbeat banging away in your ears, heavy with anxiety.

 

“I- of course I-”you start sheepishly, your lie living on borrowed time. You teeter backwards. "Of course I'm concerned for the city after all of the time we spent trying to save it."

 

“Give it up already, would you?” He crosses his arms. “This is growing tiresome. I know you don’t wear his ring anymore. It would honestly be harder to believe that you still cared for him - he’s been gone far longer than you even knew him for.”

 

“You don’t know anything, Astarion,” you protest, uselessly. Your throat is dry, like someone has poured sand down it.

 

He peers down at you, unnervingly close. Close enough that if he still drew breath, you would be able to feel it on the fine hairs of your skin. 

 

“I know that you should be angry. Seething with pure rage at what he’s done. Detached. Seeking revenge.” His voice is quiet now, slightly louder than a whisper. “I know you were annoyed the moment I said his name. That’s hardly a normal reaction for a lover.”

 

“I’m not - I would never seek revenge on Wyll . Astarion, please. I don’t want to speak about this anymore. Did you honestly call me here just to lecture me on my relationship?” You finally find the ability within you to take a few steps away from him again. Out of his reach, you can breathe properly again.

 

“Can friends not just reach out to one another? Check in on their well-being... or something like that?”

 

It's hard not to laugh at the thought.

 

“I wouldn’t have ever called us friends, Astarion.” Your words are surprisingly cold, but you mean them. You have always kept him at arm’s length. You were traveling partners, associates, colleagues… but not friends. Never friends.

 

“No? So what would you call our… relationship, then? The kind where you aren’t friends, but you let someone drink your blood? The kind where you aren’t friends, but you do everything in your power to help someone kill a vampire lord who has made their life a living hell for hundreds of years? Pray tell, what sort of relationship is that?”

 

Every muscle in your body tenses at once at the memory of Astarion drinking your blood - the phantom sensation of fangs piercing your flesh sends a shiver down your spine. “We were on the same side of the battlefield. Everything I did, I did for the greater good.” It was important that he was strong. If that meant giving him your blood... you'd do it. You did.

 

And Cazador was a bloody bastard. You would have happily killed Cazador even if you were entirely unaware of Astarion’s traumatic history with him.

 

“The greater good. Do you think that a Grand Duke who is more concerned with matters of Avernus than his own city is thinking of the greater good?” He adds a mocking flair to the words ‘greater good.’ 

 

You’re silent. You start to realize that his attempt to break you down is working as intended. “What are you getting out of this?” You blurt out, exasperated. 

 

“You helped me break free of my chains. I’m merely… trying to help you break free of yours.”

 

Notes:

Some game canon scenes will be altered/extended/placed out of order because many of you have read/played through them one thousand times... let's be different. It will keep the overall integrity and story of original canon.

My sincerest apologies if that bothers you, I hope it isn't a dealbreaker.

Chapter 3: Thin Ice

An icy hand on your shoulder tears you from a dreamless sleep, and your hair is lifted to one side. Your eyes snap open to meet Astarion’s red irises peering down from above as he leans over you. Both of you are caught off guard, and panic-stricken, he presses a hand to cover your mouth. You immediately begin to struggle, grabbing his forearm with both of your hands and trying to tear him from you as you desperately try to make any kind of cry for help. It’s smothered behind your closed lips.

 

He holds a single finger on his other hand to his lips. “Shit! Shh. Please, let me explain. Don’t scream. Please don’t scream.”

 

He loosens his grip slightly and starts to lift his hand away from your mouth, in a cautious way that suggests he’s ready to clamp it back down again if you make a sound.

 

“There… see? You’re alright. I swear I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He holds his hands up in surrender. His voice is barely a whisper.

 

There’s something strange about the way he moves - almost as if he’s been ingesting a drug that he shouldn’t be. He’s twitchy. Heavy bags hang under his eyes, and he looks as if he never turned in for the night. He glances around over his shoulder repeatedly, back towards the others in camp. They’re fast asleep.

 

You scoot up to your elbows and try to crawl away backwards on them, putting distance between you. “What the fuck, Astarion?” You say breathily as your brain tries to make sense of the situation. Was he trying to rob something off of you? Or worse? You glance down and clutch the top of your bedroll higher up against your chest. You’re fully clothed, but you don’t see that as a reason to let your guard down.

 

“Gods, no… it’s not - it isn’t what it looks like, okay? I swear. I would never.” He runs his hands through his hair, ruffling the back of it. 

 

“There’s a very, very short list of whatever the fuck else it could be.” You blindly grasp for your bag, which should be somewhere nearby at your side - but you don’t trust taking your eyes off of him for even a moment. How could he possibly think he’d get away with something that nefarious in full view of the camp?

 

Your hand finds purchase on a dagger, and you clutch the handle with a trembling hand. “You’d better have a damned good explanation.”

 

He swallows and shuts his eyes. “I just needed…”

 

You squeeze the dagger’s handle. Whatever his explanation, needing something from you while you’re asleep is not going to be enough for you

 

“Blood. I needed blood.”

 

“Blood.” You repeat. You point your dagger at him. “I’ll give you blood.” He had just said moments ago he wasn’t going to hurt you. It isn’t adding up.

 

He backs off more. “Please, listen. I couldn’t help myself any longer - there isn’t much else out here. I’m… I’m a vampire. Not a true one… just a spawn.”

 

Your hand drops by a hair, if only because you don’t believe what you’re hearing. The pointy end of the dagger remains fixed towards him, still ready to use. “Is that supposed to make it better?”

 

“Please. I’m not thinking clearly right now. If I could just have a taste… I could be a better asset. I would be more reliable in combat.”

 

“You were going to bite me as I slept? How the fuck did you see that working out for you?” You wedge the dagger into the dirt at your side. “Because I’m going to take a stab in the dark and say that it would hurt a lot, I would have woken up screaming, and likely lodged this between your ribs or through your ear and behind your eyes before I even realized it was you. But to be honest? Knowing it was you might not have even stopped me.”

 

One corner of his mouth twitches up. “Ha. More violent than you let on. That’s fair, I wouldn’t blame you.”

 

After a moment of silence - “But, I also want to take it as a good sign that you haven’t used me as a pincushion for your dagger yet... or shouted to wake the others.”

 

“It isn’t too late for that,” you warn, glaring at him. No one else seems to be stirring at the disturbance.

 

You have questions - many questions that you’re too tired to ask at the moment. How does he walk in the sun? Where has he been getting his meals from? Has he already drank from someone in your party? It’s been nearly a week and a half on the road now. You were right to be wary of him.

 

“I understand that you might have reservations. I should have asked. But I swear - if you let me do this, I’ll be a much more reliable traveling partner. I won’t need much… just a bit. Just enough until I can find bigger game again. It’s been several nights now, and I haven’t been able to hunt anything useful... please.”

 

It’s so obvious now you can’t stand it - the exsanguinated boar your party stumbled across on the road finally has a culprit identified.

 

You feel uneasy that you’re being compared to the animals he hunts for sport, but the look in his eyes makes you want to help him. Suddenly his eyes seem larger and more innocent as all of his vulnerabilities shine through. His mask is down now. It gives you more reason to feel validated in your mistrust of him, but right now everyone matters. Any one of you could mean the difference between success and failure - you’re all in this shitty boat together. Having a vampire on your side could be useful - he’s no more of a liability than Gale and his hunger for magical objects. Arguably that problem is a heavier burden. Blood is a renewable resource. Magical items, on the other hand…

 

“Fine,” you say, your voice still hushed. You look around at the rest of your companions, all fast asleep on their bedrolls under the open sky or tucked away in their tents. “But… not here in the open. And not a drop more than you need, do you understand me?” You take the dagger from the ground and point it at him in warning.

 

“Wait - really? You’re saying yes?” He’s in shock. “Why - thank you. Where… would you like to go?”

 

“Somewhere private. I quite frankly can’t think of anything more embarrassing than someone waking up and witnessing it. Aside from maybe admitting that I allowed you to.”

 

“Right.” With his normal arrogance stripped away, he seems like someone entirely foreign to you - like you’re meeting the real him for the first time. You follow him to his tent while checking over your shoulder the whole time - eyes fixed on Wyll as he sleeps. The camp is full of heavy sleepers, something you've learned over the past few nights. Not a single one of them flinches. A part of you almost wishes someone would - it would make backing out easier. Why didn't Astarion go for any of them instead? Perhaps you should be insulted that you look the most vulnerable. Or... tasty? Does the blood of different people taste differently to vampires?

 

You enter his tent first, and he follows in after you, letting the curtain door drop. Inside of the small box of fabric, it’s nearly pitch black. There are a few lights that glow faintly outside, trying in vain to penetrate through the walls of the tent. You only see Astarion’s shadowy outline, unable to make out his specific features from more than an arm’s length away. Your heart becomes a war drum, thudding away in your chest with such vigor that you suspect he can hear it. His ability to sense it might be heightened, as a starving predator hungers for prey. 

 

“Please. Lay down... make yourself comfortable,” he bends over to adjust his bedroll for you.

 

You swallow a lump in your throat. Things are getting more…intimate than you intended. You’ve always thought of yourself as a brave person, but this is entirely new territory. There is a fear of the unknown, with this man you barely trust. You try to push past it, and lay flat on your back on the bedroll. You can feel the lumps and bumps of the ground below through the tent’s thin bottom. 

 

“Are you comfortable?” He asks, although the answer reads plainly on your face. He kneels down beside you. “Right. Probably not. That bedroll is awful.”

 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. There isn’t a way for the situation not to be awkward. “Just get it over with.”

 

He leans in towards you and brushes your hair away from your neck with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Are you sure about this?” 

 

He’s asked for this, and yet somehow he looks just as nervous as you. Every trace of his usual smug smirk has been wiped from his face, replaced with a helpless vulnerability.

 

“Yes. Don’t warn me - just do it.” You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head away from him, bracing for the pain. “Only as much as you need,” you add. 

 

“Not a drop more,” he promises. 

 

You focus on the sounds of the camp and the wilderness around you, trying to slow your breathing. The distant sounds of twigs cracking and owls calling back and forth. You’re just in the middle of the woods, camping. There’s nothing unusual about this situation at all. You aren’t having second thoughts, but the anticipation of pain is agonizing. You’ve never thought about how soft the skin at your neck is, or how little protection it offers until now. You’re trusting him near a part of your body that could leave you bleeding out in minutes. It’s hard to relax. You remind yourself that there are certain people in the world that find ecstasy in this sort of thing - it can’t be universally awful, right?

 

When was the last time you had someone this close to you?

 

You feel his lips at your throat and you hold your breath, cursing him internally for hesitating. Goosebumps explode down every part of your skin. His lips part slowly. You hate him for dragging this out - you were hoping for the pierce of his fangs to be quick - why does he linger? The seconds feel like an eternity before he finally drops forward and sinks his teeth into your neck. You are strong about it - withholding the noise that tries to spring from your throat, something animalistic and between a moan and a scream. The pain is blinding for only a brief moment… but then it eases.

 

Astarion shudders above you as the first taste of your blood hits his tongue, and then he is lost. The sensation of your blood being pulled up through your body is rhythmic - almost hypnotic. The tension begins to melt away as your limbs relax into the bedroll. A comforting warmth spreads deep inside of you, from your head to your toes - it invites you into the darkness of sleep. It’s like being drawn into a warm bath on a cold winter’s night.

 

 His lips are a kiss, and you feel yourself rock back and forth on the waves of consciousness with every swallow of his throat. Your heart that was nearly falling over itself moments ago slows, matching the tempo of his steady gulps. With your head lolled to the other side, you wish you could turn to look at him now. But you don’t have any more strength left to lift your head from the ground, and so your eyes are fixed, glassy, on the side of the tent. You know on the other side of the fabric, maybe just twenty yards away, some of your companions sleep. They are blissfully unaware of how closely you dance now to the edge of death.

 

Astarion drinks deep, as if you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He lifts you from behind your shoulders, desperately holding you in his grasp. You don’t think you want him to stop. You want him to entirely devour you, in every way imaginable. 

 

No - this isn’t right. You have to pull yourself away from him before you slip away entirely. You can’t die. He promised he wouldn’t take more than he needed. Now you know that was a worthless promise - what if he needs more than you have? Did he willfully deceive you? 

 

Your eyelids flutter. “Astarion -”

 

He groans, hungrily swallowing.

 

“Astarion - that’s enough I can’t…” your dry voice cracks. You lift your arms to push at his chest, but he doesn’t seem in control of himself anymore. He doesn’t even flinch, just holds you tighter. “Stop. Please.”

 

Just before you fall into the abyss, you feel him pull away. The sensation of his fangs leaving your skin somehow feels a thousand times worse than it did when they entered. “Shit,” he hisses.

You feel him gently shaking you and calling your name, and although you open your mouth to respond, you can’t manage to utter a sound. Over and over he murmurs apologies and curses. You slip into the darkness.

 

You wake up in your own bedroll the next morning, later than usual and with a splitting headache.

 

Astarion doesn’t speak to you for several days afterwards. He won’t even look you in the eye. It doesn’t stop him from acting exactly the same as always with everyone else.

                                                                 

---

 

You wake up the day after meeting with Astarion in the Crimson Palace. There hadn’t been much else to say to him - you could no longer stand to be in the same room with him at that point. 

 

You thought you were prepared to see him again, after avoiding him as long as you have. Just being in his presence is oppressive. Every interaction with him squeezes the air from your lungs, and the sensation has only become worse after his ascension. You were able to tolerate it for the time between the ritual and the fall of the Absolute - but now, for the first time in a year, it overwhelms you again. There's something more to it than the raw, unbridled power of the Vampire Ascendant - it's a tension that must stay unacknowledged. You thought that time away from him would change things - because you knew he would show his face eventually.

 

Word has begun spreading quickly about Astarion in the upper circles of society - it has been for several months now. What was once a tiny spark of interest is now a raging bonfire. He’s been ingratiating himself to the nobility of Baldur’s Gate through any means he can invent - largely through grand parties and monetary favors. You knew all along that  it was only a matter of time before he started entrenching himself in politics. 

 

After all, once he was nothing but an insecure vampire spawn. The ascension did nothing to ease his insecurities in the beginning - on the contrary, it amplified them. He became someone else entirely as he wore his false persona, his voice and mannerisms oozing with false bravado - but at the end of it all, you saw through it. The progress he seemed to make during your travels was undone in an instant. He didn’t scare you, whatever fronts he might try to put up. The grand, opulent walls he built were a carefully crafted exterior meant to distract from how little had actually changed.

 

But now that you’ve met with him again, you see what a year can do to a person. It’s true that you’ve all changed since you were last together, but some of the changes are more noticeable than others. The Astarion that you saw yesterday had healed his soul through brute force - cauterized the gaping wound of trauma with a hot iron. More violent and damaging than other means, but fast and effective.  His insecurities are mostly invisible to you now. You knew that as long as he was haunted by them, he would be mostly harmless - all bark and no bite. You couldn’t see him doing more than indulging himself in a lavish lifestyle, playing the role of Lord and perhaps bullying a few spawn of his own. He’s confident now though, less fake than before - at least on first glance, and that makes him more dangerous. If he has any tells that might give away his true intentions, they’ve changed since you last knew him.

 

In matters of power, the goal is never truly achieved. The target keeps moving backwards, endlessly, as the conquests become more ambitious. Your conversation has left you with a decent idea of what you think his game is. It kept you up all night. You’re reasonably confident that he’s trying to destabilize the political structure of Baldur’s Gate and worm his way into a position of more power. He’s trying to get an angle on you, because what better way to cause political chaos than convince the proxy to step down?

 

It’s more maddening to realize that he had points. His discussion with you held truths and hit nerves that you were locking away in the shadowy corners of your mind, careful to ignore. You don’t hold the position out of love for it - you would step down in a heartbeat if you knew that it would transfer to reliable hands. Although you haven’t made or sustained close relationships in the past year, you aren’t ready to throw in the towel and watch it all burn, either. If someone were to take over from inside of the city, things might not be so bad. But if an outside force tried to take hold? You can’t talk yourself into damning everyone else just because you’re angry at Wyll. Plunging Baldur's Gate into political turmoil and destabilizing the already unsteady government is a last resort.

 

You still want to think that Wyll will come back. If not for you, for Baldur's Gate. The words of the letter have broken your heart, but they still don't sound like the Wyll you knew. Your heart may be unable to love him ever again, but from what you’ve currently seen, there isn’t much hope for the city without him. More than a leader, you’ve watched him become a folk hero over the course of a year. Admitting he was lost would be demoralizing - and if war came to your doorstep on the heels of the news, that alone could be fatal.

 

As you sit in the parlor drinking remnants from a mug of tea that's long gone cold, Gretta barrels into the room, wrinkled face winded. She is not a woman who should be running anymore - you don’t think her heart can take it. She hunches over, and takes ragged breaths. “My… my… Lady….”

 

“Gretta!” You jump to your feet and slide your arm under hers, coaxing her onto a chair. “What happened? Why are you running?"

 

“Did… did you… forget?” Her lips have a bluish tint to them and you silently pray that she never pulls a stunt like this again. Shame on you for whatever you've done to cause this.

 

“Forget what?” You ask.

 

“Anniversary… ceremony… today.”

 

“Fuck!” your gaze darts around the room, seeking a clock. You don’t have very long before you’re supposed to be in the Lower City. You cover your mouth when you remember how the maid detests vulgar language - you don’t mean to give her blood pressure another reason to rise. “Oops. Pardon my language, Gretta. Will you be alright?”

 

She nods, still wheezing. You call for Barnabus to look after her and run back to your room to change into something other than the lightweight dress you wear around the estate. 

 

The ceremony was supposed to be on the exact anniversary, but there was a complication that shifted it off by a few days. The main event is to be the unveiling of a statue built as a centerpiece to a square in the Lower City, honoring the heroes who vanquished the netherbrain and the Absolute. The artisans responsible for the statue appealed for some additional time to add the finishing touches - certain supplies have been difficult to get, heavily rationed due to ongoing construction efforts. As acting Grand Duke, you’re meant to give a speech. The speech was written for you and delivered over a month ago, but you don’t stop to try and find it now. The best you can manage is showing up in clean clothing and only a few minutes late.

 

Without Barnabus to ready and drive the carriage, you’re left to go by foot. You aren’t sure how late you are, but by the time you arrive (feeling very much like Gretta), there is someone else standing atop a small wooden stage that’s been erected for the occasion. To the side of the stage is the statue, lying in wait beneath a large tarp. You discreetly skirt your way around the crowd, keeping your head down the best you can - but you can already feel several gazes on you as you pass. You hurry about the stairs of the stage and take a seat beside the Council of Four.

 

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Florrick says under her breath, flashing you a look of disdain. Her scowl only grows as she notices how underdressed you are for the occasion. “I was beginning to think you were just going to start neglecting all of your duties.”

 

Something about the way she says it makes you think that she wishes you would.

 

“Sorry,” you mutter. You’re starting to wish you’d never rescued her from the blazing inn on the Risen Road, then again under Gortash. You still miss the short amount of time when she was grateful to you - how quickly it was forgotten. 

 

You have trouble focusing on what the opening speaker is saying, instead looking out on the crowd. Standing towards the front are all of your companions - guests of honor. But it isn’t just the three you expect - Gale, Shadowheart, and Jaheira. Minsc, Halsin, and Lae’zel have all made an appearance. Your eyes wander further over, and standing apart from the main group is Astarion, dressed extremely over the top for the occasion. The elegant sanguine embroidered jacket he wears would be far more suitable at a ball or a dinner party than out on the streets in the afternoon, even at this caliber of a ceremony. He stands out amongst the rest of the crowd, ensuring that no one would mistake him for someone unimportant. There is a distinct, large ring of space around him - his aura deterring anyone from standing too close.

 

He catches your gaze and offers a smolder of a smirk, daring you to keep your eyes on him. You don’t, pretending not to have ever looked towards him at all. You hold your chin high and look as stoically as you can at the man giving the speech. You concentrate so closely on trying to look like you are entirely invested in what he’s saying that you hear nothing. You come crashing back into reality as Florrick jabs you in the ribs with her elbow, and you realize that the speaker is looking at you expectantly. It’s your turn - he must have announced your name.

 

The applause from the crowd is already dying by the time you stand and start approaching the platform. Your companions dutifully continue the clap, but the awkwardness of it all is not an encouraging start. 

 

It’s the first time you’ve ever spoken for a crowd like this, and despite never fancying yourself as a person with crippling stage-fright, you find yourself faltering anyway. It isn’t the crowd that scares you, but some of the specific individuals who you know are waiting on your every mistake. Florrick. The Council. Astarion. You pick a spot to look at just past the crowd, a trick you’d once heard long ago. Don’t look at the crowd, look above them, out over the middle. They’ll feel like you’re looking at them even when you aren’t.

You clear your throat. “As I’m sure many of you may know, I am currently serving in the capacity as Grand Duke, on behalf of Wyll Ravengard.”

 

“Where’s Ravengard?” Someone heckles from the audience. You do your best to ignore them, trusting that anyone who continues to cause problems will be escorted out by a Fist.

 

“Wyll courageously left us to fight at our good friend’s side - another hero of the Gate. There is nothing he cares about in this world more than other people. His people. I know that he deeply regrets not joining us here today. But, in any case…” you take a deep breath. 

 

“A year ago my companions and I fought against the Absolute. Right overhead, we nearly lost our lives in battle with the netherbrain. Many good people did lose their lives that day. Friends, colleagues… loved ones. Let us take a moment of silence now to remember them.”

 

You don’t think anyone can hear how much your voice quivers. You’re relieved that everyone in the crowd is respectful of your request. You’re going off script, trying your best to piece together the words that were written from your memory. “Since that day, we have come together as a city. The people of Baldur’s Gate, collectively. We have rebuilt and restored our homes and shops. We have helped our neighbors, friends, and acquaintances to put back the pieces that were ripped apart under the Absolute. That shows an incredible level of resilience and tenacity. Our work isn’t done - we still have a long way to go. But together we can rise from the ashes.”

 

All sorts of phoenix symbols have been popping up here and there recently - typically in regard to the Ravengards. Everyone has tried their hand at the finer details of the design, but there are more and more markers of consistency. With the death of Ulder Ravengard, Wyll rose from his father’s ashes - and so you’ve seen several pieces of artwork with Wyll and some kind of phoenix motif. But maybe you can take their collective imagery of him and repurpose it towards another thing - the city as a whole. If the people can see themselves in the ideals of the phoenix, they will not be as crushed if Wyll never returns. Idolizing fallible mortals doesn’t often end well. The city will be stronger if they are proud of themselves. 

 

You think. You hope.

 

They can’t rely on Wyll to rescue them if things go sideways.

 

Remarkably, there is a shift in atmosphere. The crowd seems to be responding well to you, for the first time. As you become aware of it, the pressure starts. You’ve mulled over the words for weeks in your head, but they never seem to come out in the same order. This speech is your own - not the one the Council wrote for you. There are shared elements, but you know they’ll chew you out for it later.

 

“It’s my hope that Duke Ravengard will return to a city that he’s proud of. A city that is strong and that can hold itself on its own two feet no matter what. We can show the world that no matter what is thrown at us, we are prepared for it. We will not lay down and take it. Wyll Ravengard represents everything we stand for, but he is only one of us. You are all made from the same ideals, and have the same strength within you. I ask that all of you find a little bit of that same courage within you, and use it to build the home we want him to return to. You might not need the courage to fight mindflayers, but battle is not the only form of courage. You might find courage in doing something you once found difficult, or in overcoming personal obstacles.”

 

You worry that you’re rambling - the crowd still seems to be listening, but the quieter they are, the more you wonder what they think of you. You constantly remember that you aren’t Wyll. You are not  the one that they want to be speaking for them right now.

 

You stumble slightly over your next words. “In any case… today we celebrate the strength of Baldur’s Gate, while we honor those we lost. In honor of the first anniversary, we’ll now unveil the statue that has been commissioned.”

 

The applause you receive is far less tepid than when you first stood. Although no one cheers or shouts, It is a healthy show of support. Finally you allow yourself to breathe and look down at their faces - there are smiles. Perhaps you’ve done okay for your first time speaking - maybe you’ve earned a bit more trust than before. It’s hard to gloss over Astarion, but you do. You refuse to meet his eyes as he regards you, his arms crossed across his chest. Without taking the time to look him over more closely, you can’t make out the meaning behind his expression.

 

Unsure of what to do next, you return to your seat while the original announcer goes to pull the cloth from the statue. Everyone waits with bated breath to see the work of art that’s been created - it has caused quite a stir around town the past few days. You haven’t thought about it yourself much, but you have to admit that you’re curious too now that the moment has arrived.

 

“That wasn’t what we gave you.” Florrick says through tight lips. “But… I suppose it wasn’t awful, either.”

 

You’re too insulted to thank her, but it’s the closest she’s ever given you to a compliment. You were prepared for a worse reaction.

 

“You don’t give me enough credit, Florrick.” Whatever snapped in you in the audience hall persists now. You’ve decided that you’re quite done taking her shit, and you’re no longer going to allow yourself to be pushed around at the mercy of their whims.

 

She doesn’t answer you, turning away with a soft grunt. 

 

The statue is unveiled, revealing the larger than life form of Wyll, sword pointing towards the sky. You have to resist the urge to groan - of course.  It's worse than the mural. The city must have spent thousands of gold worth on Wyll propaganda at this point. Standing around him in a circle, smaller figures barely the height of his knee, are smaller statuettes fused at the base of your companions. You take note of everyone, carved in a near-perfect likeness. Gale, Astarion, Shadowheart, Jaheira, Minsc, and Halsin.

 

And that was all that they bothered to fit. A rage boils within you, just beneath the surface. First the mural, now this. You look out to assess the expressions of your companions, and you note the look of confusion and anger that overcomes Lae’zel’s face as she realizes that she has also been left off of the statue. Shadowheart is astonished, and puts her hand on the gith’s shoulder, saying something to her that’s indistinguishable from your position. Words of apology, you would guess. They’ve left off Lae’zel, Karlach… and you. Minsc hardly did anything . You grit your teeth. How could they do this to you again?

 

This time, there isn’t even a plaque so much as mentioning your names.

 

You try to tell yourself that you were never in this for the glory. You saved the city to oust the tadpoles and ultimately save the Sword Coast - probably the world, as a whole. You didn’t do it for fame or recognition. But it still stings. It stings that it’s been a year of doing Wyll’s gods’ damned job - and no one even seems to know who in the hells you are. Not as the stand in Grand Duke, and not as someone who saved the world.

                                       

---

 

You descend the stairs after the rest of the Council, hanging back. As you reach the bottom, someone takes hold of your forearm unexpectedly from the side. It’s Shadowheart. She gives you a half-smile.

 

“We’re all going to the Elfsong for a drink, if you’d like to join us.”

 

“Fine, sure.” It comes out more coldly than you mean it to.You’re still angry - but you know it isn’t their fault. You shouldn’t take it out on them.

 

She knits her eyebrows together and pulls her arm away at the abrasiveness in your voice. 

 

“I’m sorry - I just -”

 

“I know. Lae’zel is feeling it too.” Shadowheart’s voice lowers as her eyes lead you towards where Lae’zel waits at the edge of the crowd. You’ve never known her to be much of the sulking type, but now she stands there with her arms held tightly to her chest and her chin tucked towards the ground. She kicks at the ground with her armored boot, slowly forming a hole. “Come with us, won’t you? I’ll spot you.”

 

“No, please - don’t do that. I have plenty.” It isn’t like you ever spend the money of the Ravengard estate. It doesn’t feel like yours anymore - you have a strict policy to only spend it on necessities. Today feels like a necessity - for your well-being. Going home now and ruminating on the day would only make you feel worse - a worse version of you is feeling inclined to destroy some expensive heirlooms. “I’ll come.”

 

You follow her back to the rest of your old friends, where Minsc slaps you hard between the shoulders as a greeting, knocking the wind from you. It’s nice to have your party reunited again. You haven’t realized what you’ve been missing spending so much time alone. With the situation ongoing with Wyll, you had consciously avoided them to avoid explaining anything. Although there’s still much you can’t share - you start to see that your logic was misguided. You nearly let Wyll take the rest of your friends from you, too, in that way. You feel grateful now that they are trying to bring you back into the fold again. It so far is proving to be the sort of friendship where you can be apart for ages and come right back where you left off.

 

You arrive at the tavern a little after lunch, and it isn’t very busy this afternoon. Your party easily finds a table big enough for everyone, and you settle in. It is early to be drinking, but you order something hard anyway. Spirits mixed with juice that barely softens the burn of the alcohol. It isn’t your usual drink of choice. You can’t remember the last time you had anything but wine. Today you’re determined to calm your nerves and relax. Those who know your habits give you a critical eye - but you don’t intend on having more than one drink. You’re no alcoholic, despite what the past few days have looked like.

 

“I can’t believe they’d do something like that,” Shadowheart says. Everyone knows what she’s referring to. 

 

“Tchk. It is not surprising that your people wouldn’t want to celebrate a githyanki. ” Lae’zel chugs an entire tankard of ale straight before slamming it on the table. Her aggression draws the attention of the waiter to bring her more, urgently.

 

“You left so quickly… they may not have known what you looked like. It’s the same for Karlach.”

 

Leaving out you though? That was definitely a choice.

 

“They would have never captured your beauty anyway, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart says. Her cheeks turn a little red and she briefly smiles at the table.

 

Lae’zel looks at Shadowheart utterly confounded. She opens her mouth to speak but can’t find the words. 

 

“I was only jesting,” Shadowheart says, panicking when she notices Lae’zel’s expression. 

 

A silence hangs over the table as everyone takes a sip of their drink and avoids eye contact with one another. Fortunately no one has to recover from the conversation.

 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” You hear the familiar, silky voice from just over your shoulder. Your chair shakes as you feel two hands plant themselves on the back of it. “All of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate out for a little celebration? I’m hurt. You knew I was there,” Astarion pouts and slowly scans the faces of everyone at the table.

 

He invites himself to the table, dragging over a chair from a neighboring table.

 

“Hello, Astarion,” Jaheira says. There is a threat to her tone, lurking just under the surface. “We did not think you would concern yourself with the common folk any longer.”

 

“Common folk? I disagree. You’re in the presence of the Grand Duke. That’s exactly my sort of company.”

 

The waiter drops off Lae’zel’s second tankard of ale, and Astarion requests a glass of wine that must be so expensive that you wouldn’t even know the name of it.

 

“I’m not technically the Grand Duke,” you protest. You spend a lot of time avoiding the title for someone who always gets a twinge when someone doesn’t call you by it. Astarion brings out your inner contrarian. 

 

“Well, even I can make time for my old friends , even if they don’t extend me the same courtesy.”

 

The mood at the table has shifted dramatically within the first minute he’s sat down.

 

“You’re busy running in different circles these days,” Gale says. “I hear you’ve been throwing fabulous parties. I’ve yet to receive an invitation myself.”

 

“It must have gotten lost in the mail,” Astarion smiles. He’s lying, you can hear it in his voice. Perhaps all of his tells are not gone.

 

You have gotten invitations. Several. You never even opened them - they sit in an ever-growing stack of mail, about six months deep now. But it’s likely he only invites you for your position - none of your other friends express that they’ve gotten one.

 

“A pity. I do love parties. Especially ones full of pretentious nobles,” Gale says flatly.

 

“Well, I’ll see to it that I invite you to the next one then. I’d simply hate for you to miss out,” Astarion says sarcastically. “Perhaps I’ll host a ball specifically in honor of my favorite band of weirdos.”

 

“See to it that you do.”

 

“In any case, I couldn’t help but overhear you were planning to come out, and I thought I might invite myself along. I just had to come and congratulate you on your speech, darling. You really had the crowd going.” Astarion smirks at you.

 

Your mouth is dry. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic - you can’t get a good read on him. You decide not to thank him for it. “They didn’t boo me off of the stage, so I guess that’s a start. They only ever care to hear about Wyll.”

 

“Wyll, yes. Truly awful that he couldn’t join us here today. And Karlach, too. I hear that they’ve grown quite close lately. My sources mention that Karlach is looking particularly… round these days.”

 

You nearly choke. Is he insinuating what you think he is? “What?” He can’t be telling the truth. He’s trying to get to you. Wyll would never - he had been so insistent on waiting… and even if he didn't, neither of them would be stupid enough to create life while fighting for their lives in the hells.

 

Astarion smiles. “Just silly rumors.”

 

“Who are your sources?” You ask, maintaining an even tone. “Given that I’ve heard nothing from either of them.”

 

He just shrugs. “No one reliable, that much is certain. It’s all hearsay and speculation. It may have something to do with her condition, or it may not have even been her- why so defensive, darling?”

 

You grip the edge of the table. You know he’s lying - you can catch his tells. He's trying to put you on edge -  and just don't know why he does it now, in front of your close friends.

 

“When you say round…” Shadowheart begins, slowly bringing a hand to her lips. “You don’t mean…” 

 

“With child,” Astarion says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. “Considering there’s only one man she’s been close to…”

 

“Astarion!” Jaheira scolds from across the table. “Why would you bother spreading such vicious scandal? You’re worse than that damned Gazette. I don’t believe there is truth to that story for a moment. Whomever you spoke to - they must not have been talking about the same tiefling.”

 

“Do you think there are many that could be mistaken for Karlach?” Astarion muses, cocking his head to the side innocently. 

 

“I think there's a better chance of the hells freezing over than of Karlach and Wyll conceiving a child there.” Jaheira snorts. "Do you even know who you're talking about?"

 

“I need to go.” You stand up and start to leave. You won’t put up with this. You know that Astarion is making up stories to get inside of your head, but you don’t have to listen to them. Even the lie is surprisingly hurtful, packing a punch you didn't think possible after all of this time.

 

“Look what you’ve done, Astarion,” Shadowheart scolds. “You’ve chased her off. I never thought you would be so tactless.”

 

“I can’t imagine what you mean. What’s the harm?  It isn’t like they’re still together ,” Astarion says. “I thought she’d be over it by now.”

 

You freeze before turning around to look at him in absolute horror.

 

“Oh dear. Don’t tell me they didn’t know. Did I let the cat out of the bag?” He feigns an apologetic look, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his lip that tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

 

Chapter 4: Fires

You storm out of the side door of the Elfsong and press yourself against an wall that facing away from the main road. It's a busy day, but you can at least avoid the prying eyes of most. You have to bring a hand to your mouth to stifle the sobs that threaten to rip from your throat. You manage to stay mostly composed, but only because there are other people wandering about. You've never been much of the crying sort - it's a more recent development, after the mess with the Absolute. But in the stress of the past several days, you are broken down, and Astarion gave you the final push off of the edge. The thought of drawing unwanted attention to yourself while you cry is mortifying. What is Astarion’s game? One moment he seems to be on your side, and then the next he’s pushing every button you have just to see what happens. You should have stood up for yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for what he said.

Surely he’s lying about Karlach. Wyll wouldn’t even sleep with you without an official ceremony of marriage - he’d been adamant about it. You don’t believe that it’s possible for her to now be pregnant with his child. As you logically think it through, you start to calm down. Astarion is lying. Wyll would not sleep with Karlach, especially not so soon after absconding to Avernus. Even if they are lovers now - this is a fabrication. For her to be showing, it would have happened only a few months after they left. You won't believe that they slept with one another before he sent the letter, either. Wyll still has some character. Furthermore, on the off chance those circumstances did arise, there’s no way that they would remain in Avernus and continue to fight while she carried a child. The whole situation is too absurd to hold even a crumb of truth. It was a lie, a reckless one, crafted for no other purpose than to cause chaos in your mind. To play with you and gauge a reaction.

 

Jaheira appears beside you, a soft cough announcing her arrival. “I did not let Astarion off of the hook for that one easily, so you know.” In an uncharacteristically warm and motherly gesture, she puts an arm around you and rubs your shoulder. “Tactless bastard.”

 

You lean your head towards her, breathing slowly through your mouth to try and muffle the sniffles and regain your heartrate. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” You mean it.

 

Already thinking about it in a moment of alone time has made you feel silly for believing any of it in the first place. Now all you have to worry about is managing what Astarion told them afterwards.

 

He shouldn’t have even known, and yet somehow he figured it out. At some point in your previous conversation, he figured it out and felt confident enough to speak it as the truth. You could have denied it, but in the moment, you were caught off guard and emotional. Perhaps that’s what he was counting on.

 

“I know. You always are. But Wyll and Karlach would never do such things together. This I know.”

 

She doesn’t know. “Jaheira…”

 

You’re afraid to say it, because when you do, it will be real. It will be out in the world, in existence, and no longer just on the paper you burned before anyone else could ever see it. You will not be able to take it back once it’s said. But you’re exhausted from keeping up the lie, and someone needs to hear it. Maybe it will weigh less heavily on your heart. Somehow Jaheira seems to be both the most and least embarrassing person to tell it to in her age. 

 

“Wyll and Karlach… are together. That much I’ve known. The truth is,  I did get a letter from him, months ago.” You take a deep, shaking breath. “And… I don’t think that he’s coming back.”

 

She raises her eyebrows and lets out a long, audible exhale through her teeth. “Well. That certainly is an unexpected development.”

 

You shake your head. “No - it isn't. In hindsight, anyone with eyes could have seen it coming. They’ve always had a chemistry, from the moment she joined camp. I just chose to ignore it. I think the only reason that he chose me to court in the beginning was because he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to touch, or hug, or hold her. Those things were important to him.” By the end of it, your voice is hardly a whisper.

Although you never slept together, you remember his touch well. Your skin prickles at the memory of him caressing your face. The memory of him kissing you as if he needed to draw the breath from your lungs to survive. How he held you for an eternity in his arms after the fight with the netherbrain, repeating over and over how thankful he was for your survival.

 

Jaheira gives you an awkward squeeze revealing her own discomfort at the situation, but somehow it's still a reassuring touch. You haven't had much of that lately - the flesh of another feels entirely foreign.

 

“You were his physical comfort. Karlach was always something more meaningful. Deeper. He tried to convince himself he loved you, at least in the beginning.” Astarion has joined you - he’s heard everything. His voice isn’t excessively cruel - but it is to the point. He isn’t wasting his breath on sugarcoating things.

 

“Bastard. You aren’t welcome here. Run along,” Jaheira shoos him with her hand, but he doesn’t budge. “Don’t listen to Astarion - he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

 

He scowls. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. Wyll is the perfect little hero. A knight in shining armor - of course he fell for the woman that needed the most saving. The woman that needed a savior to brave the fires of Avernus with her and fix her dying heart. How could he resist a siren song so tempting?”

 

“Karlach would hate to hear you say something like that,” you say with a dry laugh. Karlach is the furthest thing from a damsel in distress.

 

Astarion just shrugs. “He never fully appreciated you. He doesn’t deserve you.”

 

“You are making a nuisance of yourself where you aren’t wanted.” Jaheira warns. “Not everyone is so appreciative of harsh words, even when there is truth nestled in them. Perhaps it’s true what they say - that you no longer have a soul.”

 

You can’t look at either of them right now. “It’s fine.” You don't even know if they hear you. Suddenly, being alone sounds nice. You pull yourself out from underneath Jaheira’s arm. “There’s no point in arguing.” 

 

“You should come back inside,” Jaheira says to you, before looking to Astarion. “You… should not,” she spits.

 

Astarion lifts a hand to study his nails. “I don’t take orders. It’s a free city, and presently , I’m not on the ‘no entry’ list. And since you’re so worried about my well-being, I do in fact have an intact soul, thank you for asking. A boon of the Rite.”

 

“Please,” you interject, the reality of what you’ve done now settling in. You could kick yourself for sharing it willingly now. “Neither of you can tell anyone else about this. I’m begging you.”

 

Both of them give you an expectant look - it’s going to take more of an explanation than that to convince them not to. You’ve just shared the most juicy piece of gossip in all of Baldur’s Gate. The Gazette would pay a pretty penny to get their hands on it.

 

“Wyll is Baldur’s Gate’s hero . They idolize him. If they knew he was gone, possibly for good… it would destabilize things more so than they already are.” You have to fight to keep your voice steady… and low. Although you don’t think anyone else is within earshot, you can’t be too careful. 

 

“He didn’t write to anyone else to make arrangements to establish something more… formal? He had to have known that the city won’t easily accept a proxy forever. Especially when that city has plastered his face on damned near everything,” Astarion says. “You can write a letter to break it off with a lover, but you can’t write a letter to break it off with a city . There must be a contingency plan.”

 

“No…” Jaheira is shaking her head, lost in thought. “Wyll is smarter than that. He was happy before, to step into the role. Not at first - but he came around to the idea. ”

 

You’re inclined to agree. “I don’t know what to do. He didn’t provide a return address - I can’t exactly write back and ask. I’m stuck, until the city decides they’ve waited too long for him, or until he remembers that he’s supposed to be in charge of thousands of people.”

 

“We should tell the others,” Jaheira says, and your heart immediately drops into your stomach, stirring up an unpleasant mix of alcohol and bile. “It might be necessary for us to go after Wyll - it is possible that they encountered danger. I think it may be possible that he wrote you the letter to try and prevent you from getting pulled into whatever mess that’s befallen him. He is noble - perhaps he meant to protect you.”

 

“Perhaps he might do that if he were dealing with an average woman for a lover,” Astarion says in disgust. “But even I know her better than to doubt her strength or resourcefulness. If he needed help, he would have said it plainly.”

 

You think that’s meant to be a compliment, in a roundabout way, and you soften towards him, at least for the moment.

 

“It’s enough evidence for me that he’s abdicated his position,” Astarion finishes, when no one else fills the silence.

 

“Whether he’s in danger or not, would it not be best to try and go after him? If he is in danger, we can help. If he is not in danger… he can provide us with a plan.” Jaheira is thinking through every scenario and outcome in her head - her eyes fixed on the ground below.

 

“ She was his plan, clearly. There was no expiration on the proclamation he made regarding her appointment as his proxy.” Astarion’s voice raises.

 

“You’ve read the document?” You ask in shock. You tried once - but it was a terribly dry thing. Pages and pages of legal jargon that required many layers of understanding, some of which you didn’t have, to comprehend.

 

“Please, darling. I was a magistrate, remember? It was nothing.”

 

It doesn’t surprise you that he could read it. Just that he did .

 

“Traditionally, these things have expirations,” Astarion says. “Even in a vague verbiage, in the case that the person the proxy serves for is ill or otherwise indisposed for an undetermined length of time. However… in your case? Wyll left nothing of the sort. There is no condition of time that can be met to remove you, unless he returns and does it himself.”

 

“All the power in the world, except the power to replace myself,” you mutter. “Awful luck.”

 

“I still think we should tell the others,” Jaheira does not change her stance. “This was clearly an oversight on Wyll’s behalf - unsurprising. He left in a hurry. If you do not want to carry his responsibilities, we should find him and make him correct it.”

 

“Avernus is huge. How would we ever hope to find him?” You ask.

 

“So long as we can get there in the first place, Gale should be capable of scrying within the same plane.” 

 

You aren’t excited about the prospect of seeing Wyll or Karlach again… even if it is necessary. You’ve only just started coming to terms with never seeing them again - it has been a small comfort, recently. “How would we get there?”

 

“Helsik,” Jaheira says. “The Devil’s Fee.”

 

Of course. It was so long ago that you used the portal to the House of Hope, you’d nearly forgotten. Breaking into Raphael’s house in particular was a special sort of task, but Helsik might be able to get you in anywhere else with more ease.

 

“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?” Astarion asks with a smug, condescending tone. “The entire reason you’re the proxy is because Wyll is in the hells already. You can’t go. If you die in Avernus everything you’re worried about will happen anyway.”

 

He’s right. Someone else will have to go - it gives you anxiety not to have any control of the situation. And everyone that goes will have to be privy to all of the dirty laundry you’ve been hiding. 

 

“I have to think about this,” you stammer. “Please… can I trust you both to keep the secret for now?”

 

Astarion holds his hand up dramatically. “On my honor,” he says as his lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk.

 

Jaheira ponders your request for a few long moments. “How long?”

 

“I don’t know. I just need some time to think. I’ve been the proxy for this long, it isn’t like there’s suddenly a rush now. I can manage as long as I have to.”

 

Her lips are tight. “I don’t take issue with keeping secrets from the general public, but I do not feel right keeping them from our companions. After all of this time, do you not find them trustworthy? Wyll is a friend to all of us. The others deserve to know what has become of him.”

 

“I do.” You say quickly. “But this isn’t a small issue. The more people that know, the larger the risk it gets out… one way or another.” 

 

Before today, you might have found Astarion the least trustworthy with the information - especially with the flair of his earlier reveal. But now it’s Jaheira that concerns you. She is competent at keeping secrets, but she also is bound by a code of her own. She will always do what she believes is right. You cannot depend on her loyalty for this.

 

“I understand,” she says, face giving away nothing. “I will keep your secret for now. But if at any point I feel it will bring us more danger… I will do what is required.”

                                                   

---

 

 

A half truth is required at this point, on account of Astarion’s announcement and your reaction. You aren’t given long to think it over before you’re back around the table with the rest of the party. You won’t tell them that Wyll isn’t coming back, but you will admit to some personal difficulties.

Since you left the table, the seats have been swapped around, and you are forced to sit beside Astarion. You scoot your chair away from him as far as you can manage while he smiles in amusement. A silence falls over the table as the three of you return and settle in again. Several pairs of eyes fall on you, awaiting an explanation of the accusation that’s been left hanging in the air. Maybe you should have refused to come back.

 

You open your mouth to speak, but Astarion beats you to it.

 

“It seems I was mistaken earlier,” he says with phony remorse. “I carelessly shared hurtful rumors - turns out there were several layers of misunderstanding on my behalf. I suppose that’s what happens when we all go so long without speaking to one another.”

 

You and Jaheira both turn to look at him in silent shock. Her expression is neutral, and you hurriedly fix yours to match. 

 

“I have been spending far too much time invested in the gossip of my parties. There are very prominent whispers lately of Wyll and his paramour breaking up, and that is the reason why he’s been absent for so long.”

 

An obvious lie. The city as a whole hardly knows who you are, for better or for worse. You’re constantly reminding them. Some might recognize you as a hero, others might recognize you as Wyll’s proxy, and others still might recognize you as Wyll’s lover - but few have worked out that you’re one in the same. 

 

A surprising lie, too. You don’t expect him to cover for you after throwing you to the wolves in the first place. The man gives you whiplash. One moment, you were gearing up to come clean to them about the status of your relationship with Wyll, and the next, Astarion is mending the damage he caused. You internally sigh in relief. 

 

“I apologize for running off. The anniversary has me feeling more emotional than usual.” You wring your hands in your lap, picking at your fingernails.

 

No one pushes the issue further. The table falls into a steady conversation that you feel like an outsider from. You don’t have the energy to participate in it - you barely have the energy to follow along with the conversation. Most of it is focused on Lae’zel’s recent adventures. She’s perked up considerably with ale in her belly and at the topic - it pulled her from her earlier sullen silence. Her mind has been taken off of the insult of the statue, even as yours still dwells on it, among other things. From what little you make of the conversation, Lae’zel is optimistic of the outcome of the civil war that’s broken out between the githyanki. There are many that still support Vlaakith, but the numbers dwindle by the week as they are won over by defecting comrades. Her ideologies do not fall quickly. For months there was almost no progress, and much bloodshed. Now that more jump ship, the tides are turning.

 

Hours pass at the table, and you enjoy the company of one another again so much that the afternoon turns to night. Several of them make plans to stay the night and order dinner and another round of beverages. You see the beginning of the second meal as a change to finally excuse yourself - you still have to walk home in the dark, and it’s better that you do it now before the hour gets too late and the streets become dangerous. Still you hesitate as you leave, making eye contact with Jaheira from the doorway. Astarion has granted you a reprieve from explaining yourself, for whatever reason. You silently beg her not to ruin it, and leave your friends to enjoy the rest of their night together.

 

                                            

---

 

The night air is chilly for the season. There is a light drizzle that dampens your clothes and makes them stick uncomfortably to your skin. Through a light layer of clouds, the moon tries to peak through, but it offers little light tonight. Fortunately many of the buildings you pass are still awake with families enjoying dinner, or businesses starting to close shop for the evening. The weather makes the walk miserable, but it is a time to clear your head and reflect. Before the reappearance of your companions, you spent many of the last twelve months on your own for most of the days. Socializing now feels stiff, and more exhausting than it ever did before. The desire to reconnect with them is rekindled, but there's so little in common now aside from your shared past. And there's the matter of your secrets - there's so much you can't say to them yet. It puts up an invisible wall that isolates you. Telling Jaheira has made it worse, because now you have to live in fear of her sharing what she knows. You believe her when she says she won't tell the common folk of Baldur's Gate, but you aren't as sure when it comes to your friends. She'll be suspicious, with Astarion rushing to your defense as he did.

 

You aren’t walking for five minutes when a shadow coalesces in front of you in the shape of Astarion - a dark cloud of mist that soon takes his complete form. The surprise of it sends you leaping backwards, hand reaching to your side for any kind of weapon. You don’t go through most of your days in fear of combat anymore, and your hand grasps at nothing but empty waistband. Well... 

 

Next time you should at least be bothered to put a dagger on your person.

 

“Gods, Astarion! What the hell?" You compose yourself and take a purposeful path around him, making a mental note of his new trick. You haven’t seen him much since the Ascension - it appears he’s grown into his new powers since then. As if he needed to be more stealthy than he already was. You don't like the knowledge of how easily he can sneak up on you now. Or the places he can get into as mist that would have previously kept him locked out.

 

“That’s a funny way to say ‘Thank you for saving my ass back there, Astarion,’” he says in a terrible, high-pitched imitation of your voice.

 

“ Thank you ? You must be joking. You got me into that mess in the first place.”

 

He keeps at your side effortlessly as you try to outpace him. It’s embarrassing that you soon find yourself breathless - you’ve been living a comfortable life for too long now. It’s a reminder that some training wouldn’t hurt - or even a few more walks. The damned vampire, of course, doesn’t need to breathe. You like to imagine that centuries ago, his human form would be falling over from exhaustion right about now, gasping for breath. Unfortunately now, he’s unbothered at the physical exertion. 

 

“In my defense, I assumed you told them. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

 

You roll your eyes. “Jaheira knows now, unfortunately. I thought telling someone would make me feel better - but it didn’t. How the fuck did you figure it out, anyway?”

 

“It wasn’t hard. Your tone, your carefully chosen words, your lack of ring. You aren’t a woman pining away for her lover. And as for Jaheira, don't worry about her. She can be... managed.”

 

“I can’t afford to pine .” You refuse to look at him, keeping your eyes focused straight ahead, never slowing your stride. Your lungs begin to burn in protest. “Go away.” The Jaheira comment is ignored. You don't want to know what he means.

 

“The streets are dangerous at night,” he muses with a small chuckle. “Far be it from me to leave a lady unescorted.” 

 

You stop and turn to him. “I don’t need an escort. You of all people should know that - or do you not remember when you begged for my help and protection from Cazador, clinging to me like a desperate little leech?” You press a finger to his chest.

 

He laughs a little louder this time, unfazed by your cruel commentary. “You’re also out of practice. Shall I demonstrate how quickly a ne’er-do-well could take you down?”

 

You glare at him. His stupid smirk makes you furious. “I didn’t realize you were so eager to throw away your immortal life.” You keep walking, and he falls into step behind you rather than beside you. Each of his footsteps comes down at the same time as yours, making it hard to tell where or how close he is.

 

As you walk by an alley, he suddenly grabs you and pins you by your neck with his forearm against the wall, forcing your chin upward. You struggle against him, but he presses his body against yours, and you’re extremely aware of the way his pelvis presses into your hips.

 

“Fuck you!” You seethe. Every muscle in your body seizes with rage… and fear.

 

“A pity you’re not offering.” You catch a sparkle of his fang under the moonlight. “I’m not going to hurt you, darling. I’m just proving a point.” His arm releases your neck, but he doesn’t step away just yet. “There are much worse things that go bump in the night. You’re unarmed and alone. We don’t have to talk - but at least let me walk you home. Consider it… an apology for earlier.”

 

He backs off and gestures for you to lead the way. You don’t show him your back again.

 

“Why did you do it?” You ask quietly, after several minutes of walking in silence.

 

“Hmm?” 

 

“Why did you say that in front of them? Why would you do that?”

 

“I thought we weren’t speaking.” 

 

“Just answer me.”

 

“Maybe if you say ‘please,’” he taunts.

 

“Please,” you say through gritted teeth. You turn your head so he can’t see your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

 

“Because… it’s fun .”

 

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “You can’t possibly mean that. That can’t be your entire motivation.” You wouldn't put it past him, but you also remember the Astarion from before. He had reasons - always.

 

“And if it is?”

 

“Then you would be a bastard.”

 

“I am a bastard,” he says, his voice lilting. “But you’re right - it isn’t my only motivation. I don’t do it to be needlessly cruel to you.”

 

“Then why ?”

 

“I made my opinions quite clear last night, you didn’t seem inclined to listen. I thought maybe by riling up your close friends, they might help you come to a better decision.”

 

Ravengard Estate is in your sights now. “What gives you the right to mess with my personal affairs, Astarion?”

 

“Concern.”

 

The word hangs in the night air as an echo, accented by the growing silence of the city around you as residents turn in for the night and you pass through the currently still uninhabited section of the Upper City, lined with half-constructed homes and storefronts.

 

“There’s something in it for you. There always is,” you say bleakly. Vampires are creatures obsessed with power and vanity. You aren’t sure how, or if, his Ascension has altered that. 

 

“You did me a favor, you know. Many favors. Not all of my motivations are selfish. Only most of them.” He says it in such a way that makes it difficult to tell if he’s serious or telling a joke. “Your freedom is of critical importance to me, as I said last night. I don’t like owing anyone.”

 

“You don’t owe me for anything, Astarion. I’ve never done anything in my life with expectation of repayment, or even recognition. Hells, look at the gods’ damned statue they erected. The Heroes of Baldur’s Gate, and I’m not even on the stupid thing. Whatever you thought I did for you was nothing to me.”

 

“It was everything to me.”

 

You come up on the gate of the Ravengard Estate and stop. “You shouldn’t come with me any farther. The servants plan my wedding and my brood of eleven mini Ravengards, and I don’t need them to see me coming home with another man.”

 

“Don’t keep degrading yourself like this,” he says with disgust. “I can help you, but you need to be willing to accept it.”

 

“I don’t need help. From you or anyone.”

 

He clasps a hand around one of the bars of the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the estate, leaning against it. “You’re a shadow of the person you were. You hide here in the home of a man that’s left you, while you continue to see after every aspect of his life. You take insult after insult, while you let yourself be a puppet of the Council. It isn’t even Wyll’s bidding that you’re doing.” His hand squeezes around the bar so tightly that his pale knuckles turn white as bone. “Find your fire.”

 

“Fire, hm? Appropriate - knowing you, you'd suggest that I burn down the whole city and get my revenge.”

 

He frowns. “You don’t know me at all, do you?”

 

“I knew a version of you, once. He wasn’t the most virtuous of individuals.”

 

Astarion snorts. “You can think whatever you like of me, but I am the same as I always was. The ritual did not strip me of my soul or whatever nonsense everyone fed to you. Your assessment of me is fair - I’m not and never was virtuous . But I also have no interest in reckless destruction, either. Where would the fun in that be? A scorched-earth approach takes away all of the beauty and pleasure that power can bring. Baldur’s Gate is my home. And you know what they say about shitting where you eat.”

 

“What are you suggesting, then?”

 

“I’ve read the document Wyll had drafted regarding your status as proxy. It’s flimsy - whoever drafted the thing is green behind the ears in matters of legalese.” 

 

Your head spins a little bit at that given how complex the document appeared to you.

 

“It wouldn’t matter much if you remained a perfect and obedient little proxy. However…” he smiles. “The language in it is incredibly dubious. I wasn’t going to dare suggest this in front of Jaheira, but if you wanted to - the position of Grand Duke, officially, could be yours. It would only need a little bit of a push.”

 

You take a step back from him. “I thought I made it clear that I had no interest in remaining in the position forever.”

 

“Perhaps not the way things are now . But I saw you up on that stage today, and I must say you have a natural charisma to your speech.”

 

A warmth rises to your cheeks. “Oh… that? No…” 

 

But even Florrick had offered a weak compliment of the speech, more than she’d ever given you before. Maybe there is some truth to it.

 

“You could lead in your own right, if you committed to it and refused to allow them to manipulate you any longer.”

 

“The Council does exist for a reason - Baldur’s Gate isn’t a monarchy.”

 

“No. But the Grand Duke holds more standing. Trust me, I am around the nobility quite often… none of the councilors hold high public opinion. You’ve seen the ardent adoration that they hold for the Ravengard family. All we need to do is… redirect it.”

 

“Astarion… I don’t know that I want that sort of life. It’s been stressful enough trying to learn the ropes of the job. I’m sure there’s someone more qualified.”

 

“But wouldn’t it feel good? To take it out from under him and sour the memory of him? He abandoned Baldur’s Gate. He abandoned you . What I said before was not a total lie. There are rumors of Wyll leaving you - and unless you take the lead and proactively write the narrative, I worry that things will get worse for you.”

 

“I… I have to think. Between our conversation with Jaheira, and this one… there’s a lot to think about.” You start to pull open the gate. “Goodnight, Astarion.”

 

He nods. “Goodnight. And…make a decision quickly. I don’t want to watch you get burned.”

 

“Wait-” you turn around again before he can disappear. “The thing about Wyll and Karlach… was it true? Or did you just say it to try and anger me?”

 

“It is a rumor that has passed through my doors - but I couldn’t tell you who started it.”

                                                     

---

 

 

Several days later, you find a copy of Baldur’s Mouth left on your nightstand - you don’t pause to wonder who left it there. The headline is of greater interest.

 

GRAND DUKE RAVENGARD’S PROXY SPEAKS AT ANNIVERSARY CEREMONY

 

Wyll Ravengard who ? Ravengard’s proxy spoke publicly for the first time since the Calamity, now one year ago. Little is known about the mysterious proxy, who mostly keeps to herself in the Ravengard Estate. Today we were finally blessed with a rare appearance, although she arrived “fashionably” late. Her speech was one of inspiration and hope, calling on the people of Baldur’s Gate to find their courage (find a full transcript of the speech following this article). The acting Grand Duke had a natural charm and charisma on stage as she commented on the city’s strength and resilience.

 

Notably, Ravengard’s proxy is also a hero of Baldur’s Gate, one who fought alongside him to defeat the forces of the Absolute. We are left wondering why our secretive proxy was left off of the monument in question given her seeming importance. A deliberate choice on her part from a humble leader choosing to showcase her peers over herself? Or is our acting Grand Duke not as fit to lead as her peers? Early sources suggest that Wyll may have had a relationship with her before he was suddenly called away. Time will tell, but we hope to be hearing more from her again. 

 

Following the ceremony, the audience was in great spirits. Felix Chionthar, local shipwright, had this to say: “I’d just about lost all hope in the Ravengards. Ulder’s death was devastating. There was a man who loved his people and had the power to back himself up. Everyone’s so excited about Wyll - and I was too. Amazing. The son of the duke helped defeat a netherbrain? Heroism must run in the family, right? Well, then why did he disappear immediately afterwards? I’m not even sure he made a speech first. Did he? Well, everyone’s been celebrating him for months now, but it’s kind of hard for me to get behind someone like that. He feels more myth than man. It was good to hear his proxy finally speak - what was her name? No one said it. That was weird. But she gave me a little bit more faith. Baldur’s Gate needs that right now - we need to hear that we’re strong. Because there’s so much crumbling around us.”

 

The question remains: Where is Wyll? We’ve been asking this question, dear reader, for months now. So far, our government officials have provided no comments on the matter. 

Chapter 5: Change

A week goes by. There’s someone at the door with a message for you, according to Barnabus. You’ve gone months without a single soul interacting with you, and now you’re suddenly popular? When you answer it, it isn’t anyone you know - just someone sent to hand deliver a letter to you. You take it from the man’s hands and turn over the silvery envelope, emblazoned with a crimson wax seal. There’s no name or return address on it, but you immediately know that it’s from Astarion from the swirling letter “A” embossed in the wax.

“I was sent on behalf of Lord Ancunin,” the page says, taking all of the mystery out of the equation. “He said you have a tendency to not check your mail.”

You glare at the young man, who smiles sheepishly. You know it isn’t his fault, but the verbal message was unnecessary and excessive. “Tell him not to hold his breath on an answer.”

 

“He doesn’t-”

But you’ve already shut the door. Leaning against the inside of it, you catch Barnabus judging you from across the hall.

“What?” You say with a sigh.

 

“There was no need to be rude to the boy - it isn’t his fault.”

 

“I know,” you look down at the floor in shame. “Lord Ancunin has just been a thorn in my side lately.”

 

Barnabus walks over to you and hands you a letter opener before you can jam your thumb into the side of it. “My Lady, do try to remain a little civil, won’t you?”

You take the letter opener and slice it open cleanly, plucking the message inside from the center. An invitation.

 

Barnabus eyes you expectantly, waiting for you to share. Of course you’re under no obligation to, but you can’t help it. When you were at your least social, Barnabus and Gretta were two of the only people in your life that didn’t treat you with complete disdain.

 

“It’s an invitation to the Crimson Palace. For a ball.”

 

The servant smiles. “How wonderful! A good opportunity to get yourself out in the world.”

 

You crumple it in a ball. “I’m not going .”

 

Barnabus frowns. “My Lady, forgive me for saying so, but you’ve been quite the homebody lately. If you want to earn the love of the people… you have to earn it. Lord Ancunin is one of the most influential people in Baldur’s Gate.”

 

Had he really made that much of a name for himself in a year? You haven’t been paying attention.

 

“Your image is an extension of Master Wyll’s.”

 

You bite back the urge to say something unkind. If Wyll cared about his image so much, he would be here handling it himself. Barnabus invites himself to take the piece of paper from your hands, and unfolds it. “The Ravengard family is loved because they have been attentive to their people. You can’t expect to have a reputation if you hide away.”

“I would happily go, if the host were anyone else,” you say. “Astarion has too much ambition for his own good.”

 

Barnabus holds up the paper to you and points at the fine print. “You would cause a terrible outrage if you did that, My Lady”

 

You grab the paper and squint, reading it closer.

 

“He’s throwing me a fucking birthday party.”

You don’t think you’ve ever mentioned the date.

                                                     —------------------------------------------------

 

Whenever you dread the arrival of a day, it somehow always seems to come up faster. You don’t try too hard to dress up, and it isn’t like you have much to wear anyway. You have a dress or two in your wardrobe, but they aren’t exactly ball material. There was time to get something for the occasion between receiving the invitation and today, but you don’t want him to think you tried too hard. Barnabus tries to get you to wear one of Wyll’s late mother’s gowns, but you politely refuse, certain her ghost would come to haunt you if you even thought about it. You don’t feel like you have the right to any of the Ravengard things, really. Not anymore. You only live in the home out of necessity. 

 

In the end, you look presentable, but the dress is a bit on the austere side - nothing flashy, fashionable, or fun. You think it’s fitting for someone carrying the title of Duke. Simple, dark, elegant, modest. It would be hard for anyone to mock you for the choice. As a woman in power, it’s always safer to choose the option that discourages any sort of comment on your form or figure. The high neck feels like a subtle middle finger to your vampire host. You braid your hair up and back into a bun. Classy, but not commanding the attention of a room. With luck, you’ll be able to fly mostly under the radar.

 

Barnabus regards you unhappily as you make your way out to the carriage that he’s readied for you. It’s one of the few times you’ve allowed him to drive you, and he’s put more effort into dressing up than you. You realize that he genuinely enjoys this sort of thing. For some reason, his disappointment hurts.

 

“You might have tried a little harder, My Lady,” he says, giving you a once over. “I knew we should have sent Gretta out to pick you out a dress.”

 

You shudder at the thought. Gretta is a wonderful old woman, but you don’t trust her fashion sense for a second. “I think I look just fine, thank you.”

 

“Fine, yes. But you’re such a pretty young woman, My Lady. Why not use the opportunity to show off?”

 

“Who am I meant to impress?” You ask coldly. “Wyll has my heart.”

 

He sighs and opens the carriage door for you. “There’s never harm in looking your best.”

 

The ride over is smooth and quick under Barnabus, despite the condition of the roads. Even in his age, his eyes don’t fail him - he expertly maneuvers around the worst of the damage. You arrive at the Crimson Palace unscathed, pulling up in the driveway to an event that appears significantly more grand than you had anticipated. A line of carriages wait out the front gate. It takes almost fifteen minutes from the gate before you can properly disembark. You tried to convince Barnabus to let you out before the front door, but he insisted on doing things in the proper manner. You thank him as you exit, and he tells you that he’ll return in several hours. 

 

How vague. You don’t like not having the ability to leave when you want to. The doors of the Crimson Palace are opened by two doormen as you ascend the front steps, and you feel like you’re stepping into an entirely different world than your last visit. Astarion has pulled out all of the stops to decorate the halls, everything glittering under the chandeliers and thousands of magic burning candles. You’d never admit it to him, but it is a breathtaking sight.

 

Only when you see the other guests do you feel underdressed. The halls leading into the ballroom are full of dazzling gowns and suits in every color - no one who you recognize. They don’t seem to recognize you either, as no one pays you any attention as you push through them - the women don’t see you as a threat, and the men are busy looking at other prospects. It’s a good start to the night, in your opinion. You’ll be happy if you can pass through the party mostly unnoticed. You look around for any familiar faces, but the ballroom is so crowded that it’s hard to get a good line of sight. Everyone has put their best foot forward to turn into the best version of themselves for the night. If this is a party in your honor, he must have invited your hero companions…

 

But you don’t see them within the first half an hour following your arrival. You don’t see Astarion either, keeping an eye out on the dais where his throne sits. The very idea of him having a throne is funny to you - he might be a lord, but only in name. He doesn’t control anything meaningful. Because no one knows you, you are left to awkwardly mill about at the perimeter of the room, sipping from various glasses of wine that the servants bring around on shining platinum platters. You start to wish you hadn’t come at all - it isn’t like there’s anyone here that would even notice. Finally, after about an hour into making friends with the houseplants sitting by the windows, you catch a glimpse of Shadowheart and Lae’zel. You make your way over to them as they take a portion of snacks from a serving table.

 

“You’re here!” Shadowheart says brightly. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, honestly. I know you and Astarion aren’t on the best terms.”

 

“I’m not here by choice. Barnabus insisted it would be rude to skip my own party.”

 

Shadowheart laughs. “Maybe, but no one here seems to be paying you much attention. I’m not sure they know who you are. The host is running fashionably late.”

 

Fashionably late to a party in his own home? Unlikely. Hiding out somewhere and preparing a grand entrance, more likely. “I think we’re well beyond the fashionable point.” You’ve nearly been here an hour, and the party had been in full swing for a while before you arrived. “It’s quite alright though - I don’t mind being a nobody tonight. I’ve always hated birthday parties.”

 

Lae’zel hasn’t said a word. She silently scopes out the room with her arms crossed - wearing full armor. They must have made her check her weapons at the door. It’s very… her . Of the three of you, the only one that looks like she knew where she was going tonight is Shadowheart. Her purple gown hugs her waist, hips, and thighs, following her silhouette to the floor. A long slit goes most of the way up her leg, not leaving much to the imagination. The sight of the three of you together starts to draw some more attention - though you aren’t sure if it’s because of Shadowheart’s celebrity status or just the strange collection of the three of you together.

 

“Are the others here?” You ask.

 

Shadowheart shakes her head. “No - at least, I don’t think so. Last we spoke, most of them said that they’d be stopping by, but it's hard to make heads or tails of anyone in here.”

 

So you hadn’t been the only one to have trouble with that, then. 

 

The night goes on for a bit, and it’s good to catch up with the two of them and no one else. It is much less awkward than the evening at the Elfsong a few weeks prior. It’s painfully clear that the two of them harbor some kind of unmentioned feelings between them, but neither act upon them. At several points you want to just grab each of their hands and put them together. Looking at them now, you can’t believe that they ever hated one another. You’re left to feel like a third wheel.

 

A sudden hush comes over the room, and the musicians abruptly come to a halt. You follow the eyes of the crowd to the raised dais, where Astarion has appeared. Your eyes had been there not but a moment ago - if you didn’t know any better you would assume that he appeared in a cloud of mist. But most of Baldur’s Gate is unaware of his vampirism - he’d never pull such a stunt in a crowded public venue. He holds up a glass.

 

“A toast, to our lovely Grand Duke,” he sings across the crowd, to the response of polite clapping. Nowhere did he mention the word proxy, or stand in. Just Grand Duke. No one commented on it or heckled. “Tonight we celebrate the day of her birth.”

 

His eyes find you in the crowd almost instantly, and he smiles. “Come up, darling, take the spotlight,” he calls.

 

The crowd’s eyes follow his, and the guests create a pathway for you leading up to the dais. There are whispers of confusion and embarrassment that no one has said anything to you - you overhear many of their comments. Several comment on your plain, unassuming appearance - but most are just mortified they didn’t say hello. You take slow steps up the pathway to the dais, chin up, keeping your eyes on the wall behind Astarion. When you get to the platform, he extends a hand. For the sake of your image you take it and allow him to help you step up onto it. As he presents you, the crowd warms up.

 

Astarion toasts his glass again, and everyone cheers and takes a sip.

 

“Please return to enjoying your night of revelry. Desserts will be served soon,” Astarion announces. On cue, the musicians pick up again, and the anticipatory silence of the room is broken into a celebration again.

 

Astarion turns to you. His eyes look you up and down once. Slowly. “Welcome, darling.”

 

“I’m not your darling,” you say, crossing your arms.

 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re hardly special. I call everyone that.”

 

A lie.

 

“What do you think of the party? I’m honored you finally decided to make an appearance.” He smirks.

 

“I’ve been to bigger.” You shrug nonchalantly

 

Another lie.

 

“Oh, darling. Bigger isn’t always better,” he winks. “It’s all about the experience.”

 

A heat rises to your cheeks and you hide your face in your goblet, taking a quick sip in embarrassment. Once, you could have fallen for this man. You remind yourself that he’s a player. A rake. He doesn’t mean a word he speaks from his stupid, pretty, perfect lips.

 

“Too bad,” you say, trying to recover. “I’ve had better experiences, too.” It isn’t a fast enough comeback to pack the punch you want it to.

 

“Ah, yes. Your boring chaste ones?” He keeps his voice low, speaking under his cup so that no one can read his lips from afar. On the dais, it’s just the two of you.

 

You have the urge to dump your wine on him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Wyll might be handsome, darling, but I’m sure he’s no fun in bed. Not that you got that far.”

 

You glare at him. “Go on, keep talking, I dare you. That is, if you want your guests to see you knocked on your ass at your own party.”

 

“You won’t. You have an image to protect,” he reminds.

 

Your fist clenches at your side. “You are the most insufferable-”

 

“Shh,” he reaches out and presses a finger to your lips. “Voice down, people are staring.”

 

He’s right. You swallow and look at the floor in embarrassment.

 

“The responsible thing to do would be to honor your host with a dance.” He places his cup down on a servant’s platter and offers a hand to you. He shields his mouth from the crowd with his opposite hand and whispers, “ Remember, people are watching .”

 

You exhale slowly, bottling your rage for now, and paste on a fake smile. “Fine. One dance. But as far as these people know, I’m still with Wyll. So watch yourself.” You take his hand.

 

“Bold of you to assume that I’m coming onto you, darling. I’m just doing my duty as a responsible host.”

 

Dancing with Astarion doesn’t bring you the same girlish joy that dancing with Wyll did - but something deep down does stir. Astarion is stiffer and more reserved, performing the steps with perfect precision. He lacks the flow of Wyll. But there is still a grace to him. As he leads you through the motions, you are glad for the dance lessons you took with your servants in your early days at the Ravengard Estate. You had thought to impress Wyll when he returned, having never been much of a dancer yourself… at least they aren’t entirely wasted now. The crowd breaks up around you and you catch glimpses of whispers as you circle the room together.

 

“Astarion…” you say nervously, keeping your voice low.

 

“Don’t worry - ignore them. This is perfectly appropriate. I wouldn’t do anything to put your plans in jeopardy. I’m certain they're just jealous of you and marveling at my charm.” 

 

“I think we’re done here,” you say, trying to break free of the steps. 

 

He holds you firmly in place, unflinching. “Don’t be rude - the song isn’t over.”

 

It must be the longest song in the musicians’ repertoire - or else Astarion gives them a secret sort of cue to lengthen it when you aren’t looking. You think it goes on for over seven minutes, at least. But eventually it ends, and you exchange your bows with one another.

 

“There, see? That wasn’t so bad.”  He winks and leaves you standing in the dust - at first you hardly process that in the end he was the one to leave you . You had been looking forward to it being the other way around.

 

He steps back up onto the dais, and uses his natural command over the room to bring them to attention again. You have no idea how he does it. He’s no longer the frightened spawn that he was before, hiding behind your back and relying on your protection. He’s grown into something entirely new, awakened by his Ascendant powers. It both impresses and scares you.

 

Although the crowd silences at Astarion’s signal, many of them keep you in their peripheral vision. Slowly, you retreat to the side of the room again, backing your way out from the center.

 

“I’d like to take a moment to say a few words about the Grand Duke, because I feel that many of you don’t properly know her like I do. On our journey to crush the Absolute, we encountered many challenges - all of which she fearlessly led us through. When a decision had to be made, she never backed down from the task. Her job was a rather thankless one, as she has been overshadowed by some of her more glamorous counterparts,” he pauses for a moment to walk in a circle around himself. “But in truth, I must give most of the credit to her. I know that my fellow heroes would agree.”

 

You hear clapping from your friends - all of them are here now, and they stand together in solidarity.

 

“So I ask you all tonight to celebrate her, and to know that Wyll has placed you in competent hands. You might come to adore her as much as you adore him.”

 

You stand absolutely dumbfounded at the recognition as the crowd claps and stares at you. You hold up your head and try to smile, but you’re grateful when they start to return to normal. For the rest of the evening, you’re doomed to have people continuously approaching you, thanking you, and trying to ask you about mostly mundane things.

 

Most remarkably… no one asks about Wyll. It’s you that they want to hear about.

 

                                             

---

 

The night goes on too long, and you slip out to the front driveway at the same time your friends go to leave. It’s slightly past midnight, and most of the guests have left or are leaving alongside you. The night has grown chilly, and you hug your arms to yourself as you squint out into the darkness, trying to recognize your carriage among the others. You bid a warm farewell to your friends one by one, each one a bit more hesitant to leave you than the last as your carriage doesn’t arrive. There are only a few guests now lingering in the Crimson Palace, and their carriages all wait outside, manned by patient coachmen. But still you see no sign of Barnabus.

 

You start to worry that he fell asleep again - the old man has a knack for falling asleep in the worst places at the worst times. Gretta is a night owl though - surely she would have prodded him awake and kicked him back here. Other guests continue to leave, spread out more and more apart. Forty minutes must have passed since Shadowheart and Lae’zel left together - they were the last two to remain with you. You alternate between pacing the steps to keep warm, and sitting on them to rest your legs. There’s still no sign of Barnabus. At this time of night, walking through the city alone and in a dress is blatantly unsafe, especially unarmed.

 

A hand touches your shoulder, and you jump.

 

“You’re still here,” Astarion muses. “Everyone else has left.”

 

You point at the four carriages still in the driveway.

 

“Those? Those belonged to guests who drove themselves - they weren’t in a state to leave. Too much to drink. I put them up in the guest rooms. But you… why are you still here, darling?”

 

You shiver. “My driver hasn’t showed up.”

 

“There’s no reason to wait outside in the cold,” he gestures back towards the Crimson Palace. “If he’s deserted you, you’re welcome to stay until morning with our drunken guests.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” you say, trying to peek down the road through the gate. But it’s dark now, and most of the street lamps have been long extinguished. There isn’t a moon to light up the night as brightly as usual.

 

“Hm. If you say so.”

 

“Why did you say those things earlier?” You ask suspiciously.

 

“This conversation is feeling remarkably familiar,” he notes. “But because they were true.” He shrugs. “If you’re going to be a leader, you need the peoples’ confidence. I was merely reminding them of the recognition you deserve.”

 

“I’m not so sure about this…”

 

“You should be - the crowd was very receptive. I spent all night before that warming up some individuals to your name.”

 

It’s embarrassing to have the work done for you. “Why?” You ask in surprise.

 

“We’ll have to increase public opinion if you’re aiming to win the chair for good.”

 

“I haven’t decided on that,” you protest.

 

“You don’t get to decide it. Building approval is a slow process - it won’t happen overnight. We need to start now, if you decide that you want to make a move for a more permanent situation.”

 

“I don’t know that it will work, even if I did want it to,” you shake your head.

 

“This is merely the first step in a grand design,” Astarion says, painting an invisible picture with his hands. “We build you up before we tear Wyll down.”

 

You still aren’t sure that you want to do something so drastic. The people love Wyll, it feels wrong to take that from him. “Please don’t tear him down yet,” you plead.

 

He smiles mysteriously, and you know that the seeds of doubt have already been planted. Maybe not on a grand scale, but at least within the hearts of a few. “Of course not.” You think he’s lying.

 

You take a few steps down the stairs.

 

“Where are you going?” He asks.

 

“I’ll just walk. It isn’t far. I’m certain my driver must have fallen asleep. Age hasn’t been kind to him lately.”

 

“Don’t be silly. The streets are dangerous this time of night. Even in the Upper City.”

 

“I’ll be okay. Remember who took down a netherbrain, after all.”

 

“ With help ,” he clarifies.

 

“With help. But compared to that? I’m sure I can handle whatever comes by on the streets of Baldur’s Gate.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Let me send you with one of my carriages, at least.” He crosses his arms. “My servants have begun cleaning up the party, but I’m sure I can spare one.”

 

You relent and start back up the stairs. “Alright, fine. Thank you.”

 

“It will be a few minutes before they can get one prepared. Why don’t you come and wait inside? You look positively frozen. I won’t risk having my hospitality questioned.” He holds open the front door for you. The doormens’ shift ended at least twenty minutes ago.

 

You reluctantly go through the doorway.

 

“Unless…” he drops his voice suggestively. “You’d rather spend the night?”

 

“Astarion, you pig.”

 

You immediately turn back around and make for the stairs, your stomach turning. He runs after you and grabs your arm. “Ha! I was only joking. You should have seen the look on your face. I can’t believe you think I actually meant it. Come wait inside. I’ll send for the carriage.”

 

He offers you some tea while you wait, which makes you so tired you nearly accuse him of drugging you. But it’s now the early hours of the morning, and you know that your body has just reached its breaking point for the day.

 

“Why are you so hostile towards me?” He asks. It’s an innocent enough question.

 

You lean back on the couch in the solarium and look up through the roof. Your earlier assumption was right - it’s beautiful at night, if not a little eerie. Surrounded by the outside garden that disappears into the shadowy darkness, you feel vulnerable. It’s as if this room is detached from the rest of the world, floating in the astral plane. You could get lost in here staring up at the constellations above.

 

You’re at a loss for a proper answer. “Do you want the entire list?” In reality, you can’t think of many legitimate reasons. Not ones you can truly get behind anyway.

 

“I suppose I can take notes.”

 

“If we start from the beginning, you tried to murder me when we first met, so that’s not a very strong start. Then you almost murdered me again, oh, but that time was by accident. Then you once confessed to me that you were using me the entire time. You do your damndest to rile me up at every opportunity. You have a sharp tongue, you take pleasure in the misfortune of others, and oh, you killed seven thousand people for power.” The words spill out of you in your state of exhaustion.

 

You can’t hate him for the last point. Not entirely. You could have stopped him. He couldn’t have done it without your eyes.

 

“As I said before, they never could have gone free. At least this way, something good came of their sacrifice.”

 

Something good. That’s still to be decided.

 

That’s all you can say, because you can never say the words that still linger in your mind.

 

Because I almost fell for you. I almost fell for you, but I could never trust you. I wanted to trust you.

                               

---

 

“Hey, soldier,” Karlach says softly, approaching you one night at camp. She has something on her mind.

 

“What is it?” You ask. “Is everything okay?” The state of her heart always concerns you - you never know how much time she might have left with it. You need to do something about it, and soon. If you can just find some more of that damned infernal iron -

 

“With me? Hell yeah.” She smiles. “It’s you I’m worried about.” The smile quickly fades into a more serious countenance. She jerks her chin up to the side, indicating that she wants to talk somewhere else. 

 

You stand up from your bedroll. You had been seated atop it, organizing your bag. Space is tight lately, you never know what you might end up with a use for. You follow Karlach just out of camp and far out of earshot from the camp.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for this - but you should stay away from Astarion. He’s bad news.”

 

It catches you off guard. “Astarion? Why would you say that? We aren’t a thing. We’re just associates.”

 

She frowns and crosses her arms. “I don’t like that you’re still letting him feed on you.”

 

You instinctively touch your neck to the bites. “He’s more useful to us fed. Everyone else can eat normal food, but meanwhile, he’s losing valuable resting time hunting. He’s sharper when he’s fed.”

 

“I’ve heard stories, is all. About folks getting addicted to vampire bites.”

 

“Excuse me?” You put a hand on her hip. “I’m hardly addicted. I’m helping our colleague out. The same way I’m helping you.”

 

“You help people. Exactly. You’re noble - I couldn’t ask for anyone better to have at my side while we go through this. “But I’m worried that you’re giving all that you have to give, and then some.”

 

It’s probably an accurate statement.

 

“Look,” she says afterwards. “Wyll likes you. Really likes you. I don’t want you to mess that up for someone who will suck you dry. To be clear, I do mean that literally and figuratively.”

 

“He… he does?” You blush. You’ve been attracted to Wyll since you first laid eyes on him, but were certain he was far too good for the likes of you. This changes everything. If only you didn’t have the constant specter of death looking over your shoulder.

 

Karlach nods, her mouth pressing into a line. “Yes. He just doesn’t have the courage to tell you yet. And I’m worried that he won’t, if he notices your continued morning fatigue and the bite marks on your neck. He might kill Astarion the moment they’re alone together.”

 

You nod, subtly glancing at both men. Both of them are the most handsome men to ever walk Faerun. Both give you butterflies.

 

 Wyll is the entire package. Sweet, thoughtful, good dancer, handsome, good fighter… you wonder why your heart can’t just get on board. On paper, the man is perfect.

 

Astarion, though… he has something different. Something indescribable. He’s fewer of those things, but your heart still skips when you see him. When he bites you now, it’s better than any orgasm. Maybe Karlach is right.

 

The only way you can cope with him is through sarcastic banter. 

 

Wyll is the kind of man you could marry someday. 

 

Poor Astarion, burdened with his trauma, isn’t ready for a long-term commitment. You’re on two completely different pages. At the end of all of this… he might just disappear entirely, never to be seen again.

 

And so you break off the arrangement of blood cold turkey. Karlach tells you how proud she is, while Astarion is too proud to say anything. Some nights he meets your eyes with a questioning gaze, but you always look away. You don’t speak of it again.

 

You fall madly in love with Wyll. Or so you tell yourself.

 

                                             

---

 

 

You can’t admit it to him now, but you wonder how things would have been different, if you had pursued him instead. 

 

He would have broken your heart. The outcome would not have changed. It would be the same game with different players. Astarion also adds additional layers of complication to a relationship that you don’t see yourself being capable of handling. 

 

But maybe you would have tried a little harder to save the lives he used for his ritual.

 

“I don’t hate you,” you say eventually. It’s barely louder than a whisper, echoing through the solarium in the dead of night. Most of the palace sleeps. You can’t continue the sentence. If you don’t hate him, you could easily see yourself falling in the other direction.

 

“You could have fooled me,” he snorts.

 

A servant comes in and announces that the carriage is ready. It’s time to go.

 

Chapter 6: Complications

After the party, you start to get a large influx of mail from all sorts of people. Sifting through all of it becomes a task, as you try to pick out the important things from random junk. The things people write to you about range from things that would be better suited for the days you hold public audiences, to inquiries and conspiracies about Wyll, to short messages of adoration or disgust. It’s never much in one day, but you put off reading many of them. This drowns poor Barnabus in anxiety, and soon you agree to let him vet them for you just so you don’t miss anything important. So far, there hasn’t been anything that meets your criteria of importance.

 

On a day not long after your birthday, you prepare for a Council meeting later in the evening. The past several days have been relatively quiet and uneventful, so naturally it’s the perfect time for something to break up the monotony. You’re sitting at your mirror, working to tie up your hair into something presentable for the meeting. You don’t like to give them any reasons to talk behind your back. It’s unfair to be a woman in such a position. You’re expected to be pretty, but not so pretty that you appear vain. You have to look strong, but not so strong that you’re unladylike. It’s always a careful balancing act, because your fellow officials will find anything to judge you on.

 

It’s easy enough to fix your hair, but no amount of makeup will cover the exhaustion that haunts your face.

 

Barnabus bursts through the door of your chambers without knocking - something he would normally find terribly impolite. Whatever has happened, he isn’t holding himself together well. His eyes are nearly popping from his skull, and his spindly tufts of hair aren’t slicked back as usual.

 

“What’s wrong?” You ask in concern. You stand up from your chair so quickly that you have to catch it to keep it from toppling over. 

 

He produces an opened envelope, his hands shaking as he holds it out to you. The envelope is unassuming and unmarked on the outside, slightly dampened from his clammy hands. You fumble to get the contents inside. As soon as it leaves his hands, Barnabus starts to pace your room silently back and forth, running a hand across his balding head, trying to flatten it back down again.

 

You swallow as you read the contents.

 

I know the truth. Take the next ship to Caer Westphal. You have two weeks, or I expose everything.

-ED

 

 

 

“Caer Westphal…” you say to yourself, trying to remember where you’ve heard it before. “Where is that?” You think you’ve come across it somewhere in the extensive political and historical texts you’ve been reading to try and bolster your competence at your position. The name suggests a fortress of some kind.

 

“The Isle of Snowdown, My Lady. Directly across the sea. It was annexed by Amn from the rest of the Isles,” he reminds you nervously.

 

You nod, bringing a hand to your mouth and biting a nail. With the added context, a map of the Isles pops into your mind - a vague, hazy memory. You can’t make out the specific shapes or names of all of the Isles, but you remember that Snowdown is almost directly west of the River Chionthar.

 

 Why would they want anything to do with you? Why would they know anything at all?

 

“What do they mean? What truth ?” Barnabus asks.

 

If you don’t stay composed, you risk everything. You make a conscious effort to relax your shoulders, keep a straight face, and crumple the note in your hands. No paper is safe in your hands as of late. “I’m not sure what they think they know, but I have nothing to hide. In the interest of squashing false rumors… I suppose I’m obligated to go.”

 

Your stomach turns in knots. The relationship between Baldur’s Gate and Amn is often a tense one - going to an occupied isle alone is a terrible risk. Who else will watch Baldur’s Gate in your stead?

 

 It isn’t like you can send someone on your behalf - they would have to know the truth. There are only two people that know a version of the truth, and it’s doubtful that you’ll be able to send either of them. You recall Jaheira’s words. If she thought keeping the secret was going to create a larger threat, she wouldn’t keep it any longer. This might be enough to lose her allegiance. You doubt Astarion will help, and you don’t think you want him to. His motivations worry you, and you’d prefer to keep him far away from these issues if you can help it. Sending him in your place might end up with him starting a war.

 

“Not many ships are willing to go to the port of Snowdown anymore. The situation there has been… dire, from what I hear. You can’t go, My Lady.” He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. You’re gaining attention now. If what you say is true, it could just be a trap. They may have nothing to back this supposed threat up.”

 

You have to. It’s critical that you find out what they know. Although, if Amn already knows that Wyll isn’t present, the damage may already be done. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out - it hasn’t been a closely guarded secret. The only secret is the one that you carry - that he isn’t coming back. It’s anyones’ guess how much they know. If all they know is that he’s gone, it isn’t world-shattering news. If they know he isn’t coming back, or if he’s been seen with Karlach - that’s worse.

 

Although the position of Councilor doesn’t hinge on Wyll’s relationship with you - it wouldn’t be nullified if anyone found out - it would harm the confidence in you.

 

“I have to think. I’ll bring it up to the Council later today.” You shove the crumpled note into the pockets of your skirts. Despite the panic that is brewing, you maintain a calm exterior.

 

Barnabus frowns. “My Lady, you can’t seriously consider this.”

 

You’ve already considered it. You have to go. There is no alternative.

“You said before that it’s my responsibility to protect the Ravengards’ reputation. If that’s still true, then I must consider it. I have to protect Wyll, and I have to protect the city.” To a lesser degree, you also have to protect yourself. It has the potential to become a major scandal, and you’re filled with anxiety. “You shouldn’t underestimate me. Everyone else might have forgotten that I’m a hero of the city - but I expected more from you.”

 

His mouth forms into a line, he knows he can’t argue with you on that. “Very well,” he sighs and gives a curt bow. “I’m terribly sorry for barging in on you. I’ll see myself out.”

                                           

---

 

 

You allow Barnabus to drive you today so that you can arrive looking as fresh as possible and not exhaust yourself on the usual walking route. There’s a sneaking suspicion that this meeting might run late after what you have to share with them. On the way over you try to think of the best way to break it to them without giving them all of the details. It’s likely they won’t be happy with your planned absence, however temporary it might be.

 

“I have urgent news,” you say as you enter the meeting room at Wyrm’s Rock. 

 

The conversation in the room stops, and three disapproving heads snap to you. Florrick scowls at your entrance, “ Yes ?” 

 

If she liked you for a moment at your speech, it’s over now and things have returned to normal. You ignore her and don’t let her fluster you, striding to the table and taking your seat at the head of the table. If you don’t look at her, it’s easier.

“What is it?” Portyr asks impatiently. He raises a single eyebrow.

 

“ We have news too,” Florrick says as if she didn’t hear Portyr at all. “But by all means, you speak first.”

 

Some of the confidence has been knocked from you as you realize your misstep and backtrack. “No. Never mind - you first. I barged in.” You’re slightly embarrassed - you’d done the same to them as Barnabus had done to you earlier in the day. On the way over, you had one thought and one thought only, and it burst out of you in the end without thinking it through. Tasteless.

 

“We’ve been reviewing the codes,” Portyr says, patting a heavy book on the table in front of him. “For a long time, things have run smoothly - but they’ve also run the same. It was easy to forget, in a time when things were easier.”

 

You feel your throat closing as you start to shrink down in your chair.

 

“Ravengard operated as the head of the Council for quite some time, due to his popularity. But according to the laws and codes of Baldur’s Gate - we are within our rights at any time to vote on a new head of the Council.”

 

“Let me guess,” you say, your voice dry. “You’ve voted to remove me.” You go to reach for the cup of water usually prepared at your seat, but this time you’ve been forgotten and your hand finds nothing.

 

“Voted to remove Wyll ,” Florrick corrects. “With a three to one vote, Portyr is the new head of the Council. He has taken on the role himself before, prior to relinquishing it to Ulder in his age.”

 

Your hands form fists in your lap, your fingernails digging into your palms. “You can’t,” you protest. “Wyll isn’t here - you don’t have to like me, but don’t take it out on him. That isn’t fair.”

 

“ Exactly . He isn’t here. His reinstatement will be reconsidered when he returns. For now, his position on the Council itself remains. You should be relieved - it should be a burden off of your shoulders.” 

 

You stand from the table, ready to leave in as much of a hurry as you entered. “You can’t. I have the power to veto,” you stammer, voice raising. “You’ll have to appeal it with the courts.”

 

Florrick stands to match you from across the table. “No. This is the one thing you can’t do anything about. It’s written in the code.” She flips open to a bookmarked page, turning it towards you and pointing at a highlighted section. “A failsafe, in case someone decided to abuse the power and undermine the intention of the Council existing in the first place.”

 

“Is that what you’re accusing me of? I haven’t done anything of the sort!” Your jaw tightens, as your teeth grind together. 

 

Portyr shakes his head. “You aren’t being accused of anything at all. Wyll has been an absent leader, and the Council should reflect that. It really should have been done months ago. A proxy is only a temporary solution - and really this position should never make it to one. It should be transferred to an existing member.”

“It’s never been an issue before. But we’re working to correct it. now.”

 

How convenient that they would do this now, as you started to gain support of the people. They see you as a threat now, rather than an incompetent fool. You misbehaved and went off of their script, earned a small sprig of support, and now they’re afraid of what else you might be capable of.

 

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind that I’ll be taking a brief trip out of town.” It doesn't matter how the news is shared now. You glare at each of them, scanning your eyes around the table.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You still have responsibilities,” Florrick barks at you. “You can’t abandon our people just because things don’t go your way. That’s the behavior of a petulant child.”

 

“I’m going because I won’t be abandoning them. Something of critical importance came up. I don’t plan on being gone for more than a few weeks, at most. It seems that you’ll manage without me.” You start towards the door.

 

“You can’t do this!”

 

You whip around. “I haven’t gone anywhere of my own choosing in over a year. When was the last time any of you took a vacation?” You already know the answer. All of them in the past year have traveled somewhere - Portyr was gone for an entire month at one point. If all goes according to plan, you won’t be gone that long.

 

“I might have been more willing to discuss it if you weren’t all so keen to backstab me. But now? Screw the whole lot of you.”

 

“Where are you going that’s so urgent?” Portyr asks. His voice isn’t as shrill or demanding as Florrick’s - there is concern tucked within it.

 

“I thought you’d be eager to get rid of me, the way you treat me. don’t think it’s your business.” It isn’t like any of them really listen to what you have to say. You close the door behind you and don’t look at anyone as you flee Wyrm’s Rock Fortress.

 

Barnabus is surprised to see you back, startled awake from where he naps in the driver’s seat of the carriage. “My Lady,” he says groggily, rubbing his eyes and trying to pretend as if he wasn’t asleep. “You’re back so soon. Is it really over already?”

 

You shake your head. “It’s over for me .”

“What happened?” He jumps from his seat and goes to open the door for you, his brows knitting together in concern.

 

“Respectfully, I don’t want to talk about it.” You step into the carriage, thankful that he drops it and closes the door. Soon the horses begin to move, and you’re on your way home.

 

You stare out of the window as the cart is pulled through the downtown streets of the lower city, and you notice an alarming number of people standing in the roads selling copies of Baldur’s Mouth . More than usual - and people are huddled around them in large groups. It only ever happens when there is a particularly spicy headline at play. Otherwise, most people write off the paper as little more than an outlandish tabloid.

 

When you squint, you can just catch a glimpse of the headline.

 

Where’s Wyll?: Is our Hero Gone for Good?

 

It’s meaningless speculation - you know that’s the most likely scenario. Everyone must be wondering about it by now. It’s a miracle that you’ve avoided it this long. But something is eating at you as you see the headline repeated over and over again - it’s even posted on the sides of some walls and buildings. Someone has to be behind it. Is it a coordinated smear campaign in an attempt to blacken his name?

 

You stick your head out of the window and call up to get Barnabus’ attention. “Barnabus!” 

He doesn’t hear you right away over the sound of the wheels against the cobblestone, and you have to try a few times, extending your body precariously from out of the side of the moving carriage. Eventually, you get him to turn after nearly losing your hips and falling out. “Take me to the Crimson Palace.”

 

“What?!” He cries, too loud, looking over his shoulder. The cart swerves hard to the left. “Why would you want to go there?”

 

                                             

---

 

 

As you start to pick up more people affected by the mindflayer tadpoles in their skull, you notice yourself becoming a sort of leader as they always seem to look for your guidance. You don’t know how or when it happens, but all of the group’s decisions start to fall on your shoulders. Of course you talk it through with them, but at the end of the day you become the de facto spokesperson. Perhaps it’s because you’re the most mentally sound, or perhaps it’s for some other reason - you don’t know. You’ve never considered yourself much of a leader.

 

Even strangers seem to sense it. You are the one who is most frequently addressed in your travels, and you often initiate conversation while your companions hold back and hang off of your every word. Sometimes they argue a decision later, but rarely do they speak out against you in front of anyone. It feels wrong for you to hold so much of the power when there are several, more capable individuals that join your group. You often look to Gale or Wyll for guidance, but still they leave it to you. Just once you wish someone else would take charge. It’s fortunate that all of your endeavors are successful under your leadership, but you dread the day they aren’t.

 

“I knew I’d be the first to find you - seems Shadowheart’s going to owe me some gold.”

 

You turn around and look over your shoulder - you hadn’t heard Astarion coming. The rogue is unnervingly light on his feet. After everyone fell asleep you came out to the edge of the riverbank to think. Baldur’s Gate is a shadowy silhouette in the distance - you should reach it by late tomorrow night if you push. “You’re all looking for me…?”

 

“Well, I insisted on going back to sleep but unfortunately your boyfriend was concerned about you and he wasn’t about to let it go.”

 

“Oh. I’m sorry. I was having trouble sleeping - I took a walk. You can go back and tell them that I’m alright.” You shoo him away with a hand before hugging your knees to your chest. You don’t know why they worry about you - you’ve proven that you’re capable of handling yourself on your own.

 

“Wait. You made a bet on me?” You ask in annoyance.

 

He laughs. “Of course. I knew I could find you after all, I could smell you from at least a thousand yards away. I mean- not like that,” his expression grows serious as he tries to correct himself. “Your blood. I can smell your blood.”

 

You ignore him.

 

He takes it as an invitation and comes to sit beside you. “A copper for your thoughts?”

 

You scoot away. The night reminds you of several others where Astarion took your blood, when you had to sneak off into the woods because some of your companions wouldn’t sleep. You wonder if he thinks of it too. He won’t be getting your blood again - it’s an action far too intimate, and things have been moving along with Wyll lately.

 

In your extended silence, you hear all of the sounds of the night. Astarion picks up a flat rock and turns it over in his hand before skipping it across the surface of the river, where it eventually sinks to the bottom.

“Go back, Astarion.” 

 

“What happened between us?” He asks. “You hardly speak to me anymore since you’ve started dancing tongues with the prince.”

 

“He isn’t a prince,” you snap. “And nothing happened. It would give the others the wrong impression if you were caught drinking my blood.”

 

As it is, the scars on your neck haven’t yet faded. You’ve been very conscious of your neckline lately, only wearing shirts with high necks. It’s a blessing that Wyll insists on waiting to sleep with you until marriage, because you don’t think you could live down explaining it - even if it did mostly happen before you were together. There’s something undeniably sexual about blood drinking.

 

“Have I asked for your blood?” He looks offended. “No. But it isn’t a reason to avoid me entirely.”

 

“I’m not avoiding you. I’ve still done everything else I can to help you. I helped you decipher the scars on your back through that annoying little deal with Raphael. And, I promised you the first thing that we’d do when we get to Baldur’s Gate is take care of that bastard Cazador, didn’t I?”

 

“I thought that we were beginning to become friends before all of that, is all. You treated me better than any of our other comrades. And then-”

 

You sigh and stand up. “We are all people brought together under terrible circumstances. Look around at us. Do you think any of us would be friends if we met one another in a bar? No. We never would have even looked at one another. We only function together out of necessity. I’m helping you because it’s the right thing to do. Goodnight, Astarion.” 

 

“Wait-” he stands up next to you and grabs your forearm.

 

“Am I interrupting something?” A new voice.

 

You both turn to see Wyll coming through the trees, and Astarion immediately drops your arm as if he’s been caught doing something nefarious.

 

“No. Astarion just told me that you were all looking for me.” You take a few steps towards Wyll, leaving Astarion by the river.

 

“Why did you disappear?” Wyll asks, sauntering over to you and pulling you into a hug. “I was worried sick. You can’t just vanish in the middle of the night like that.”

 

“Sorry,” you lean your head against his chest. You can hear the frantic pounding of his heart through his clothing - he hadn’t bothered to put on any armor at this hour of the night. “I just needed some time to think.”

 

“At least have the sense to tell someone next time,” he scolds, knitting his fingers through your hair and pressing his lips to your forehead. “I don’t want to have to think that something terrible has happened to you when I wake up to an empty tent.”

 

Astarion groans. “Ugh. Break it up, would you? You’re both like a disgustingly saccharine romance novel written for lonely spinsters.”

                                                   

---

 

 

Barnabus follows your order and pulls the cart into the driveway of the Crimson Palace. Hopefully he won’t leave this time and fall asleep at home again. He opens the carriage door for you, and you’re already waiting to spring from it like a caged animal. He stumbles backwards when he sees you popping from the frame so quickly.

 

“My Lady, Lord Ancunin will not be expecting you, it’s rude to-”

 

You think about all of the times he’s come to get you after allowing guests to call unannounced, and his admonishment feels incredibly hypocritical. “Don’t go far, please,” you say, rushing past him and up to the front door. He’ll give you hell for this later.

 

A mortal, human servant opens the door before you’re even able to think about knocking on it, and you stop in your tracks still several paces back. It’s as if the butler has nothing to do all day aside from stand at the window and greet unexpected guests. You hope it’s just a lucky coincidence and that Astarion doesn’t actually leave a servant on standby all day. The butler gives you a brief bow after looking you over.

 

“Welcome, Grand Duke.”

 

You stave off making a face. Not exactly a Grand Duke anymore in the same sense of the term, but oh well. You’re surprised he recognizes you. “Is Astarion available?” You ask impatiently, forgetting that it might have been more polite to address him as Lord Ancunin with his staff.

 

The butler considers it for a moment. “While Lord Ancunin does not typically see uninvited guests, I believe he’ll make an exception for you. Come in,” he opens the door entirely and allows you to pass.

 

He leads you to that same sitting room again, the solarium. It manages to impress you every time, day or night.

 

“Please make yourself comfortable. I will send for refreshments and see if I can fetch the master for you.” The butler bows to you again before disappearing back down the hallway.

 

You wander the perimeter of the glass room in your solitude, admiring the plants and statues that make it feel like a greenhouse as well as a parlor. There are many rare and difficult to maintain blooms kept in large, lacquered pots that don’t have a single hole or browning petal. Each one is painfully perfect, as if the servants go through daily and prune for even the smallest of impurities.

 

Refreshments arrive before the vampire. You’re offered a large tray to select from, similar to what he had prepared last time. You go for the fruit first, which is just as perfect and ripe as the plants. Every item on the tray is without flaws. The grapes are perfectly egg shaped, uniform in shape and size, free of any divots, spots, or mushy spots. The crackers are perfect squares that haven’t crumbled, and the cheese is cut cleanly with every slice the same thickness. You don’t let yourself get greedy with what is offered to you, but it dwindles as you slowly pick from it while you wait. 

 

Astarion doesn’t appear for almost an hour, at which point you’ve made it through a little over half of the tray, two glasses of wine, and a glass of water in between.

 

“My sincerest apologies for making you wait.” His voice sounds sincere, but his smile tells you that he’s intrigued to see you, at the very least. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors today.”

 

“I realize. I was warned that that’s in poor etiquette.”

 

“On the contrary, darling. I’m honored that you would seek to pay me a visit of your own accord. Few are brave enough to grace my doorstep willingly. Most are dragged.”

 

You realize that you can’t tell if his words are laced with sarcasm or not, and you don’t know how to respond. Fortunately he doesn’t leave you to consider it for long.

 

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence?” He drapes himself across one of the couches, his arms up over the back of the seat and one leg kicked over the other.

 

Suddenly, now that you’re here, you don’t know how to approach the conversation. Why was your first instinct to come here at all?

 

“You said before… that you wanted to help me,” you say carefully. “Is that still true?”

 

He raises an eyebrow.  “That depends. Have you decided that I’m not your enemy?”

 

“The Council demoted me today,” you say, an unfamiliar rage tugging in your heart. You ignore his question - that still remains to be seen.

 

Astarion smiles. “They see you as a threat, then.”

 

“I’m tired of it all, Astarion. I don’t want to take it from them anymore. I was put in this shitty position in the first place, and yet the entire time they treat me like the burden. As if it’s my fault Wyll left.”

 

“You’re angry,” he nods. “It took you long enough.”

 

“How do I fix it?” You say desperately, as if he has the answers. “I thought you said they couldn’t do anything about it.”

 

“They can’t do anything about removing your position as councilor - that I’m certain of. As for this, you’ll have to give me some time to dig through the law books. But in the meantime, don't worry your pretty little head. I think that you’ll find your reputation is growing quite favorably, whether the others like it or not.”

 

His unyielding smile concerns you. “Wyll’s reputation, and the reputation of the other councilors, on the other hand…”

 

Your breath catches. “Astarion. What did you do?”

 

He shrugs nonchalantly and pours himself a glass of what might be blood mixed with wine. “I merely got ahead of the game, is all. It turns out I have quite the talent for deception.”

 

“But what did you do ?” Your voice betrays your panic.

 

“Nothing major . Not yet. Relax. All I did was stir the pot a bit. Spice up the scene with some tantalizing gossip and slander.” He sips from his glass. “It was easy, given how long Wyll’s absence has been. Now I’ll weave some stories about the other councilors for you - I hear all sorts of heinous things from the other nobility. I’m sure I can scrounge up something. No one is perfect. Except, of course, you, as far as the people of Baldur’s Gate are concerned.”

 

“What’s your plan here? Although it’s all well and good to play these games within the city walls - there are people outside of the city eyeing the potential power vacuum now. Sowing discord will leave us vulnerable.”

 

“Let them. There won’t be a vacuum. When all is said and done you’ll be squarely in charge.”

 

“And what do you get out of this?” You don’t believe that he just wants to pay you back for helping him with Cazador.

 

“ Easy . A powerful ally. We can look out for one another. Help each other.”

 

This might be a very bad idea, but you find you hardly care. The Council of Four has been a beacon in the dark times of Baldur’s Gate, at least recently. It has been remarkably free of corruption. It won’t be easy to turn the populace against them entirely, even if their approval is at a historic low.

 

“You have to be careful what rumors you start.” You think of the papers that are currently flooding the streets, remarking on whether Wyll will ever return. “News doesn’t travel slowly. If foreign powers sense our weakness, we could be put in a difficult position.”

 

You think of the note in your pocket, a ticking time bomb.

 

“I don’t disagree. It will take time to win allegiances - possibly months. Maybe years if we’re unlucky.”

 

“So maybe the best rumor to start wasn’t asking whether or not Wyll would ever return?” You bring a hand to your forehead.

 

He laughs. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that wasn’t me then. It isn’t exactly shocking that people would be asking questions by now. Perhaps rather than refusing to speak about him, you might start lying. Say that you’ve heard from him. Make up some elaborate story of him fighting in the hells. Just hearing that he’s alive will help some of it.”

 

“I’m assuming you have a plan of some kind, if you’ve already pushed it into motion.”

 

He does, and it gets complicated quickly. “Of course, darling. The public needs to believe that Wyll is alive and well, although they might hear some nasty whispered rumors of his character through the grapevine. Meanwhile I launch a full assault on the approval ratings of the other councilors, while increasing yours. Once you are replaced as the city’s beloved…I drop the bomb of my little Karlach rumor that worked so effectively on you.”

 

You wrestle down a lump in your throat. The plan could take months. Possibly longer.

 

“Imagine, the city’s new golden girl, heartbroken by the spurned ex-hero who knocked up her best friend after months away. The more convincing you can make your ‘communications’ with him, the better.”

“What if they don’t take my word for it? That I’ve heard from him.”

 

“Darling, please. You have an expert forger in your corner. Just call me Wyll, darling,” he smirks. “I’m certain I can master his hand if you can provide me with some things that he’s written. You can produce them for anyone who asks you to. You could even proactively share them, if you wished. Really create a story for Baldur's Mouth of two lovers, separated by planes. It will make the inevitable heartbreak bring all the more outrage to the people."

 

You can likely find what he needs somewhere on the Ravengard Estate.

 

“And what if he returns?” His letter sounded certain, but you can’t be sure. You don’t believe he’ll stay away forever.

 

“I’m certain we can come to a… solution . Do we have a deal?” Astarion holds out a hand to you, eager to seal the arrangement.

 

You hesitate. “There’s one more problem.” You take the crumpled paper from your pocket and put it in his outstretched hand.

 

It takes him a moment to process what you’ve handed him, but he opens it up and squints to try to make out the words that are distorted by the ridged paper. You swear that he pales even more than usual.

 

“Well.” He says with an exaggerated sigh before clearing his throat. “This certainly complicates things. Why didn't you lead with this?”

Chapter 7: Sea

Barnabus hovers, pretending to flit around and clean anything near you while he watches you pack your bags. Astarion has agreed (insisted?) to accompany you to Snowdown and confront the person who wrote the mysterious letter of blackmail. Despite your initial reluctance to work with him on this too, you are a bit glad not to be making the journey to the Isle of Snowdown alone. You haven’t left the estate since you arrived, and you keep backtracking, nervous that you’re forgetting something critical. All of your needs have been met for over a year now - your old adventuring pack is a tattered, foreign object made of canvas and leather sitting open on your bed. Most of your old items never made their way out of it in the first place.

 

You feel a bit like yourself again in your old adventuring clothes. You don’t remember the texture of them being quite so horrible and scratchy before, and you don’t remember the seams pulling apart in spots - but those things would not have been worth noticing with the tadpole in your mind. When you first came to Ravengard Estate, they had been washed and then left balled up inside your adventuring backpack, a memento of your time on the road.

 

“My Lady… this is incredibly risky,” Barnabus says disapprovingly. He’s been keeping an eye on you, but remarkably silent until you begin buckling your bags shut. “You’re walking into enemy territory, and even the Council doesn’t know-”

 

“Fuck the Council,” you snap, trying to ignore the way he flinches at the curse. “I have to make sure that this matter is resolved. They don’t need a reason to be right about their reservations with me. Rumor or not - they don’t like me enough to defend me.” You hadn’t had the chance to tell them where you were going - it’s for the best. If you had been able to share the news with them - you can’t imagine that the meeting would have ended any better than it did.

 

“Please forgive me for saying so, My Lady, but I don’t believe that you’re in a right state of mind. This sort of erratic and explosive behavior is rather unlike you.”

 

You’ve been mostly quiet, demure, perfect. Safeguarding the Ravengard reputation and hiding your hurt. It hasn’t done you any good - there’s no point in continuing with it. Playing nice has gotten you nowhere.

“You should get used to it,” you sigh, throwing the backpack over your shoulder. “I’ve been trying very hard to play the part of a proper lady - but I’m not.”

 

“Who is going to manage the estate while you’re gone?” He protests.

 

“I’ve hardly done anything - you and Gretta seem to have it figured out well enough. I’m hoping to be back within two weeks.”

 

They’ll need to get used to it sooner or later - when this is all over… you’ve decided you won’t stay at the estate. If you manage to secure the power, you won’t further insult the Ravengard’s by overtaking their home. For you to stay, you’d have to purge all of their personal family possessions, but that feels somehow heinous when both of Wyll’s parents are dead.

 

As anxious as you are about the threatening letter, you are also filled with a hint of excitement at the idea of traveling again and getting out of Baldur’s Gate and the estate. Often, the manor feels stifling under the eyes of the past generations of Ravengards. Once you had looked up to the paintings, hoping to live up to their reputation and expectations. Once you had whispered silent prayers to his ancestors, asking them to see him home safely through Avernus.

 

 Extended fresh air will be good for you. Being on a ship for several days is less exciting, but a necessary evil.

 

“They say that Snowdown is dangerous.” Barnabus speaks more quickly as he follows you down the hallway. “That the residents are poor and desperate under Amn’s installed leadership. They say that ships are ransacked almost as soon as they arrive.”

 

“Who have you been talking to?” Good grief. You roll your eyes, thankful he can’t see it as you quicken your pace. “We won’t have anything valuable on the ship to ransack. I’m sure the ship Lord Ancunin chartered will be a subtle one. And in any case - you really should remember that I’m no stranger to battle.”

 

He sighs, running out of excuses. “It won’t look good for you to leave with Lord Astarion on a ship.”

 

“Who is there to see?” You ask. “It’s the middle of the night. And it isn’t like we’re going alone.” A few of your companions are coming along as… insurance. They haven’t been provided with all of the details, of course, but Astarion insisted on having backup. He too is aware of the potential dangers of Snowdown.

 

“Waaaait!” Gretta wails, her short legs hustling down the hall towards you. She’s carrying a very full looking messenger back that she extends to you.

 

“What’s this?” You ask, surprised at the weight of it.

 

“Fresh fruit and vegetables,” she says breathily. “And several potions of nutrition for when those run out. They say the sea can bring all sorts of ailments.”

 

“It won’t be a long journey,” you reassure. “But thank you.”

“The open ocean can be unforgiving,” Barnabus says gravely. “It’s better to over prepare. You could be stuck for days without a breeze - or encounter a storm.”

 

You nod, feeling slight annoyance at his excessive concern. Barnabus and Gretta fret over you like two worried parents. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll be with several very capable individuals.”

 

“What do I say if someone comes to seek you?”

 

You wave a hand. “Anything. Say I’ve gone to visit family.”

 

He gives you a short bow at the door, with sad eyes that haunt you for hours afterwards. “Very well, My Lady. Please take care of yourself.”

 

                           

                                                 

---

 

 

The ship is not as subtle as you hope, but maybe as subtle as you expect - it’s quite a large vessel, which isn’t a good thing. It is not a boat for stealth. It sits in the harbor like a huge shadowy monster, lying in wait to break free of its chains. It’s well maintained with multiple masts and large, crisp white sails that flutter like butterfly wings at the push of the wind. There are all sorts of intricately carved patterns up and down the sides, along the top deck and around the portholes. Someone on the sea could mistake you for merchants, which would put a target on your back.

 

“You couldn’t have picked anything more… discreet?” You ask, looking up at the ship. Standing right next to the gangplank that extends out to the dock, it’s even bigger than it looked from afar.

 

It seems that you went over your bags one too many times - because you’re the last of your companions to arrive. Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Gale, and Jaheira all stand on the docks.

 

Astarion huffs. “It’s one of the finest rides I could acquire - I had to pay quite a hefty sum for the fare, you know. There aren’t many captains willing to make the route to Snowdown. And I’m not about to spend several days on some tiny rowboat.”

 

“Thank the gods for that,” Shadowheart concurs.

 

But Barnabus’ words echo in your mind. If his sources are to be believed, then the ship will earn you quite the... welcoming committee. For now, you don’t say anything - you’re worried that if any of the crew hear, they’ll change their mind about making the trip.

 

The Captain introduces himself as Phineas Boone shaking hands with each of you as you board. The human man is approximately in his forties, with a potbelly, a twisting red beard, and eyes the same color as the waves that rock beneath you. The glint with special gratitude as he shakes Astarion’s hand with a bit more vigor - the person who finances him.

 

You haven’t been on many ships before, but as you board through a door in the lower deck, you realize just how atypical this ship is. Someone has decorated it like the inside of a manor - with a carpet running down the center, magic lanterns hanging on either side of the wall, and the occasional painting. Astarion wasn’t kidding. The ship was built for fashion as well as function.

 

Boone gestures down the hall. “There are three bedrooms for you - each has two beds. Make yourselves comfortable. Feel free to come up on deck, but stay out of the crew’s way.”

 

When he’s gone, the six of you exchange glances. No one moves. There is the unspoken question of who will be sharing a room with who. You don’t know exactly how intimate Shadowheart and Lae’zel have gotten.

 

“Well.” Gale is the first to speak, clasping his hands together with a clap. “Jaheira, shall we?” He puts his hand on the knob of the closest door. He knows that Lae’zel and Shadowheart will want to be together - and he doesn’t want to be with Astarion. She nods and follows him. There’s no more conversation about it, though you want to suggest that it’s better if the men sleep together. 

 

That would leave you with Jaheira though, who still doesn’t trust you - so you allow it to happen.

 

It’s the middle of the night - it doesn’t seem like anyone has slept. Astarion says nothing and heads to the room farthest down the hall, leaving you with Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Daring you to figure it all out on your own.

 

“Will you be okay?” Shadowheart asks with a lowered voice. She puts her hand on your shoulder. “You can always stay with us - I’ll stay on the floor.” 

 

It confirms what you knew - that there was never a question of the two of them staying together.

 

“No,” Lae’zel shakes her head. “I will take the floor.”

 

You glance at the door that Astarion disappeared behind, and then back to the budding couple. Even with your tentative alliance, you’re leery of spending the night in the same room as the vampire. But you also don’t want to get in the way of the potential romance between your friends. Lae’zel has been gone for quite some time - they deserve the alone time.

 

“I’ll be fine,” you say with a weak smile. “Just keep an ear out. I’m not looking to lose my blood tonight.”

 

“Just give a shout if you need us.” Shadowheart gives you an apologetic look before disappearing into the middle room with Lae’zel.

 

You don’t hurry to enter the room where Astarion waits.

 

It’s darker than the hallway, with two small beds on either side of the room. It resembles a small room at an Inn, with a single window directly across from the doorway. In the dark of the night, you can’t see anything out of it on the cloudy night. Astarion has already kicked himself up on top of the oatmeal-colored blanket, with nothing to stare at but you once you’ve entered. You ignore his gaze and sit on the other bed, untying your boots. You don’t realize how tired you are until you’ve sat down. The thin mattress on the bed leaves much to be desired.

 

After your shoes are off, you rummage through your bag and hand a piece of paper to Astarion. “Here. I took it from Wyll’s room. For the forgeries, later - if we get that far.”

 

He smiles and takes it. “Excellent.”

 

You nod and climb into your bed, staring at the ceiling. The movement of the ship on the waves is surprisingly relaxing. You would be more comfortable sleeping on your side - but you don’t want to turn towards him, and you also don’t want to put your back to him.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says with a laugh, as if he’s read your thoughts. “Just go to sleep. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. The vampire will refrain from doing so.”

 

He’s trying to be funny, but a shiver creeps down your spine, and you have no response for him. Sleep is more reluctant to come than you thought, knowing he’s nearby- but eventually you fake it for long enough that the real sleep takes over.

 

                                               

---

 

 

“No Wyll tonight?” Astarion approaches where you’ve set up your tent and bedroll, hands shoved in his pockets. You’re camping just outside of the Last Light Inn - they’re too full of guests to accommodate your party inside.

 

“Hm?” You acknowledge, looking up from your book. Your eyes glance around the camp. Wyll had disappeared about an hour ago. “Oh… I guess not, no.” You shrug. “I think he went with Karlach to speak with Dammon. He thinks he found a bit of infernal iron.”

 

“Lucky for Karlach.”

 

You shake your head. “I’m not sure it was - but I didn’t want to crush their hope.”

 

“Wyll is certainly invested in Karlach’s heart lately, isn’t he?”

 

You glare at him, offended by his implication. “Of course he is. We all are.”

 

“And yet… he’s the only one that went to see Dammon with her.”

 

You feel yourself getting flustered. “It’s the middle of the gods’ damned night. I don’t think what he found is infernal iron, and Dammon is probably asleep anyway.” You try to go back to reading your book again. “Go bother someone else,” you mutter.

 

He shrugs. “I just wanted to thank you for what you said today. To the drow.”

 

Araj. The drow spoke to you as if you owned him somehow. As if you could talk him into giving up part of himself to bite her.

 

“Oh, that? Don’t mention it,” you say quickly. “She was awful.”

 

“No one has ever done that for me before. I appreciate it.”

 

“You’re your own person Astarion. You get to make your own decisions now.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

It might be the first genuine thing that he's said to you yet. It's vulnerable, honest.

 

                                       

---

When you wake up again, sunlight is streaming through the window, reflecting off of the gentle waves. Immediately you check to make sure that your neck is intact, and then you glance over at Astarion’s empty, made, bed. As you sit up, you knock something to the floor - an envelope. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you reach down to pick it up, inspecting it curiously. It has your name on the front - scrawled in a hand that makes your heart seize. Wyll. There’s a letter inside.

My love,

 

As I pen these words amidst the fiery chaos that surrounds me, my heart aches with the weight of longing for you. The flames of war rage on, consuming everything in their path, yet amidst this inferno, it is your absence that burns the brightest in my soul.

 

Months have passed since I last held you in my arms, since I last felt the gentle touch of your hand against mine. In this realm of fire and destruction, where the very air is choked with smoke and ash, it is your memory alone that sustains me.

 

I close my eyes, and I can still see the beauty of your face, radiant as the sun on a summer's day. In the midst of battle, it is your voice that I hear, a soothing melody that calms the tumult of my heart. Oh, how I miss the simple joys of our days together, the melodic sound of your voice now a distant dream.

 

Though I am surrounded by darkness, know that you are the light that guides me through the shadows. In the quiet moments of respite amidst the chaos, I find myself reaching for you, only to grasp at the empty air. I yearn for the warmth of your embrace, for the solace of your presence in this desolate realm. Even in the midst of despair, I hold onto the hope that one day soon, I will return to you. I will brave the fires of hell itself to be by your side once more, to vow my love to you anew.

 

Until that day comes, know that you are ever in my thoughts and in my heart. I will carry the memory of our love like a shield against the darkness, a flame that burns eternal amidst the chaos of Avernus. I swear I will do my best to be home soon.

 

With all the love that beats within me,

 

Wyll

You almost can’t finish the letter, as your eyes start to blur up and your throat catches. A single tear falls from your face first, smudging the ink. Then they flow freely, and you hold the paper far from your face. You know that the words don’t belong to Wyll. You know that it’s a lie penned by Astarion. But you can’t help but think back to the letter you actually received from Wyll. This is what you had expected to open to. This letter was supposed to be reality.

 

Astarion opens the door and you hurriedly wipe your face with your sleeve. He’s observant enough to realize, but to your relief doesn’t comment on your sniffles. He looks as though he’s been up for quite a while - maybe he never slept, if he had the time to write something like that.

 

He notes the letter in your hand. “Did I do a good job?”

 

You stare at him.

 

“What I mean to say is, does it look to be written from him?”

 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Probably a little flowery for him, but the penmanship is…perfect.”

 

He laughs. “Of course it is. I told you - I’m an expert at forgery. I’ll do my best to dumb the next one down a bit. Do keep track of that one though - you’ll want to build a cache of them. When we return to Baldur’s Gate, we’ll release a tidbit to Baldur’s Mouth .”

 

You can hardly stomach the thought of sharing any of this with the paper - even if the letter is a sham.

 

Prying your eyes away from the page feels like an impossible task. Over and over you have to repeat to yourself that it wasn’t Wyll who wrote this, and yet the very sight of the words evokes his face. Astarion captured every little quirk of his writing. You fold it and slip it back in the envelope before putting it inside of your bag out of sight. Your hands are shaking.

 

“The others are having lunch on the next deck up - the Captain was kind enough to extend his crew’s meals to us.”

 

You wordlessly stand up to follow him after putting your shoes back on and adjusting your clothes. You can’t believe it’s already lunchtime - how had you slept so long?

 

“You’ve been terribly quiet since last night,” Astarion comments. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

 

“No.” Your eyes are fixed on his back as you walk just behind him, wondering how he could write something like that so effortlessly, as if he truly was a man in love himself. Astarion is a master manipulator - you have to remember that.

 

He insists that he wants to help you, but there may still be more to his game than he’s letting on. He admitted to seeking power for himself and that he thought you could help him,  but can you take even that at face value? Vampires are power hungry. What happens when he sees the very power he helps you get as a threat?

 

Again it seems as if he can read your thoughts, and he turns around and smiles at you. “Good.”

 

The rest of your companions sit at a table on the next deck, each one sitting in a mismatched chair. At the center of the table is a cloudy pewter platter, with a few soggy looking sandwiches sitting on top. Your friends have mostly finished, by the looks of it.

 

“Sandwiches,” you say unenthusiastically, picking one up and inspecting the contents between the bread. There are a few soggy vegetables inside, wet with some sort of dressing or condiment. There seems to be a scrap of cheese and some sort of meat inside.

 

“Well, we just left town last night - it’s best to use the most perishable items first.” Gale can’t say anything without showing off his boundless knowledge.

 

You wrinkle your nose at it, relieved that the crewmember responsible for it isn’t still hanging around. It could have fooled you - the ingredients already look several days old. You place it back down on the platter, your appetite extinguished. You’ll take a look at what Gretta packed for you when you go back to the room next, but for now you sit down.

 

“It is not as bad as it looks,” Jaheira says. The incredulous look from Shadowheart tells you all you need to know. Her eyes tell you that it’s worse than it looks.

 

“I think I’ll pass for now,” you say. It isn’t like you to be picky, but maybe the sea has soured your stomach more than you realized. You think of all the terrible things you ate on your journey to Baldur’s Gate. Fish heads, spoiled food pilfered from barrels… once you had no standards. You become more open-minded, the hungrier you get.

 

“I wouldn’t hold out hope for the next meal being any better,” Shadowheart says. 

 

“You still have not told us what you’re seeking in Snowdown,” Gale says to Astarion. There is a suspicious tone to his voice. “You do realize that it’s currently annexed by Amn? Last I heard, the Isle is in shambles.”

 

“I was invited to Caer Westphal,” you say, but decide to withhold the entire truth. “I don’t know why - I assume for diplomatic reasons.”

 

“It seemed wise, given the current state of the Isle, to bring a suitable team,” Astarion adds.

 

“Might I ask when you got so involved, Astarion?” Jaheira raises an eyebrow.

 

“I asked for his help,” you say quickly. “I asked him first because I knew he could help me find transport.”

 

You get the feeling that Jaheira doesn’t believe you. The distrust practically oozes from every pore on her skin.

 

“There are rumors that the keeper of Caer Westphal is a vampire,” Astarion says with a smirk. “Who better to bring along?”

 

Jaheira bristles. You try to hide the shock from showing on your face, unsure if he has left out a key piece of information, or if he’s just lying to make it sound more plausible. You bore holes into him with your eyes, begging him to look back at you and give you an unspoken answer, but he doesn’t.

 

“There are rumors that every evil, reclusive ruler is a vampire,” Shadowhear rolls her eyes.

 

“Many of them true,” Astarion quips. “It’s in their best interest if it’s played up like a silly rumor, don’t you think?”

 

Shadowheart is silent, pulling apart the crust of her sandwich with her fingers.

 

“The rumor rings bells in my memory,” Gale says after a few moments. “Erliza Daressin, correct?”

 

The letter had been signed with those initials - there’s no doubt in your mind.

 

“Correct,” Astarion says. 

 

You hate him for not telling you this information immediately.

 

“We are going to Caer Westphal, which is under Amn’s control, to meet with a vampire noble,” Lae’zel shakes her head. “Tchk. I should have returned to the Astral Plane when I had the opportunity. My skills are of more use to my people.” The comment makes Shadowheart flinch.

 

“It could be a trap.”

 

“Then why go at all?” Lae’zel asks. “You owe them nothing.”

 

“It’s my job.” Maybe not any more. You haven’t told them of your demotion.

 

“She’s in a position of power now,” Shadowheart says gently to Lae’zel. “Relationships with other powers are important. Especially when Amn is involved.” Amn and Baldur’s Gate are not always on the best of terms.

 

 Lae’zel is not up to speed on all of the politics of Faerun. Even for you it can be difficult to keep track of.

 

“There’s a chance when we pull into port that our ship will be targeted by the locals,” you admit. “At least from what my servant heard.”

 

“Hopefully Erliza keeps that in mind when welcoming her guests,” Gale mutters thoughtfully.

 

You can’t help but notice the shift in everyone’s morale. What started cheerful enough had quickly devolved, you companions now glancing around awkwardly or slouching.

                                       

---

 

 

Up on the top deck, you don’t see any sight of land. The crew hangs around, some hard at work while others do a decent job of faking it. You suppose that right now there’s not much to be done. You lean over the rail and let the sea breeze kiss your skin, with nothing around for miles but the open sea.

 

“There you are.” Astarion leans on the railing next to you. Your shoulders twitch in surprise, and you slide away from him. He has a way of getting into your personal space.”I didn’t think it was possible for you to sneak away on a ship of all places.”

 

“I’m not trying to hide. I just needed some fresh air. How is it you always manage to find me exactly when I don’t want you to?”

 

He stretches and lifts his chin high, before closing his eyes and turning in a circle. “So self-centered. I’m just up here to enjoy the sun on my face.”

“I don’t believe you.” He shows up far too much for it to be coincidental.

 

“Alright, fine. You caught me. I have to keep a close eye on you - you’re crucial to my plan, after all.” He smirks in a duplicitous way. As if he’s trying to relax you into thinking he’s joking, while he really tells the truth. “You’re still so prickly. Here I was thinking we’d made a breakthrough together.”

 

You look over your shoulder to make sure no one is nearby. “Why didn’t you tell me about Erliza?”

 

“It didn’t seem important,” he says nonchalantly. Is he trying to anger you again?

 

“Not important? How is it not important that the person trying to blackmail me is a vampire?”

 

He thinks about that. “She might be a vampire,” he corrects.

 

You groan, digging your fingers into your hair. “ It’s in their best interest if they think it’s just a silly little rumor, ” you mock his words from earlier. “Gods, you are so frustrating.”

 

He smirks, propping his elbow up on the railing to hold up his chin. He enjoys your reactions, which makes you even more angry. “You’re always so cross with me, no matter what I do. I even went through the trouble of writing that lovely letter - spending several painstaking hours crafting the perfect words. Not even a thank you.”

 

Your face suddenly feels hot, and you turn away from him. “I’ll thank you when this is over and when I’m sure you haven’t betrayed me.”

 

And not a moment sooner.

 

“I’ll be eagerly awaiting at the edge of my seat for your explicit approval,” he says dramatically. “I suppose I should keep writing letters then - there isn’t much else to do on this ship. I’ll be back in our room if you need me.”

Chapter 8: Waves

My Dearest,

I sit amidst the infernal pandemonium of Avernus, my heart finds solace in thoughts of you, my guiding light in these darkest of times. The battlefield rages on, the clash of steel against demonic flesh echoing through the hellish landscape, yet in my mind, it is your gentle voice that I hear, whispering words of love and encouragement.

Each night, as the crimson sky of this accursed realm fades into the blackness of despair, I find myself drawn to memories of our time together - although that journey was its own sort of hell. The way your laughter danced on the wind, the warmth of your touch as we walked the long and arduous roads hand in hand—it is these moments that sustain me. They are my armor against the horrors that surround me.

We are no closer to finding a solution to fixing Karlach permanently, though she remains ever chipper about it. As much as she hates it here, I know she finds joy in the fight. But both of us miss the open sky over Baldur’s Gate - I swear I’ll never complain about an overcast day ever again. I would take an eternity of rain if it meant I could be home with you.

In the midst of battle, I often find myself reaching for the amulet you gave me before I left. Its familiar weight against my chest reminds me of the love we share, a love strong enough to defy the very depths of hell. I draw strength from it, knowing that no matter how dire the situation, you are with me in spirit. 

Oh, how I long for the day when this war is but a distant memory, and I can return to you, my beloved. I dream of holding you in my arms once more, of feeling your heartbeat against mine, and of losing myself in the depths of your eyes. I see your eyes every time I close my own.

Until that day comes, know that you are always in my thoughts, my heart beating for you alone. I fight not just for the cause we believe in, but for the promise of a future where we can be together again, where our love can flourish without fear or obstacle.

Stay strong, my dear, as I know you are. Know that I will return to you, no matter the trials that lie ahead. And when I do, I will hold you close and never let you go.

With all the love in my heart,

Wyll

***

The letter waits on your pillow when you return- this one has no envelope, and the ink is barely dry. You’ve discovered the ship is dreadfully boring when there are only a few places you can go. You only come back to the room when you’re desperate enough for one of the snacks that Gretta packed for you

“Amulet?” You raise an eyebrow. “You’re certainly taking creative liberties.”

Astarion is sprawled out on his bed, a thick book in his hands penned in a language you don’t recognize. “All in the name of creating a picturesque love that will leave our dear readers aching as though your relationship is their own.”

“I don’t know…” you put the letter down on the small table beside the bed. “I don’t know how I feel about presenting this… lie .” With Astarion present in the room, it’s easier to remember who penned it - to properly attribute it to him. “I thought we agreed on less flowery.” 

“Mmm, yes, but less flowery is also less dramatic .” 

Of course the world would never know how Wyll wrote to his lover - for all they know he’s a certified poet. 

“I think you should slow down. It’s sloppy.”

“Sloppy?” He cries, offended. “I’d argue it’s some of my best .”

“It’s too similar to the last one. It feels like you’re trying to improve on that one rather than write separate letters on separate topics at separate times.”

“Love letters can be terribly redundant things - have you never received one?”

“That’s not the point, and none of your business” you brush off the question as quickly as possible. Wyll had written you a few notes on the road, but nothing extravagant. There isn’t much to say on paper when you see one another every waking hour. “And I doubt anyone would be writing any to you, either.”

“True,” he muses. “Anyone who would have gotten close enough became a victim of Cazador. But I can say with certainty if they didn’t I would have entire drawers stuffed full of letters from admirers. I’m full of charm.”

“And full of shit,” you mutter under your breath.

“Always so negative.” He laughs. “I’m very good at playing the part of a romantic.”

You ignore him and dig through your bags, where you find a generous helping of apples, various citrus fruits, breads, crackers, and several other packages you don’t open right away. You take a perfect, unbruised apple and crunch into it.

“Hoarding all of the good food for yourself, I see.” An arm reaches around you and the apple is plucked from your hand and over your shoulder before you can blink. You hadn’t even heard him stand. Gods, his vampire stealth is unsettling.

You turn around to scold him just in time to watch him take a bite of the apple from the opposite side of it, his fangs slowly and deliberately piercing the skin of it. “Hey!” You cry indignantly, swiping at it.

He’s faster, and soon he pops away, reappearing standing on his bed, a sudden wave below knocking you off balance but leaving him unphased. “You don’t even need to eat.” You throw yourself at his bed, using the wall to step up onto it.

“No,” he agrees with a smile, before making a show of taking another bite. “But when you can’t eat for two hundred years… apples are a delicacy.”

 

You feel unstable standing atop the mattress as the suddenly turbulent waves swirl beneath the ship, and you cling to the wall as you reach for it again. He moves back just far enough that you lose your balance and start to fall, shouting in alarm as you brace yourself to fall to the floor below.

 

Of course the bastard catches you, his arm a sling around your waist as he lowers you safely down to the mattress. It isn’t meant for two, and you’re in a very compromising position.

 

“Sorry darling, but your sleight of hand is no match for mine,” he takes another bite right in front of your face as he supports himself above you with his other arm.

 

“I can’t believe you,” you spit, again trying to repossess your apple. But he stretches his hand above his head and locks the elbow, far out of your reach.

 

“I could say the same,” he smirks. “You’re terribly rude, aren’t you? Your manners are going to need work if you want the whole of Baldur’s Gate to love you. First you deny to partake in the food of your generous hosts, only to be discovered squirreling away food of your own? And you don’t even think to share ? I thought we were partners.”

 

You can feel his leg against yours - if anyone were to walk in now…

 

“Fine. Take it,” you say, giving up and trying to roll out from underneath him. “I’ll get another.”

 

He stops you in your tracks, trapping you further with his lower body, pinning your legs between his knees. “I’m only joking. Don’t look so serious.” He brings the red fruit back down and holds it just above your mouth. “Perhaps I should feed you? A debt repaid for feeding me all that time ago?”

“Shut up,” you groan, finally able to grab it from him. “Get off of me.”

 

He removes himself and allows you to stand. You polish the unbitten parts of the apple with your sleeve - he hadn’t taken as much as he’d made it appear. It’s impossible to look at him now, as you stand with your back turned to him, acutely aware of how loud the sound of your teeth in the apple are. You leave the room, still reeling with embarrassment.

 

The ship is reeling too - strange. You had seen nothing but clear skies on the top deck, but the waves are growing in intensity, and you stumble back and forth down the hallway in an almost drunken manner. Above you, you hear the shouting of the crew. Now your traveling companions poke their heads out, drawn to the sounds of the chaos above and below.

 

“What’s going on?” Shadowheart asks no one in particular.

 

No one is sure. A jolt of the ship knocks the apple from your hands, and it rolls away faster than you can chase it, careening down the hall and disappearing with a thud. So much for that, then.

 

“A storm, I suspect,” Gale says. “Likely nothing to worry over.”

Jaheira is already making her way to the ladder that ascends to the upper decks. 

“Wait - Jaheira!” Shadowheart protests. “Captain Boone said not to get in the way of the crew.”

 

Jaheira turns back and narrows her eyes. “In the way? When have you ever known me to be in the way?” She disappears upward. You are the first to follow, but again the floor kicks upward and you stumble backwards into whoever immediately trails you.

 

“Not so graceful today, are we?” Astarion taunts, hands gripping your shoulders to stabilize you before prodding you forward.

 

You resist the desire to offer him several choice words, and instead focus on ascending the ladder. You feel it creak as he steps on behind you.

 

“Don’t fall,” he says with a small lilt to his voice. “You wouldn’t want me to have to catch you again.”

 

You purposely drop a foot backwards towards his head, but he dodges it with a loud laugh, and you scramble up the remaining rungs.

 

On the top deck, The ship slices through the choppy waters, the once bright sky now darkening ominously overhead with thick gray storm clouds. The crew aboard the vessel move with urgency, their steps quick and purposeful as they prepare for the impending and sudden storm.

 

Under the duress of the wind, the canvas sails snap and strain against the rigging, the sound a cacophony of rolling groans and cracks of fast-billowing fabric. The ship pitches and rolls with the growing swells, sending spray crashing over the rails and drenching the crew where they stand. Not a drop of rain has fallen, and you wouldn’t know it by looking at the soggy sailors.

 

The captain stands tall at the helm, eyes fixed on the horizon where dark clouds loom like mountains of shadow. His voice booms over the tumult of wind and sea, barking orders to secure the ship.

 

"Batten down hatches!" he shouts, his voice cutting through the roar of the storm. "Secure the cargo!"

 

The crew scrambles to obey, their movements quick and efficient despite the rising panic that hangs heavy in the air. The ship creaks and groans in protest as the wind increases in intensity, threatening to tear the sails from their masts.

 

Captain Boone spies your group forming at the trapdoor to the lower deck. “Get back inside! Stay out of the way,” he orders, gripping a railing as the ship lurches. “It’s going to be a rough ride.”

 

How? There hadn’t been a cloud in sight earlier.

 

“As much as I hate taking orders,” Astarion says loudly to the group. “I’m keen to agree with the captain on this one. I’m certainly no sailor.”

 

Shadowheart bends in half as if she might be sick - you aren’t feeling far off from doing the same.

 

“Well. I’ve seen enough,” Lae’zel puts a hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder, encouraging her back down the hatch. “Down you go.”

 

“I’m fine,” Shadowheart says, but her nausea speaks louder than her words. She doesn’t have much of a choice to descend, followed by Lae’zel and Gale.

 

Jaheira is no longer beside you and Astarion, jumping into action. She’s the type of person to always pull out these surprises at the last minute - holding back parts of her past only to turn up with some previously unknown skill or personal story. You remember when finding out she had children came as a surprise to you, and now she navigates the ship and assists with whatever task she can find as if she’d lived a second life aboard one.

 

Then the rain begins. It doesn’t start with a slow trickle. Instead, the very heavens themself open up and begin dumping every drop of liquid in the atmosphere on top of you at once.

 

“Unless you also have a secret history working as a deckhand, I suggest we get back below deck,” Astarion shouts over the deafening rain, uselessly lifting an arm above his head to try and shield his face. A crack of lightning splits the sky in two.

 

For a moment you’re frozen - you want to help. It isn’t easy to accept that there’s nothing you can do. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt useless in a crisis. Astarion’s hand wraps itself around your forearm, tugging you towards the trapdoor. “Let’s go,” he insists, right as another wave crests over the railing. Near the center of the ship, you only get a small spritz from it, but the rain is doing enough of a job on you. In minutes, your clothes have soaked through.

 

“There has to be something-”

 

“There isn’t,” Astarion cuts you off, changing his strategy. He lets go and begins pushing you downwards, forcing you to crouch and bend down at the hatch. “You won’t do any good to them if you’re flung overboard.”

               

---

 

The five of you huddle in one bunk room, where you sit on the floor against the wall with your knees pulled to your chest. It isn’t warm down here, and your wet clothes feel like someone is holding ice against your skin. Out of everyone, you got the worst of it - Shadowheart and Lae’zel are mostly dry, and Gale appears as if he’s only experienced a light mist.

 

Several times the ship has threatened to capsize, and you all stay close to something you can hang on tightly to. For the most part, no one speaks. It is enough to be in one another's company.

 

“Weather can be fickle at sea - but this is something else entirely,” Gale says, the gears in his brain turning. “Normally you’d see something like this coming for miles.”

 

No one answers him as he talks to himself, and he’s quiet for a long while afterwards, moving the conversation inside of his head. His expression is unsettling as he becomes lost in a state of what can best be described as meditation. Lae’zel must feel it too, because she paces the small room with a hand on her weapon.

 

“You can’t fight the weather, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart says in jest. She desperately tries to distract herself from the rolling in her gut that mirrors the tempest outside. “Please sit down, you’re making it worse. There’s so much movement…”

 

“She’s right to be on guard,” Gale says, not opening his eyes as he sits with a straight back on the floor. “There’s a magic to this storm - I can feel it.”

 

Lae’zel stops in her tracks. “Tchk. Magic? Is an enemy using it as a distraction?”

 

Gale shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “No. Not necessarily. We may not be the target - we could just be caught up in it.”

 

“I’ve heard of something like this,” Astarion says in dark amusement. He sits on the bed behind you. “In my old days of tavern trawling. Rumor has it that there are pirates that catch unwitting victims in storms of their own creation - only to board them in the chaos and confusion.”

 

Gale scoffs. “I can’t think of a single wizard powerful enough to create a storm of this size - and especially not one that would stoop to piracy. Anyone capable of creating this would be able to make a very lucrative and legal career.”

 

“It isn’t a single person,” Astarion corrects. “But the efforts of the entire crew working in unison.”

 

“Nonsense,” Gale says, his voice growing short. “Complete nonsense. Nothing but a tall tale thought up by wagging and overzealous city tongues. Gods, I swear the people of Baldur’s Gate will believe anything. ”

 

Astarion sneaks a devious glance at you, emphasizing Gale’s last words. The people of Baldur’s Gate will believe anything they hear. Gossip is a weapon. The ship rocks dangerously over on its side again, and you hear a pile of cargo above you slide across the wood and slam into the wall. You hang tightly onto the bed frame that you sit in front of.

 

“There’s no magic capable of this,” Gale insists, still stuck on it. He begins to launch into a more technical tirade about why that is and what the hypothetical mechanics of such magic would be, but you tune him out.

 

Astarion leans over to whisper in your ear. “Have you ever heard such a load of hot air?”

 

You have to swallow your snicker, masking it with a phony cough.

 

But suddenly, the footsteps above you grow loud again, the shouts more urgent. Then, a blare of a horn that can be mistaken for nothing else but some kind of alarm.

 

Astarion stands up from the bed, glaring at Gale. “What was that you said about there being no magic capable of this? Because that sounds an awful lot like pirates to me.”

 

Lae’zel draws her weapon and stalks towards the door. “Finally. I might be unable to fight nature, but I am able to fight flesh and blood.” Shadowheart jumps up after her, barely able to collect herself before Lae’zel is halfway down the hall. Gale is the last to rise, brushing off his robes and entirely bewildered by the sudden development.

 

“Maybe you should stay here,” Astarion suggests, turning towards you. “You’re out of practice.”

 

Anger immediately bursts to the surface - you’ve gotten used to suppressing things by now. “You have no right to assume things about me.”

 

He gives you a once over. “I’m not assuming. I can practically smell it on you. At the very least, you’re deficient in iron.”

 

“Gods, not you too,” you roll your eyes. “Baldur’s Gate already forgets what I’ve done - now you? Do you really not remember who led our assaults? I’m not staying here and leaving the rest of you to fight.”

 

Astarion purses his lips. “Very well. Do what you like. There are a lot of them, from sound and smell. I won't be able to watch your back.”

 

"I can handle a few pirates." A pirate is nothing in comparison to a mindflayer. Although... their immense magic may be cause for concern.

 

You don’t have much in common with the githyanki, but one thing is true: you both hate feeling useless and out of control. You can’t do anything to help with the ship or the weather, but you can fight. You think. 

 

It has been a while.

 

Astarion looks at you, swallows, and says something that brings back a memory of the start of every battle. "Don't die. I still need you."

 

Before, it had always been a joke between you. At first, a joke because he needed your help defeating Cazador. Then, a joke when he needed the tadpole removed.

 

Now, lacking his trademark smirk sealed with a laugh... you don't know what it means. But there isn't time to dwell on it - he's already gone from the room.

 

---

 

Chapter 9: Wounds

You find yourselves trapped below deck - something has locked or been pushed over the top of the trapdoor. Lae’zel throws all of her weight against it with her armored shoulder and elbow but it doesn’t budge. She won’t admit that she’s hurt herself, but you see the discomfort in her recoil.

 

“Tchk. Should I destroy it?” She reaches for the imposing axe that hangs at her side, but Shadowheart grabs her ankle before she can wield the weapon. It isn’t Lae’zel’s typical weapon of choice, and not what you last saw her with.

 

“Wait. You don’t have a good angle - you’ll need both hands. Magic might be more efficient. And… I don’t want to see you fall from that height.”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. “Have you that little faith in me? What height do you speak of? I’m hardly off of the ground.”

For Lae’zel, it’s probably true. Even armored, she’s light on her feet and no stranger to sticking difficult landings.

 

“Sorry,” Shadowheart quickly apologizes, her face taking on a tinge of pink. “You’re right, I wasn’t thinki-”

 

“Say no more,” Gale says, his feet still firmly planted on the floor. “Everyone out of the way - I’ll see us through right quick.” He begins to gather a swirling, bright energy in his palm - you guess he’s about to lob some fire at the door - hopefully not the full impact of a proper fireball spell. You open your mouth to protest, but it turns out you aren’t the only one with reservations.

 

Astarion holds a hand up to the wizard. “Hold it, you absolute barbarians. Before we go recklessly smashing our way through the property of those that have been kind enough to ferry across, let me see what awaits us on the other side first.”

 

No one has the time to ask what he means, but it’s enough to make Gale pause. One moment Astarion is standing before you, and the next he is gone in a cloud of purple-gray mist that dissipates up the ladder. Gale recalls his magic, the flickering light sputtering out like a snuffed candle, and crosses his arms.

 

“Well,” he huffs. “I suppose he just wanted to show off then.” He grumbles something else under his breath - something along the line of damned vampires .

 

“It is more discreet ,” you offer Gale an apologetic shrug. You have to agree with Astarion on this one. Bursting through the trapdoor behind a ball of fire would attract immediate attention - and comes with the risk of inadvertently hurting an ally. The crew might be currently employed by you, but you don’t imagine they’ll take it kindly if someone dies at your hands, accidental or otherwise.

 

“It would have been faster.” Lae’zel taps her foot, glaring at nothing.

 

No more than two minutes later the trapdoor opens, and a deluge of rain falls inside. When you look up at the smoky grey sky, you don’t see Astarion peering down. Lae’zel leaps into action in the most literal way, springing upwards and latching onto the ladder at the midpoint before hauling herself up the rest of the way in under a second. The rest of you are not so quick, awkwardly reaching for it at the same time. You allow Shadowheart up first, then Gale, before taking up the rear.

 

Havoc has been unleashed on the top deck of the ship, where you’re bombarded with stimuli from every direction. Between the driving rain and the raging battle, you can hardly tell friend from foe as unfamiliar figures skirmish along the length of the ship, many of whom wear heavy cloaks that conceal their identity. Lae’zel and Shadowheart are already gone - nowhere to be seen in the immediate vicinity. Gale, however, has paused at the top of the ladder. He’s the only one to have waited for you.

 

“They’re too close together,” Gale shakes his head, yelling through the rain. Even standing two feet away, he’s difficult to hear over the sounds of battle and the rushing waterfall of rain. Exposed to the elements for less than a minute, and already you all look as if you’ve just come up from an underwater diving excursion. Wet strands of brown hair cling to his skin, and he has to brush them up away from his eyes, plastering it to his skull. “I’m unsure where to aim.” The words are practically foreign to him - he rarely admits that he doesn’t know something aloud. He’s looking at you for guidance.

 

Frantic, you look around for any other familiar faces, but everything is in complete disarray. None of your companions stand out in the crowd - nor does Captain Boone - the rain is blinding. You’ve never seen it like this before, the wind whipping it sideways against you like tiny freezing bullets. “Do you see anyone else?” You ask.

 

“Behind you!” He shouts suddenly, only able to point at the threat you have no time to react to. You turn around just in time to get lucky dodging an icy ray of magic. Like freshly sharpened steel it grazes your arm, slicing through the wet fabric and the outermost layer of your skin. The sting of it is forgotten as you think of how if you hadn’t turned in time, it would have lodged itself in your head.

 

You give him a quick glance of gratitude, but he doesn’t see it, already launching something back at your assailant, quicker than you can process what spell he’s used. It misses the humanoid figure that expertly dodges it, and Gale’s spell is left to dissolve in the air behind them. The figure wears a thick cloak that protects them from the elements, emanating a softly glowing barrier of light that evaporates the rain before it can seep into their clothing. The hood obscures every detail about the person aside from their general stature - they’re about two heads taller than you with broad shoulders, or at least a good deal of armor underneath.

 

Swinging the crossbow off of your back, you take aim before another spell can go off, but the weather works against you and obscures a clear shot. You steady the crossbow, its weight foreign in your hands after a number of months. 

The bolt hits its mark, but not as precisely as you hope. It might be enough to throw your enemy off from sending another spell, but it isn’t enough to down them as they take it to the shoulder and stumble sideways.

 

“Good shot,” Gale praises, but you curse at yourself internally. A year ago, that would have easily been a shot to the head.

 

Fortunately reloading is still as effortless as breathing to you, and your second shot clears away the cobwebs on your skillset. With a perfect shot to the skull, your opponent crumples to the ground just in time for two more to charge you and Gale from either side. These two are close range combatants, and all you can do is dodge as a sword swings for you, almost colliding with Gale as you jerk away. The second pirate goes for Gale, and you whip around to catch his sword with yours, barely unsheathing it in time.

 

It leaves you exposed to the first one again, and you brace yourself for the nasty hit incoming as you maintain your locked blade.

 

The hit never comes, and the first enemy you dodged falls to his knees as he grips his neck and sputters - there is a dagger lodged in his neck. Astarion now stands over him, and shortly yanks the dagger out as the man falls to the deck in his final moments of life. You’ve never been more relieved for his assistance. It allows you to get the upper hand on the person you fight now. Distracted by his companions death and shouting a name you can’t identify, you sneak your blade out swiftly from underneath his and manage to swiftly pierce his stomach, sending him reeling backwards. The sword drops from your enemy’s hands as he grips his abdomen in realization.

 

With Gale out of the line of fire, he starts sprinting for Jaheira, who you can now make out towards the front of the ship, if only because she has taken on the very obvious form of a panther.

 

“Thanks,” you say to Astarion, already out of breath.  

 

“You know, a year ago you would have already felled half of the ship by now,” Astarion taunts with a hint of a smile.

 

You ignore the comment and start to follow Gale, but Astarion grabs you. 

 

“Over there,” he points towards who you think is Captain Boone, who is clearly in need of help with the forces that surround and threaten to overwhelm your host. 

 

Astarion again dissolves into a cloud of mist, racing towards the danger and leaving you trailing in his wake. It’s a struggle to avoid some errant fire on the way, as the pirates indiscriminately throw magic around. It seems that your hosts are less familiar with the craft, but fortunately your enemies aren’t particularly skilled or careful when it comes to hitting their targets. 

 

The vampire unsurprisingly beats you to Boone’s side with his unnatural speed, and before you know it the three pirates that surround him are dead on the ground in the time it takes you to blink. The Captain stares bewildered as Astarion’s form manifests nearby, clothes now splattered with blood. Less than five seconds have passed and Astarion has downed three skilled mages as easily as if they were children. What had he even done? How ?  The other pirates are shocked too, and it gives you a momentary advantage. Swinging your crossbow back into action, you manage to down another pirate, though it takes you three shots. Your aim is coming back… slowly.

“A little slower on the draw than I remember,” Astarion calls to you with a smirk.

 

The best you can do is glare at him - you’re apparently slow on the draw with comebacks now, too. “Shut up.” 

 

You line up another shot at a figure fighting Jaheira clear across the ship, determined to prove yourself despite the distance. This time, your aim is true. The bolt drives into the side of their skull just above the ear, and the body begins to fall at the same time Jaheira springs up and bites into their stomach. Three others nearby are caught in a massive fireball from Gale. The brilliant burst of light is unable to sustain itself for long in the weather, but it’s enough to distract them long enough for more backup to come, and for you to sprint closer and fire again. You manage to down another in two shots, while Boone’s men finish the other.

 

Astarion flickers across the deck again and subjects another pod of unsuspecting enemies to his Ascendant powers - you aren’t sure if they fall to a spell or if Astarion is now just far, far quicker than they are. Either way his display of strength is unsettling. If he were to ever turn on you… 

 

Between everyone’s best efforts, there are soon cries of retreat, coupled with cheers from Boone’s crew. The enemies disengage and begin throwing themselves over the edge, swimming towards their ship that floats a short distance away. The rain begins to die down a bit, fading to a drizzle as their concentration on the magic stops.The Captain begins lifting the bodies of the downed infiltrators single-handedly and tossing them over the rail into the waves below. Some are still alive, but too weak to pull themselves free of his grasp. You make no effort to see what happens to them - whether their companions attempt to rescue them, if they can keep their heads above water on their own, or if they are simply doomed to drown.

 

“Thank you,” Captain Boone says. You hadn’t noticed him approach you. “They came on quickly - their ship was heavily obscured.

 

“To think they could alter the weather like that… that’s no small feat.” You look up at the sky that’s clearing as quickly as the storm came on.

 

“I’ve heard tales of them before. Not many escape them with their lives. We were lucky to have all of you on board with us.” His voice regains strength as his breath returns.

 

Lucky. You don’t mention that you’re also the reason that they’re taking this journey in the first place.

 

“It’s no trouble.” As the adrenaline leeches out of you, you start to shiver, yearning for a warm fire. “I only hope that we didn’t take too many casualties.”

 

With the light level increasing again and a less chaotic scene laid out before you, you scan the deck and take note of all of your companions. All are standing, all are alive. Not all of Boone’s crew fares so well.

 

“We can only hope they don’t return after nightfall.”

 

 

---

 

“You’re hurt,” Astarion comments, acknowledging where you were grazed from the spell earlier. It’s just the two of you entering your room now - your companions immediately retreat into their rooms to clean themselves up. Everyone is eager to change out of their wet clothes. 

 

“Oh.” You almost forgot, with everything else that had followed. Now reminded, the slice in your arm stings again, and you look down to see that it’s deeper than you guessed. A red stain has bloomed around the hole in your sleeve.It’s hard to tell if it still actively bleeds.

 

“Don’t get any ideas,” you warn him, turning that side of your body away.

 

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Please. I’m a big boy, and a gentleman . I can keep my fangs to myself. No matter how delicious you smell. You know… they say you never forget your first.” He winks at you.

 

You whip around and swing to punch his arm - hard - but he catches your fist mid in his hand swing as if he had predicted it, instantly taking all of your momentum. He clicks his tongue in feigned disappointment. “So slow today - I remember when you could best me in a fight.”

 

That was… before. Before he ascended.

 

“I thought we were on the same side again now, and here you are throwing punches.” He’s laughing about it - there’s no trace of anger in his tone. 

 

“That doesn’t mean that you’re free to say whatever you like.” You pull your fist away from him and clench it at your side. “Honestly, you’ve grown even more insufferable than I last remember.”

 

“A moment ago you were worried about me harming you - perhaps I’m the one that should be concerned.”

 

You turn away and sit on your bed, peeling off your outermost layer - a thin jacket you’d thrown on before heading up into the rain. It hurts as it sticks to your skin, resisting removal and rubbing against the open cut. Underneath the jacket you wear a top that leaves your arms bare, and you get a better look at it. It isn’t deep or serious, but it is still weeping, the blood flow only restarting from the friction of removing the fabric over it.

 

Astarion rummages through his bag and appears at your side with a small bottle and a roll of bandages.You pull back from him as he reaches towards you.

 

“Let me help - it’s rude to wave food around when you have no intention of sharing. Didn’t I tell you earlier?” 

You grind your teeth together at the memory combined with the implication of your blood as food. “Give it to me then,” you hold your hand out expectantly. “I’ll get it.”

“It’s on your dominant arm. I’ll do a better job.”

 

“Fine,” you relent, looking away from him as he sits on the bed next to you. “But no snacks .”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You know I always ask before I bite. You’re being rather unfair.”

 

Your muscles relax a bit. He’s right. Although the first time he might have tried to bite you without asking… after that it was always with your consent. You have no reason to accuse him of untoward behavior now, especially when he’s more capable than ever. He dumps a bit of alcohol on a cloth, and the smell of the liquid is unusually strong.

 

“Is that… medical?” You ask skeptically. It might be straight vodka.

 

“It’s fine,” he says, shutting down your question.

 

How…reassuring. You hiss and bite your tongue as he presses it to your arm and dabs away the blood. A part of you still fears that he’ll change his mind about biting you - but you remind yourself that ascending has taken away the compulsion of his vampiric hunger.

 

“Don’t look so nervous, darling. I already told you I won’t bite. Unless you want me to, of course.” His wink makes you choke.

 

“Absolutely not.” Instinctively your other hand flies up to your neck, covering it. You’ve taken to wearing high-collared shirts or very carefully styling your hair ever since he bit you the first time, too embarrassed to allow anyone to see the scars. You once worried about explaining it to Wyll - since you’d never gotten more intimate than kissing and grinding against one another fully clothed, he’d never had to know about the full extent of your shame. You only ever admitted to allowing Astarion to bite you once - but the scars would tell a different story. He’d always been careful to retrace his marks, but on the road they would have appeared more recent. Now they were old enough it would make no difference - but it was best not to let the public speculate. Vampire bites aren’t damning on their own, but everyone adores good gossip.

 

“It was worth a try,” he says with a hum, pulling a length of bandage from the roll. You lift your arm so he can wrap it, still avoiding eye contact.

 

You think about asking him about what he meant when he spoke with you earlier - when he said that he still needed you, but you’re too embarrassed to bring it up. It was surely a force of habit - a slip of the tongue.

 

“How does it feel?” He asks. 

 

The question stuns you as you work out what he means. 

“The bandage,” he clarifies, just in time for you to process it. “Too tight?”

 

“Oh. No,” you say with a shiver. “It’s fine.”

 

“Excellent. We wouldn’t want to cut off that blood flow of yours.” He’s entirely self-aware of his comments - he’s doing it on purpose. Mocking your uncertainty of him.

 

When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away.

 

“You should change,” he says once you’re finally brave enough to give him a questioning glance. “You’re frozen - and it won’t be long before your clothes start to smell of wet dog.”

 

“I assume you’ll give me the dignity of privacy?”

 

He chuckles. “You flatter yourself - what makes you think I’d even be inclined to peek?”

 

His comment catches you off guard as you feel a mix of shame and anger. “You’ve proven yourself to be quite the rake in the past - and your suggestive remarks don’t lead me to believe that anything’s changed,” you snap. “What was that you said earlier about never forgetting your first ?”

 

“ Darling ,” he makes an exaggerated gasp as he lies through his fangs. “Surely you didn’t think I meant that in an untoward way. I meant exactly what I said - my first drink of blood from a thinking creature.”

 

His pinky brushes yours as he rests it on the bed. There’s a familiar tension in the air that brings you back to the early days of your journey and the banter between you. You have a moment of extended eye contact - you don’t back down, determined to get him to leave. You might have to share a room for the time being, you might even agree to work with him - but you won’t degrade yourself in that way. You will uphold your standards. 

 

The smirk falls off of his face, and he suddenly stands up. Perhaps he realizes that he’s being unreasonable. “Very well. I’ll take a walk then.”

 

You’ve just finished putting on dry undergarments when you hear a knock on the door, followed by Astarion’s voice.

 

“I’m not finished!” You shout, annoyed. You grasp at a shirt and hold it in front of your chest, bracing yourself for him to renter. He’s hardly been gone for thirty seconds.

 

“I suspected as much - but might you pass me my bag through the door? I’d like to get changed, too - it dawned on me how uncomfortable it is to wear around wet clothing.” He doesn’t open the door.

 

You sigh and quickly throw the dry shirt on over your head before going to grab the bag he’s stashed under his bed. You have to kneel down on your bare knees to pull it out, but as you do you learn that it wasn’t latched as several balled up crumpled papers tumble out. You scoop it all up to shove back in, but pause when one of the rogue sheets catches your eye.

 

“Hello?” Astarion calls impatiently. 

 

“Just a moment,” you shout, slightly unfurling an edge of the paper to peek. It’s the same paper he used to write the letters. A draft?

 

It’s at that moment that he bursts through the door, and you scramble to shove everything inside.

 

“Nosy, are we?” He asks, striding over to you and yanking the bag up to his chest protectively.

 

“It just opened - it wasn’t-” you protest, hardly worried now about modesty even though your legs are still exposed.

 

He bends down and quickly gathers the last two balls of paper that float on the floor, pushing them deep down inside of the bag with the same ferocity that one would attempt to cage a wild animal. “It’s rude to go through someones’ things.”

 

How many times could he accuse you of being rude in one day? It really had started out as an accident - but it was silly of you to try and read one with him standing outside of the door. With his vampiric senses, he likely would have heard the paper uncrumpling from half a mile away.

 

You apologize again, but he doesn’t acknowledge it as he slams the door shut behind him.

 

Is it wrong that you’re burning with curiosity about the contents of the discarded letters?

 

                                                       

---

 

 

You’re awoken by the sounds of an argument, although your eyes are in no mood to open properly yet.

 

“This is your fault!” Wyll accuses, his voice angrier than you’ve ever heard it. “What were you all thinking? You never should have fought that thing with only four of you.”

 

A memory comes back to you. The orthon. Yurgir. He’s talking about Yurgir. What happened? You must have fallen in the battle.

 

“My fault?” Astarion asks indignantly. “She’s perfectly capable of making her own decisions - it was her decision to leap into battle.”

 

“She only did it out of obligation to you! How could you be so selfish? Truly, Astarion, explain it to me. You’re the very one who makes a fuss when we detour from our main task to help a poor soul out - but suddenly risking all of our lives to fight a fucking orthon is fine with you?” 

 

Wyll only curses when he’s furious beyond all reason.

 

“For a deal with Raphael of all people? Gods, you might have at least come to get us first,” Karlach says in disapproval.

 

“It was a bit chaotic in there,” Shadowheart says quietly. “There wasn’t time. So much… happened.” Her voice is haunted, far away in the land of her thoughts. She’s forever changed by what she saw in the gauntlet.

 

“It’s okay. She’ll live,” Halsin’s voice is close to you. You feel his huge paw of a hand lift yours up, checking your pulse. “She was healed in time.”

 

You can’t form a coherent word yet, but you moan, trying to signify that you’re still with the living and can hear their every word. Footsteps rush towards you and Wyll throws himself to his knees at your side, taking your hand from Halsin and grasping it between his.

 

“Can you hear me?” He asks. “Are you there?”

 

You grunt and move your head a little in acknowledgement.

 

“Thank goodness,” Wyll says in relief. “I was worried I’d lost you.”

 

Almost. The battle with the orthon was a rigorous one. You don’t remember the end of it. Is everyone else okay? You’ve heard Astarion, Shadowheart… Gale. Is Gale okay? He must be, or they’d surely be talking about him instead of you. Your eyes flicker open and your eyes dart around, but you can’t see past Wyll’s face leaning over you.

 

“Oh, thank goodness,” he says again, his voice cracking. He bends down and gives you the best hug he can while you remain flat on your back. He plants a quick kiss on your forehead as he gets up again. “What were you thinking?”

 

“I…” your throat is dry as you fully regain consciousness. “Did… did we win?”

 

“Who cares about that?” Wyll asks. “You’re okay. You’re alive.”

 

His answer is suspicious - it sounds like a no. You deflate a little - it can’t all have been for nothing.

 

“Yes,” Astarion says softly from somewhere behind Wyll. “We won.” You can’t detect any joy in his voice, which annoys you. You did all of this for him, and he can’t even be bothered to be thankful for it.

 

You force yourself to sit up. “You could try to sound a little happier about it,” you glare at him, finding his gaunt face over Wyll’s shoulder. 

 

Wyll jumps in. “She’s right. She nearly died for you - you could show a little gratitude at least.”

 

“What?” Astarion is taken aback. “I didn’t -” whatever he’s about to say dies on his lips. “Forget it.”

 

Wyll stands up. “You’re so selfish, Astarion!”

 

He shrinks back like a scolded animal. “Yes,” he relents. “I suppose I am. Now if you’ll excuse me… I think it’s best if I go find the devil and make him pay up for his side of the bargain.”

Chapter 10: Web

It doesn't seem like Astarion is going to return to the room tonight. You wait up for him for a while, feeling a surprising weight of loneliness as the ship rocks so steadily that it hardly feels like it’s moving anymore. It would almost be relaxing enough to lull you into an early sleep, if your anxiety weren’t loitering at the forefront of your mind. You expect the door to open any second, your ears sharply attuned to every creak, thump, rattle and footstep in the hallway - though you know him to be so light on his feet that you may not hear him coming anyway. But the empty hours tick by and night falls, all while you stare at the ceiling above, counting the knots in each wooden board.

 

A part of you wants him to return - if just to fill the empty void of the room. It’s an unexpected feeling. You’ve been on your own for over a year. For the duration of that year you’ve spent hours, days, and nights mostly alone - how embarrassing that you’re now pining for someone to keep you company. Whatever sort of company he gives you, you crave - positive or negative. The banter is at least better than the empty silence.

 

You comb through the letters he’s forged several times over, just to pass the time with something to read. The letters guide you through several layers of grief. As you start to memorize each word, Wyll’s face starts to disappear from your mind’s eye as the narrator. When you first read the letters, they seemed so realistic - mostly true to Wyll’s character. You’re so angry. You can picture him saying every honey-coated word, bursting with chivalrous bravado. You can hear his voice in the cadence, low, lilting and musical. But now, as you read by candlelight and pick the words apart, more tells of Astarion shine through. Once you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve re-read them, it is only Astarion’s voice that you hear in the words. The Blade of Frontiers is gone. Why do you miss him again?

 

Do you miss him? Or do you miss the person that wrote the words in your hands?

 

A knock at the door startles you into shoving the letters underneath your pillow - you can already tell that the quick rap of knuckles doesn’t belong to Astarion.

 

“Er, yes?” You ask, clearing your throat. It’s grown gravelly, dried out from tears you shed earlier.

 

“It’s me,” a voice says from the other side. Jaheira. “May I come in?”

 

“Yes, of course,” you sit up in bed, smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes. 

 

Jaheira enters, gingerly closing the door behind her. “No Astarion?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at his empty bed.

 

“No,” you shake your head. “Why? Are you looking for him? He’s been gone for hours now.” It’s difficult to meet her eyes when you know that your own are strained and puffy.

 

“You both skipped dinner,” she says. You think there’s an accusatory tone in her voice, though you can’t figure out the reason. It seems like she thinks she knows something you aren’t disclosing.

 

“It’s easy to skip something you don’t know about,” you say defensively. Your stomach growls in disapproval, but you were never granted an itinerary. You might eat any sort of gruel that the crew prepared at this point. “Would it not have been more useful to seek me out then, when it was still going on?” Keeping time is more difficult on the ship, especially when the sun was obscured by storm clouds for a good half of the day. But how was it that everyone knew about it except for you?

 

Her gaze softens a bit as she sighs. “I am sorry. Are you alright?”

 

You turn your face from her entirely, obscuring it while you rub your cheeks with your sleeves. “Yes.”

 

If she doesn’t believe you, she doesn’t pry.

 

“I have been thinking about this… situation,” she says, lip downturned, beginning to pace the floor.

 

Wonderful. You prepare for the worst. What will you do, if Jaheira decides that she no longer wants to keep her mouth shut? What will Astarion do? “Oh,” you say. It’s barely a squeak as you try not to give away your nerves. “And?”

 

“It’s important to me that we tell the others about Wyll and Karlach,” she says, her eyes boring holes into yours. “After this little adventure, I believe it is in our best interests to go in after them.”

 

Your blood freezes. “No. Jaheira, we can’t. Please.”

 

“And why not?” She folds her arms over her chest. “You do want to be relieved of your position, do you not? Even if it is not you that he comes back for.”

 

“I’m not sure yet,” you say. For now, you’re still defending the secret of your demotion from her. “The most I can do for now is the job I’ve been left with.” 

 

“Lovers or no, surely you don’t intend on leaving him to the hells!” She accuses, throwing up a hand.

 

“What? No!” You stammer, standing up from the bed. I mean - Wyll  chose to remain in Avernus. There’s no reason to go after him and the new life that he’s working on building with Karlach. We don’t even know if he’s fixed her engine for good yet. “But right now, he’s choosing to be there. He’ll only resent us if we try to pull him out…and what about Karlach?”

 

“We do as we have for every other situation, and face what is to come together. We never should have let them go alone”

 

Selfishly, what would it have changed? It might have prolonged Wyll’s inevitable discovery of his feelings for Karlach… but could it have prevented them if you were there? No. Likely not. There were signs before - signs that you chose to ignore. Maybe your injury was a blessing in disguise. It prevented you from watching their love unfold and blossom.

 

“It doesn’t change that I won’t be able to go,” you say, staring at the floor. “The Council wasn’t happy about this little endeavor - they won’t be keen to let me head out again.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Jaheira agrees, pursing her lips. “But - the rest of us have already come to an agreement. We will find them when we return.”

 

“Wait,” you pause. Distracted by what she is saying, you get distracted by what she’s saying. “You’re already in agreement? That means you’ve already told them,” you say in horror. “How could you?”

 

She isn’t at all bothered by her admission. “No. However, keeping secrets did us no good before. If we are to work as a team again, we must act like one. I only expressed a need to go after them and get to the bottom of it. It is your job to tell them the whole truth now.”

 

“You… I can’t believe you!” You exclaim in betrayal. “You agreed .”

 

“I agreed so long as the secret did not invite any danger. I am sensing danger. If you don’t tell them the entire truth…I will.” 

 

Something seems to dawn on Jaheira - and you realize what it is the moment the next words come from her mouth. You’ve made a critical misstep. “Hold on. Is this mission of yours not condoned by the Council?! What. Have. You. Done?”

 

“I- nothing. I was invited,” you say. “The Council just didn’t agree that I should go. But turning down foreign diplomats can be risky.”

 

In a quick swoop, she grabs your arm and yanks your hair from your neck, inspecting it from all angles.

 

You yell her name in surprise, trying to pull back from her. “What the hells?”

 

She doesn’t hold you long enough to need to struggle further, and you stumble back from her, holding your hair as your scalp stings.

 

Offering no apology or explanation, she lowers her voice. An an instant she had gone from combat ready to poised and collected, without a hair out of place.  “Astarion’s motivations concern me. You should be careful around him.”

 

“Motivations?” Even reeling from her brazenness, you know exactly what she means - it’s been on your mind too. But for now you feign ignorance in case she knows something that you don’t.

 

“Power,” she hisses, her voice still a whisper. “I assume it’s the only reason he’s inserting himself into our - your - affairs again. He’s no longer satisfied being the lord of a palace. He’s waiting to pounce the moment that the Council shows weakness. Do you not find it suspicious that your contact might be a vampire, and that Astarion has suddenly reappeared, eager to accompany you?”

 

Of course she’s hot on his trail - she has the most worldly experience out of any of you. “Are you sure you aren’t just feeling a little paranoia?” You feel a little guilty about the words coming out of your mouth, and immediately try to backtrack when you realize how suspicious that might sound. “What I mean to say is that right now Astarion is doing his best to help me. If he really wanted to take advantage of the situation… don’t you think he would have done it already, as soon as he found out? He had the perfect opportunity to assassinate Wyll’s character.”

 

“Not without proof,” she shakes her head. “Without proof, anyone would see him for what he is: a vindictive noble seeking more control. We need to return Wyll to the city - if for no other reason than to formally resign. He still holds the love of his people. They won’t accept any other outcome than hearing it from his lips.”

 

If only it was as easy as having Astarion forge a letter of resignation. You have no doubt he could do it, but it wouldn’t make you any more likely to be a candidate in the eyes of the people. The Council would push heavily for someone else. For that to work, you’d still need higher approval - and the only way to gain it is through remaining visible. As it is, being trapped on an island for a week will hurt the weak momentum you built with your speech.

 

“But that is not what I’m worried about,” she clarifies. “This vampire noble in Caer Westphal - what if Astarion has been plotting with her?”

 

“It will be fine,” you reassure her, her words echoing emptily. In your panicked state of her discovering something, you hardly process them. “Astarion is harmless. Please … don’t tell the others.”

 

“Do you think them not sympathetic?” She asks in confusion. “I understand you might feel embarrassed, but there’s no reason to keep the secret any longer when the city is already beginning to suspect-”

 

The only warning you get before Astarion pops into the room is a hint of a draft. He doesn’t see fit to use the door - it seems he’s getting full use of his mist form today, squeezing himself underneath the crack. Now, standing upright in the room, he looks much better than when you last saw him, wearing fresh dry clothes and with his hair perfectly coiffed. It’s hard to say how long he’s been waiting just outside the doorway, or how much he’s heard.

 

“Jaheira,” he croons. “How lovely to see you. You look surprisingly well, after the day we’ve had.”

 

His smile masks something sinister beneath. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. 

 

Jaheira’s back stiffens. “Astarion,” she greets curtly. 

 

“My sincerest apologies, was I interrupting something?” He cocks his head to one side.

 

“No. I was just leaving,” Jaheira says, taking a few steps towards the door.

 

“Wait!” You protest, as her hand touches the doorknob. “At least promise me that you’ll let me do it.”

 

Astarion’s face gives away no hint of shock or confusion  when you look for his reaction. He either masks it well… or he’s heard everything. You don’t know if you have it in you to tell everyone the truth of Wyll and Karlach, but letting them hear it from Jaheira feels somehow worse. She silently studies your face for a few moments before nodding, unsure if she should believe you or not. 

 

“Be careful,” she warns, leaving.

 

Astarion exhales an exaggerated hum as her footsteps fade down the hall. “Interesting.”

 

“She wants to tell them about Wyll and Karlach,” you share freely, without a second thought. “She wants to go after them. She says the others have already agreed to go after them when we get back.”

 

“Not surprising,” Astarion replies - his indifference almost confirms that he heard much of the conversation already. “We might have to… do something about that.”

 

“What do you mean?” You ask, a suspicion building. His tone concerns you. “Do what, exactly?”

 

“I’m still ironing out the details - several ideas spawn to mind.”

 

You do a double take, not sure you heard him correctly. “What did you just say?”

 

“Several ideas come to mind,” he smirks. “But maybe we can avoid any drastic measures, yes?”

 

“This is… this is Jaheira we’re talking about. You do realize that, right?” He’s gone insane if he thinks for a moment that he’ll get away with a thing like that.

 

“Do you want them going after Wyll?”

 

“Well…” Much of the rage you had felt when you had initially gone to Astarion for help has dissipated. “He is their friend. Karlach is their friend. I can’t blame her. But they’re our friends too. Maybe telling them can’t hurt. They’ll find out the truth eventually anyway.” Everyone in the Gate will know of his betrayal, with time.

 

“Don’t lose your nerve now,” he chides, egging you on. “You know they’ll bring them back one way or another. Do you think that they’ll still be our friends if they find out about our little plan? I’m not interested in finding out who they’re more loyal to - Wyll or us. If you tell them now, they’ll catch on to the fake letters we establish over the next few months.”

 

Us versus them. Divisive language at its finest. There’s of course a chance that telling them of Wyll’s betrayal would win them over to your side early - but a voice deep inside has you doubtful. You always got the impression that everyone liked Wyll just a little more than you - and they almost definitely liked Karlach more. 

 

“I also think that they’ll go looking for them one way or another, eventually.”

 

“Not if he writes to them. Not if he reassures them that everything is fine.”

 

“We should be very careful with the webs we weave, Astarion. What if he actually writes to them? What if Karlach writes them?”

 

“We only need to buy ourselves time,” he says. “Enough time to establish yourself properly.” Enough time to figure out what to do about Jaheira.

 

“I’ve been doing some more research on the topic.” Astarion reaches into his bag and pulls out a heavy tome - an antiquated looking text threatening to crumble apart at any moment, the title promising to hold all manners of laws and codes in Baldur’s Gate.

 

“It’s almost never happened in the history of the city - but the public can oust a Councilor, too. It is one of the few votes that goes out to all of the citizens of Baldur’s Gate, if someone motions for it. We won't even need Wyll to ‘write’ an eventual letter of resignation if the people lose enough confidence in him to be angry.”

 

He’s already set part of that plan into motion, but it doesn’t solve everything. “If not many people know about it… who motions for something like that?” Your heart speeds up.

 

“That’s the best part. Any citizen can motion for it during an audience session. To become an official vote, there must be a petition of no fewer than five hundred signatures, or …only one councilor needs to second it.” You don’t realize how close he’s gotten to you until his hand is on your shoulder, and you put two and two together. Astarion intends to be the citizen… and you’re on the Council.

 

“But… I’m just a proxy for Wyll, surely that won’t-”

 

“You are his legal stand in. For every vote and council matter that arises.”

 

Of course, it’s only half of the battle. The moment the city votes to remove Wyll, you lose your standing. You’re going to need a strong reputation before that happens.

 

“What if the other councilors catch on?” You can’t imagine them allowing you to second the vote to remove Wyll - the moment you do it will raise at least a dozen red flags.

 

“Well. Not that I think they’d legally be able to do anything about it anyway - but don’t fret quite yet. I have a contingency plan. I won’t say more - but let us say that there will be another councilor willing to second the motion.”

 

Astarion leaves again shortly afterwards, keeping his bag attached at his side. He goes to “take watch” of the open ocean, blessed with his unnatural advantages of the night. Again you’re left to the unsettling solitude - though not quite as unsettling as sleeping on the floor of either of the other two rooms. You’re still inclined to leave the women alone to each other's company, and as for the other room, Jaheira might expect you to immediately share your secret with Gale. You can easily explain putting off that conversation until the morning, but then it will be progressively harder to defend the need to keep it secret. All assuming Jaheira doesn’t break and tell them anyway, regardless of your wishes. 

 

The ship is eerily hushed, there is not a single voice to be heard through the thin slat walls despite the vessel holding at least thirty others. The first night at sea had been louder.

 

But last night, there wasn't anyone to mourn.

 

                                               

---

 

 

The remainder of the journey at sea is uneventful. The pirates are fortunately not inclined to seek revenge on you, or at the very least aren’t in a state to do so. Jaheira doesn’t come to hunt you down alone again and demand you share what you know, although you do feel her gaze lingering on you during meals, questioning when you’ll go forward with it. She won’t tolerate it much longer. As you think about what could be done about her knowledge, you don’t come up with an answer that won’t irrevocably fracture your relationship with her… or worse. In a moment of weakness, you had told her the truth. Now you’re paying for it.

 

Astarion keeps a schedule opposite yours - spending time in the room while you’re awake and about. At night, he supposedly continues volunteering to keep watch. No more letters are left for you, and his bag is never left unattended again. You are subjected to several more lonely nights, even though the daytime offers the reprieve of your companions. The secrets have driven a wedge between you and them, though you’re the only one who knows it.

 

 Your timing of arrival isn’t ideal - it’s night again when the docks of Westphal appear in view, and Boone insists on not approaching until morning. You overhear enough private conversations to think that the decision is not the captain’s at all, but Astarion’s. If the person who wrote you the letter is a vampire, it’s strategic to dock in the daytime and gain your bearings, rather than risk an ambush.

 

The ship dropping anchor at a safe distance, murmurs of anticipation ripple across the deck as everyone is drawn to the surface to witness the mysterious city on the coast of Snowdown. The crew, weary from a long journey across stormy seas, peer eagerly over the railings, expecting to behold the dark, foreboding silhouette of the port city that they have been told to expect. The rumors of  Westphal have promised it to be a lifeless, dangerous place under the Amnian regime. But as the mists part, what greets you is a spectacle that steals the breath from your lungs.

 

How can this be the same place that carries a dark reputation that steers away even seasoned sailors and merchants? 

 

A burst of color explodes against the backdrop of the sparkling azure sea. Tall, graceful towers of brightly-colored stucco and wood rise up into the glittering night sky, adorned with fluttering banners in every hue imaginable. Each building competes for your attention even at a distance, their walls painted with vibrant murals. You’re still too far out to be able to make out the details of any of them, but the city is well-lit with braziers, streetlamps, and bonfires that float just offshore, both inviting and foreboding depending on whether you are friend or foe. 

Ships of all shapes and sizes glide gracefully through the bustling harbor, their sails billowing like the wings of enormous, colorful birds, an extension of the city itself. You thought that your ship was a work of art compared to the plain ships of Baldur’s Gate, but compared to those you see now it looks like an ugly duckling lost in a crowd of swans.

 

The shock of the unexpected opulence and intrigue before you is palpable, spreading like wildfire among the ship's occupants.  This is not the dreary, grimy port town of your expectations. It is a living, breathing work of art, a symphony of color and fantasy that dazzles the senses and ignites the imagination. 

 

“I didn’t expect it to be quite so… lively,” Shadowheart murmurs. Her and Gale have appeared next to you as you stand and look over the railing. A cool breeze blows on your cheeks that feel sticky with salt air. You’re eager to take a proper bath again, and you hope you might have the dignity of cleaning up before meeting with the person who has summoned you here. 

 

“Don’t let your guard down,” Gale warns. The words don’t sound as if he believes them himself anymore- you can see his eyes dancing with the prospect of whatever magic is lurking in the city. 

 

“This can’t be the same place,” you say out loud - mostly to yourself. You’re in awe of it too. This looks more like a paradise for merchants - not a place where they have to fear being robbed the second they dock. The ships that bob with the tide don’t appear to be packing any heavy weaponry - they’re mostly gaudy and expensive things made in an alternate reality where the shipwrights have never heard of pirates.

 

“Remember we aren’t from Amn,” Astarion’s voice speaks from behind. You swear he sneaks around like a ghost on purpose, and it reminds you to be careful what you say. Between his regular stealth and ability to dissolve into thin air, he could be anywhere at any time - listening. “As outsiders, we may not be offered a warm welcome. Just because it looks differently than expected on the outside doesn’t mean the rumors aren’t true.”

 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Obviously,” you snap, your voice shorter than you intend. Your sleep on the boat hasn’t been as deep or restful as normal, despite getting in extra hours with nothing better to fill your time with.

 

“Really, Astarion.” Unlike you, Shadowheart doesn’t fight the urge. She crosses her arms. “You’ve always called Gale the know-it-all, but it seems the bug has bit you lately.”

 

There’s something still bothering you about the situation. “If we can see them… surely they can already see us,” you say, flickering your gaze between each of your companions. “Is it not more suspicious to loiter just offshore?”

 

“We have a full watch shift set up,” Astarion says. “Out here, we still stand a chance at escape - it’s the perfect time to gauge their intentions before we’re surrounded on an unfamiliar isle.”

 

So you’re playing the role of sitting ducks on purpose then - to draw them out now if they plan to attack, while you still have an out. Once the ship docks, if harm comes your way, it will be difficult to navigate out of the maze of the crowded port quickly. You’ll be surrounded.

 

“We were invited - we shouldn’t need to fear the worst,” you say, trying to offer a crumb of hope.

 

The feeling in your gut says otherwise.

 

The ship pulls into port first thing in the morning, the night bringing no threats

 

---

 

Chapter 11: Westphal

 There’s no question that your arrival has been noticed, but whoever watches over the city gives you no trouble, leaving room for a night of welcomed peace. It makes no difference to you, filling you with anxiety much like a venomous snake you’ve lost sight of. You make an honest effort to sleep through the night, but you’re plagued with a nervous dread that roils around and builds energy until it’s impossible to squash. Astarion hasn’t returned to your shared quarters long after a first watch would have changed over to a second. Again you have to scold yourself for letting the loneliness fester - but despite hours of trying to suppress it, you make no headway on sleep. Whatever you’ve come for on the Isle, the fear that you’ve waltzed right into a trap grows louder every minute.

 

It must be early in the morning, several hours before sunrise, when you can’t stand being cooped up in the room any longer. You push yourself out of bed and pull on your boots, before taking a stroll along the lower deck. Not a soul is awake down here - you don’t have to listen closely to hear deep, guttural snoring from one of your companions. Through the walls, you can’t guess which one - you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. You climb up to the top deck, where you see a few more signs of life. Two crewmates that you don’t recognize play a game of cards on the ground, a bottle of liquor between them that they take turns swigging from matching several other empty ones that roll around on the floor with the rhythmic pulse of the waves.

 

You pace along the side, looking out at the city that is now decidedly asleep though not entirely dark. Most of the lights in the windows have been extinguished, but a few remain, just enough to cast a soft glow over several scattered blocks of the city. So much mystery still lingers around Westphal and the stronghold where Erliza resides, and the threatening letter you received from its regent.

 

“Can’t sleep?” A familiar voice echoes behind you. 

 

You bristle at Astarion’s voice. Again he’s managed to show up - somehow without you sensing him at all. Not a single footstep or creak to alert you of his presence, and only moments ago you had scanned the entire deck of the ship and not taken notice of anyone. He’s materialized out of thin air. “Or… were you looking for me?” He smirks as you turn to him.

 

“Absolutely not. It’s abandoned up here,” you say quickly, wrapping your arms around yourself. The morning sea breeze carries a chill with it, without the sun to warm it. “I just needed a walk is all. One might say that you’re the one looking for me . You just can’t manage to leave me alone, can you?”

 

“I suppose I could have let you come to Caer Westphal alone. I still could - I could fly right home to Baldur’s Gate.” He makes a mocking flapping motion with his arms.

 

Your throat catches, and you have to grapple with the growing knowledge that you don’t really mean it. A polluting smog of exhaustion and anxiety are choking out your reason tonight, and your temper is shorter than usual. “No. I’m sorry. There’s a lot on my mind is all. And somehow you always manage to show up.”

 

“Are we not partners now?”

 

Partners . The word is foreign to your ears - somehow it manages to describe your relationship with him too intimately and too distantly all at once.

 

You swallow and lean over the ship’s railing, staring down into the murky waters below. With a dash of embarrassment, your intrusive thoughts prod at you to jump. Anything to escape the conversation. “I might be able to stand to be nicer if everything out of your mouth didn’t sound so smug.”

 

He tries to rile you up intentionally - it isn’t a secret. Like he’s pushing you - testing your lukewarm alliance with every sentence that falls from his pretty lips. “You know, you might stand to take a page from my book. Confidence is a wondrous thing.”

“Confidence? Who says I’m not confident?” You’re a far cry from insecure, you just aren’t flashy about it.

 

He leans on the railing right beside you, a space the width of a rose stem between your arms. “You think too much of others when you lead. What they’ll think of you - what they’ll say. Don’t misunderstand me. You carry a confidence with you in your day to day life that is both intriguing and beguiling - but as a decision maker? You might do a better job asserting yourself.”

 

You like to think that you’ve done better lately - your last interaction with the Council had left nothing to discuss. “Confidence doesn’t have to mean…arrogance.”

 

“You think I’m arrogant?” He raises an eyebrow.

 

Your silence answers the question. Rather than get defensive about it, he laughs. “You’re right, yet the curious thing is - you’re the only one that it seems to bother. Everyone else in high society seems quite taken with me.”

 

When you first met Astarion again, you thought all of his insecurities had melted away. But now, you’re seeing glimpses through a cracking facade. “Of course they are. You’re a hero. You hold grand parties in your lavish palace. Everyone wants your favor.”

 

His smile fades. “Of course they do. I’m no fool. I’m merely playing the game.”

 

You both stand in silence for some time, staring out at the dark outline of Westphal. The chill begins to nip at your skin.

 

“When you meet with Erliza, you need to stand tall,” Astarion says after a while. His hand reaches out and turns your face to him - a gentle touch that makes you shudder even more than the cold, salty breeze coming off of the waves. “Just as you did in the face of the Absolute. At your speech in the square. In front of Cazador. Do not diminish yourself to the position of Wyll’s mouthpiece. Do not cow to her like you do to the Council.”

 

For a moment you’re frozen under his gaze, stupefied at the softness in his voice. The sky darkens as a wispy cloud begins to draw itself across the moon.  You search his face for any trace of sarcasm or dishonesty, but find none. His expression is entirely relaxed, worn down to that same vulnerability you saw in him only a few times before the Ascension. 

 

The nudge of his arm brushing yours on the railing feels like a bucket of icy water dumped over your head, dragging you back into reality and out of the ruby pools of his irises that could swallow you whole. You snap up and slide down the rail, putting space between you again. “I am perfectly capable of handling this.”

 

Your knuckles blanche gripping the ship.

 

“You are,” he agrees. “But your belief in that cannot waver - not for a moment. The Council might have no choice but to overlook weakness, but foreign nobility will exploit it.”

 

“You doubt me.”

 

“I’ve never doubted you, darling. I only wish you would afford me the same courtesy.”

 

You have good reason to doubt him, and his magnetic pull only strengthens your uncertainty. He has been exceedingly clear about his desire for power - the chance that he is using you as a pawn in his game is too high for you to ignore. But the way he says it drives a stake of guilt into your gut that twists when you can’t even deny it.

 

“Thank you for your… advice,” you choke out, turning away from him. “I should try to rest.”

 

His footsteps fall in line with yours, several paces behind you.

 

You pause. “Is there something else?”

 

“We share quarters,” he reminds. Right. You could have forgotten - he’s barely used them. Why start now?

 

The lower deck is dark, all lights long extinguished. It’s warmer down here out of the wind, and humid. You don’t know the layout of the ship well enough to navigate in the pitch black hallway without stumbling, squinting and begging your eyes to adjust. Without any proper windows in the hallway, you’re nearly blind, forced to work off of a weak memory and shadowy shapes. It isn’t often that you struggle seeing in the dark, and you wonder if the ship is charmed in some way. A spell to keep all light within the ship invisible to the outside might also prevent any natural light from seeping in the cracks. A cloaking measure for nightfall.

 

Astarion still follows just behind, and although you’re certain he can see perfectly, he makes no comment and allows you to keep the lead. You won’t ask him for help.

 

A particularly choppy wave tilts the ship, and with your balance altered in the dark, you stumble backwards, only to be caught at the shoulders by his hands. You mutter a quick apology and right yourself, but his hands linger, fingertips squeezing lightly into your skin. All of the chill of the night air is driven away at once as a heat rises to your face.

 

Your muscles lock, acutely aware of the man standing at your back. Not just any man, but a vampire. You’re alone in a dark hallway, in the wee hours of the morning, with your back turned to a vampire. He claims that his monstrous hunger no longer exists, but it doesn’t mean that blood no longer sustains or strengthens him.

 

“I only wish you would afford me the same courtesy…” the words echo in your head. You’re doubting him again.

 

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice tickling your ear. “Did you roll your ankle?”

 

He can see in the darkness - of course he knows that you did no such thing. “I’m fine,” you say weakly, taking a step forward. He doesn’t release you, instead moving with you.

 

“We’re almost there. Just a few more paces now - up and to the right.” He guides you the rest of the way like a heavy cloak. In front of the door, his hand slides down your arm and cups your hand, lifting it to the handle. You twist it, relieved when the door opens and moonlight spills through the porthole in the room. It’s still dark, but no longer unnaturally so.

 

You pull yourself away, your heart rate only slowly when you no longer feel his touch.

 

“Are you okay?” He asks again as the door clicks shut behind him, no longer whispering in the privacy of the chambers.

 

“Yes.” You bolt for the bed, eager to escape his gaze underneath the thin sheet.

 

“Are you certain? You haven’t taken a breath for at least a minute, and…” you can’t escape him, he’s grabbed your other hand opposite the one that opened the door. You look down at your hand as he uncurls your reluctant fingers. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence - your nails have left tiny, reddish pockmarks in your palm. Not enough to bleed - but close.

 

Satisfied you won’t break the flesh, he steps away from you and heads for the door.

 

“You’re not staying?” You blurt out in confusion.

 

His smirk has returned. “Why? Do you want me to?” He teases, knowing that you’ll reject it.

 

“I just thought - you said that -” That you share quarters. You assumed that meant he’d be turning in to get a spot of rest before the big day in the morning.

 

“We share quarters. I’m certain you’ll rest more easily knowing there isn’t a vampire sleeping two meters away ready to make a snack of you.”

 

“Then why did you-”

 

“It wouldn’t do anyone any good if you tripped and snapped your neck in the dark, would it? Goodnight, darling.”

 

You want to ask him to stay. But as you open your mouth, nothing comes out. 

 

It hardly matters - he’s gone.

                                                       

                                                         

---

 

Morning comes, and you’re surprised to wake up in time given your late night. You expect to meet Erliza tonight, and you put on a light layer of makeup just in case. If all goes well you’ll be able to properly ready yourself at an Inn on land - but in case things don’t go entirely according to plan you hope to look halfway decent. For the first day since you boarded the ship, your clothes are well-pressed and free of any holes (mended or otherwise) or discoloration. This particular ensemble was actually intended for Wyll - but Gretta retailored it to your measurements at your resistance to use the Ravengard funds to purchase clothes of your own. It’s a comfortable set, a flowy silk royal blue shirt and black trousers with subtle blue curls of embroidery at the pockets. Gretta did a fine job altering it, but there are still hints that it was meant for a more masculine shape. Your even nicer clothes will stay in your pack for now - there’s no sense in wearing them all day around town. If Westphal is anything like the stories, it would only put a target on your back. It’s best to save those for your meeting.

 

Only as you prepare to leave do you notice Astarion’s pack sticking out from underneath the cot. Strange - he had been keeping it glued to his side ever since the first time you’d inadvertently spilled the contents. You peek down the hallway to make sure he isn’t about to walk in, and then eye the parcel again, sucked in by your own dreadful curiosity. You kneel down and open it, but don’t find what you’re hoping for. It seems that whatever those papers were… he’s discarded them now. Perhaps disintegrated at the bottom of the sea by now. The bag free of crinkled paper, you don’t pry any longer, with no interest to dig through his clothing and supplies.

 

It’s time to go. You swing your own pack over your shoulder and ascend to the top deck, where you meet the group ready to disembark. The crew of the ship insists on remaining with the ship, refusing to dock at all. You’ll have to travel the remainder of the short distance in a rowboat barely large enough for the six of you.

 

Lae’zel and Shadowheart offer to row, leaving you to wring your hands and fixate on the small crowd gathering near the docks, watching your boat approach. As you get close enough to make out their features, you notice many carry weapons and wear armor in the colors of Amn. Although their occupation of the Isle has persisted for some time, it seems they still fear outside interference. But although their metal boots are close enough to touch as your tiny boat pulls up to an open spot at the docks, none draw a weapon. Instead, open hands extend in welcome, offering assistance up to the wooden platform. Gale, Shadowheart, and Jaheira accept the help without question, while Lae’zel jumps up on her own with her head held high - a show of strength. A warning. The dock creaks under her landing.

 

Astarion hides his struggle to cross the gap, a height meant for taller ships, but he manages it. After straightening himself and puffing up his chest like a bird he offers a hand to you, leaving you to choose between his and that of one of the strangers.

 

You choose the Westphal guard’s hand, feeling that there’s more safety in accepting their goodwill. On their turf, on a secluded island - you have no choice but to be polite. Astarion quickly brushes the hand he outstretched on his pants and looks around, perhaps hoping no one else had seen.

 

“Lady Daressin has been expecting you.” A man politely bows towards your group once you are all on muddy ground, steps away from the docks. He is a spindly, bald middle-aged gentleman with leathery, spotted tan skin that is mostly covered by grayish blue robes. “She unfortunately finds herself quite occupied with meetings today, but has made time in her schedule just after sunset. As an apology, she has offered to foot your bill at the Whispered Embrace so you might have a place to relax and recover from your travels.”

 

Up close, it hardly appears like an impoverished community, but there is presently a very rank smell of rotten fish that swirls your stomach.

 

“Thank you very much,” Gale says, ever chipper. “Nice to meet you, Sir…” he waits for a name.

 

“Valtor,” the man finishes with a nod. He holds a thick accent that you can’t quite place - it doesn’t sound Amnian. 

 

Valtor and a small retinue of others escort you through the streets of Westphal, which is bustling with life in the morning. Vendors line the streets in front of brightly painted buildings, selling all sorts of goods, loudly trying to one-up their competition several stalls or even blocks away. Nothing here suggests the miseries that the stories have told, but you don’t drop your guard. The smell quickly improves the further you move from the docks, overtaken with baking bread and sizzling meats. You’re so hungry for breakfast that you nearly stop and order a particularly delectable, puffy looking pastry from a stand decorated in pink, cyan, and white. But the group marches forward, and there’s no time. Perhaps later, after you’ve been shown to your accommodations.

 

“Your ship is free to dock, by the way - there is no need to leave her adrift so far out,” Valtor says.

 

“Our captain prefers to stay where he is,” Astarion interjects. 

 

“Hm. Very well then. It’s no trouble, we have room for all. Lady Daressin is happy to house all of your crew.” His milky eyes look out on the bay, easily picking out your ship from the bunch even faster than you can.

 

The Inn - The Whispered Embrace - is even more beautiful than many of the buildings around it. For such a small island with no tourist prospects, the inn seems entirely impractical. It looks like a miniature palace, the outside a clean, pure white stucco with golden metal accents and turquoise paint details around huge windows that require an impressive amount of intricate glasswork. Outdoor walkways connect several adjoining buildings, framed with exotic plants and flowers that seem to be sustained only by magic - there’s no other explanation for their flawless condition, otherwise out of place in their environment. As you walk by you’re overtaken by their intoxicating scent - both floral and fruity. In another life, the place might have been a brothel - but it puts both Sharess’ Caress and the Elfsong to shame.

 

You aren’t taken to any sort of front desk or innkeep, and instead Valtor leads you straight back through a maze of gardened, covered breezeways to a structure near the back. The stunning architecture from the front building persists even back here, gold spent just as liberally on the constructions tucked away from the main streets. The back of your accommodation nearly touches the back of the bright white wall that surrounds the entire compound, though it has a sprawling yard around it with what appears to be a small, private hot spring at the side. It’s an impressive sight to behold - and a fight to temper your reaction. It would not be smart to get too comfortable here.

 

Valtor hands a key to Gale, who has very much not been controlling the giddiness on his face, talking excitedly with Valtor for the duration of the walk. About what, you aren’t sure - you weren’t interested enough to listen. Instead you were drinking in your surroundings, scoping out every spot that someone might hide to listen in or stage an ambush. The layout of the Inn makes these places unfortunately numerous.

The suite you’ve been granted is spacious enough to sleep everyone comfortably, with four bedrooms sharing two beds. It really isn’t a room at all…but an entire house spread across one floor with a small kitchen, dining area, and a very modern washroom with a bathtub large enough to fit an ogre. Valtor happily shows Gale around while the rest of you stand just inside of the entrance, waiting for the stranger to leave. You share disconcerted gazes with one another, even as Shadowheart finds the confidence to gingerly sit on one of the stiff sofas that looks as if it’s just been installed.

 

“Does this feel… wrong to you?” She whispers, tracing a pale hand along the seam of the cushion. 

 

You nod.

 

“They’re distracting us from something,” Astarion agrees, stealthily pushing back a gauzy lavender curtain with a single finger to peek out the window at the guards that escorted your group alongside Valtor.

 

No one speaks again until the escort leaves you in peace, promising to return later to show you all to Caer Westphal.

 

“Enjoy your tour?” Jaheira asks Gale sarcastically, arms crossed over her chest.

 

Gale’s expression fades to something more serious. “You don’t honestly believe I was interested in that drivel, do you?” He clicks his tongue. “I was hoping he’d give me something useful.”

 

His blind excitement was not so blind then - it was an act. He’s more clever than you give him credit for.

 

“And did he?”

 

“Well… no,” Gale sighs. “But perhaps if he trusts me, it might help later.”

 

You catch Astarion rolling his eyes.

 

With Valtor and the guards gone, you allow yourself to relax. This is what you hoped for - better than you hoped for. An opportunity to clean yourself up and look presentable before meeting Erliza. 

 

You seal yourself inside of the washroom before anyone else can get the opportunity, eager to scrub the salt air from your skin and hair.

Chapter 12: Scrutiny

“Are you sure inviting him along was a good idea?” Shadowheart whispers when she’s sure that Astarion’s out of earshot. She keeps looking over her shoulder, expecting him to pop up at any moment.

 

You’re making camp for the night. It’s just the three of you, but he’s gone off to make himself useful elsewhere for now. At least… you think. Hopefully finding firewood, or some sort of food. For all you know he could have already disappeared, never to be seen again. It’s why you’ve kept your belongings close to you, however limited they might be after the Nautiloid crash. 

 

“He’s like us. What choice do we have? We have a better chance together.”

 

A lie. No one survives a mindflayer parasite. 

 

“He nearly killed you.”

 

“But he didn’t.” Does it matter? There’s no telling how long you’ll live anyway. It could be hours - maybe days, if you’re lucky. You don’t have much to lose by trusting him, and truthfully… you don’t trust her either. Not completely. Shadowheart is keeping secrets. “At least he seems… capable.”

 

She snorts. “Capable. Interesting. We should take turns on watch tonight - forgive me for being a touch hesitant about a man who would hold a knife to your neck.”

 

A pretty neck - those were the words he’d used. Something tells you the most dangerous thing about Astarion isn’t his dagger. His words, his face - he’s a man made to break hearts.

 

“I have no doubt that the two of us could take him together, but have you noticed that his footsteps barely make a sound? I worry he might have the upper hand if we aren’t expecting it.”

 

A twig cracking nearby sends you both jumping, but a quick survey of the area around you reveals nothing. The heavy sensation of being watched hangs over you like a cloud.

 

“We’ll take turns on watch,” you concur with a whisper

 

 

---

 

Never one to waste the luxury of a bath, you soak until your flesh prunes and the scalding water turns to ice. The journey over on the ship admittedly didn’t allow for the best hygiene practices - even with a few magical amenities available. Nothing could hold a candle to the monstrous bath you rest in now. It dwarfs the washrooms at the Ravengard Estate, though might be rivaled by the updated ones in the Crimson Palace. You’ve had to reassure your companions several times that you’re still alive - but you realize after an uncertain amount of time that no one has bothered you for some time now. You eventually decide that it’s selfish to hoard the bath to yourself, and drag yourself out, wrapping a plush mint green towel around your wrinkled skin. 

Only when you exit the washroom, dressed in your finer clothes and makeup reapplied, do you realize why everyone has left you alone for some time now. They’re all gorging themselves on a spread of brunch that has been delivered. Food so perfect it almost appears to be a conjured illusion. A welcomed indulgence after whatever colorless and unidentifiable mush served on the ship.

 

“Nice of you to warn me that there was food,” you grumble, picking up a cold piece of toast coated in a pinkish-yellow colored jam.

 

“Would it have gotten you out of there any faster?” Shadowheart asks.

 

You shrug. Probably not. The jam is divine - a tart but sugary flavor you’ve never tasted before that reminds you of summer. Something between strawberry and citrus. You only regret that the toast isn’t warmer.

 

The look Jaheira now gives you suggests that she very much has not forgotten about the thing you’ve been trying to avoid. But surely even she can recognize that now isn’t the time to bring it up - it would be better dealt with after all of this nonsense in Westphal is over.

 

Astarion is apart from the others, not sharing in their spirits - brooding by a partially curtained window. You’re drawn to him, who sits in a fluffy chair more suited for a grandmother’s cottage with one leg swung dramatically over the other. He’s either had his fill or is choosing not to partake in the food - neither would be surprising for the vampire.

 

“I thought you were looking out for me,” you joke, only just remembering to swallow before you open your mouth. “You really let me waste away in a bath over a proper meal?”

 

“Hm. Weren’t you just accusing me last night of not being able to leave you alone?”

 

“I’m… sorry about that.” Your shoulders drop. You know better than to let your guard down - you can’t trust his motives yet - but there’s no point in making things harder and risking the relationship entirely if he is being honest. “I just-”

“You aren’t ready to trust anyone yet. I understand.”

 

You give a careful nod. 

 

“But, tempting as it was to recall you from your bath - I thought it might be best to let them eat first. What if it were poisoned?” His tone suggests it’s a joke, but you must hear some truth in it.

 

“Does it make a difference if I die of poison or starvation?”

 

“If you’re terribly worried about it, you’re welcome to join me in immortality.”

 

He winks and gestures towards the armchair beside him. You hesitate, looking back over at your other companions and the brunch, and then the empty chair in the quiet corner next to Astarion. Both have seemingly accepted you back into the fold, but you’ve only been entirely honest with one. The way that Jaheira is looking at you makes your skin crawl. Why does the seat beside Astarion look so much more inviting than the one at the table with everyone else? 

 

“Why… are you over here by yourself?” 

 

“The masses bore me. And I can’t say that Jaheira has been particularly warm to me lately.”

 

“Isolating yourself won’t help your image.”

 

“Am I isolated if you’re at my side?”

 

Your mouth goes dry.

 

“But… by all means. Go off with them. Eat, be merry.”

 

“I will,” you lie. The only thing that calls you is another bit of food - you could take or leave their companionship.

 

“But wait just a moment, darling,” he sings. When you turn back to him he’s smirking, now leaning forward in the chair. He beckons you forward as if to offer a secret.

 

When you get close enough, he reaches out to you before you can pull away. His finger brushes against your lip, injecting an icy current directly into your heart. As you jolt away, he brings the finger to his own lips in amusement, making a show of suckling jam from his finger. Jam that had been stuck on your face just a moment ago

 

“ Delicious .”

 

Too stunned to say anything, your mouth hangs open.

 

“What? You had jam on your face. Did you expect me to let you walk around with it, making a fool of yourself?”

You already feel like a fool, your face much warmer than before. A moment like that felt far too intimate - and he relishes in embarrassing you. Any desire you had to sit beside him fades, although another sort of desire plants itself in your gut. No. That can’t be right. Astarion is a rake, and a flirt, and - he can’t be trusted.

You hurry back towards the meal without another word, your heart throwing itself against your ribcage.

 

“Are you well?” Gale asks. “You look paler than usual.”

 

The comment affords you more scrutiny from Jaheira - maybe she’s assessing whether your pallor means that you’ve crossed over to the side of the… unliving.

 

“Malnourishment, probably,” you say quickly, loading up your plate with a little bit of everything that remains. “I’m sure it will straighten out with this.”

 

“Well, it’s no match for my meals on the road, but our hosts have been quite generous at least.” Gale’s chair grinds against the floor as he scoots over, giving you more room.

 

Your eyes flicker back over to Astarion, but he’s not looking at you to make a judgment - his eyes are fixed on a point far out of the window, a scowl on his face. You sit at the table and try to relax. Being around others still feels strange, even now. Lae’zel might feel similarly, from her unnatural posture and erratic gaze. Out of everyone, she’s been the most… quiet. Her body is here, but her mind is elsewhere. Despite your limited interactions with her, there’s a silent bond between you - two souls shoved to the back of Baldur’s Gate’s memory and left to rot. In her case, it’s less surprising - changing the collective opinion about the githyanki is a job that doesn’t happen overnight.

 

If you find yourself coming to more power… you’ll do something about that. But first you need to get them to notice you.

 

You spend most of your meal silent, concentrating on having your fill of the meal while your friends converse. They’re already waist-deep in a conversation that you don’t have all of the context for, likely because of your extended isolation over the past year. You glance over at Lae’zel, and give her a tiny smile of acknowledgement - she’s also been away for far too long. In response she gives a tiny bob of her head - message received. 

 

If you’re exchanging silent conversations with Lae’zel, you aren’t looking across the room at Astarion.

 

---

 

When Astarion comes back to camp that night, Shadowheart tenses. Her shoulders are tight, wound up like the strings of a lyre on the precipice of snapping. A shame too, when she’s only just relaxed. She’s hiding something from you - you only trust her marginally more than Astarion.

 

He notices her shift in demeanor immediately and rolls his eyes. “I come bearing gifts,” he says undeterred. “Food, unless you’d prefer to starve.”

 

She’s thinking about starving, as she eyes the dirty linen sack in his hand. He throws it to the ground at her feet with a thud, crossing his arms.

 

“Considering that you tried to assassinate her earlier, forgive me for being wary.” She pokes at the bag with the toe of her boot, and an apple peeks out from the fold. 

 

Your adrenaline hasn’t fallen since the fall of the ship, and only at the sight of its shiny, slightly-bruised red skin do you realize your own hunger. The sack on the ground looks mostly flat, with only a few lumps indicating that there’s anything inside. Not enough for three people. Not enough for three starving people.

 

Astarion appears to have a bit more color to his pale complexion though - you wonder how much he’s eaten on the way. Probably bringing the scraps to you after gorging himself, if his appearance is anything to go off of. He also looks considerably cleaner, as though he’s washed himself and his clothing off somewhere - but you see no trace of anything damp.

 

“An apple,” Shadowheart says unenthusiastically. “This is what we’re meant to share between the three of us?”

“There’s more in the bag.”

 

“Good at holding knives to throats, bad at hunting,” you sigh.

 

“The wildlife isn’t as gullible,” he retorts. “If you’re going to be ungrateful about it you might remember that I’ve spent my life as a magistrate. Not frolicking around in the woods like some sort of druid.”

 

Shadowheart bends over and picks up the bag, peeking inside, before audibly groaning. “This isn’t enough to feed a child.”

 

“Well, then next time feed your bloody selves.”

 

“You’ve clearly had your fill of something,” you argue, before he can storm away.

 

He doesn’t bother denying it, ignores the both of you, and sprawls himself out near a tree with his back turned.

 

Shadowheart shakes her head. “Bastard. I say we just leave him.” She doesn’t pass up his offering though, and happily bites into the fruit in her hand.

 

He might rub you the wrong way, but that would be taking it too far. “No,” you say quickly enough that it surprises you. “I mean - we’re all doomed to the same fate if we don’t find an answer. He can fight. Our chances are better with three.”

 

You don’t have the heart to leave him alone. 

 

“If nothing else… we should stick together so that if any of us transform, we can…”

 

You can’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need to.

 

She understands.

 

---

 

You spring on the opportunity to speak with Lae’zel alone when it presents itself. You’ve followed her out to the courtyard surrounding your accommodation, where she is stalking around and paying far too much attention to every bush that she passes.

 

“Something’s on your mind.”

 

She takes a moment to register that you’re speaking with her - snapping to attention as if you’ve caught her doing something inappropriate. She quickly softens and her voice lowers. “This place…. I have concerns.”

 

You do too. “Care to elaborate?” You brace yourself for whatever she brings up next.

 

“They have the upper hand on us here. We are like sitting geese.” 

 

You bite your lip to avoid telling her that that isn’t quite the expression she’s looking for. Sitting ducks. “It would be suicide for them to attempt anything rash.” 

 

An assault on you would be an assault on Wyll - and the city would never stand for it. You assume. You don’t put much faith in the Council anymore - but they likely wouldn’t take a death or a hostage situation quietly. Proving the strength of Baldur’s Gate is paramount over anything and everything else. But still, it’s unlikely that you have anything to fear. You doubt that your demise will be met in Westphal. No, Erliza has something on you - she’s looking for a deal. Not a kill. Amn may be known to warmonger on occasion - but it wouldn’t begin with two minor political figures on a colony island.

 

For now.

 

“I do not trust this place.” Lae’zel holds her ground. Unlike everyone else, she hasn’t left her weapons to the side, still donning a battle-worn set of armor.

 

“You’re right not to - I’m sure they have ears everywhere.” The surrounding lodges appear empty - the outsides clean and well-manicured but the windows dark with curtains drawn. Even as mid-afternoon nears, no one else is walking around aside from a few guards who pretend to pay you no mind. They were expecting you to arrive with a larger party.

 

“Hm.”

 

Not up for much of a chat today, it seems. “You’re…quiet.”

 

“I owe no one my words. Only my sword.” she’s looking past you.

 

“You don’t owe anyone that either.” It’s surprising she’s come along at all - her fight isn’t yet over.

 

Her lips tighten, and she’s impossible to read. “Of course I do.”

 

“What do you-”

 

She holds up a hand. “Never mind. Let me return to committing our surroundings to memory. I do not wish to be surprised by ill intentions.”

 

“Also,” she tilts her head up and to the side as a hint, “Someone is watching you.” 

 

Watching? You turn and make a brief connection of eye contact with Astarion before you whip around and sever it. He’s leaning against the wall near the door that you exited - and even though you’ve turned back you still feel his eyes burning through the back of your neck. Lae’zel has already begun to walk away from you, leaving you standing in place with a choice to make. You try not to dwell on her choice of words. Watching you . Specifically. Not us. And someone in the fraction of a second that your eyes met, you felt it too. It was no coincidence that he was looking in your direction.

 

After wrangling your pounding heart into submission, you find the will to return to the building, keep your chin up, and maintain eye contact with him for the entire distance. An unspoken staring contest that you won’t let him win - it’s silly at all that you’d start to feel meek around him now. What’s gotten into you?

 

Attraction.

 

It’s always been there on some level - but you’ve been locking it away, stuffing it in a box deep in the recesses of your soul. Refusing to acknowledge that on a purely physical level… you’ve yearned for him the moment you felt his teeth in your neck. It’s been easily kept at bay with his constantly sour attitude and off-putting tendency to flirt with anything with a pulse. Nothing but trouble can come from someone like that. He uses his charm as a weapon, careful and pointed, ready to hit a lethal nerve at any sign of weakness. The knowledge is enough to strengthen your resolve. Sometimes you wish all of the blood in your body was gone - if only to spare you the embarrassment of it rising into your face. 

 

“You look well,” he comments as you approach. “The meal and sun have given you some color again.” 

The stupid smirk on his face warns you that your face might be a shade pinker than you’d like. 

 

You hesitate on a response just long enough for him to quip, “Though I admit I rather prefer the pallor of your flesh after a meal under the starlight. This is nice too.”

 

You balk in embarrassment, unable to believe he’s goading you again . He enjoys this. “Astarion!”

 

He reaches for your fist, balled up at your side, encouraging you to release your fingers. “Darling, remember. It’s important not to show rash emotion when someone riles you up. Especially when meeting a foreign dignitary.”

 

“So what then?” You ask indignantly. “You’re testing me now?”

He shrugs. “I’ll stop testing you when you stop reacting. I need a strong business partner.” 

 

“Do you have anything important to share with me or are you just here to torment me?” You hate how he tugs you back and forth. One moment you feel guilty for your attitude towards him, but then he reminds you just why you felt that way in the first place.

 

He points at the door. “Inside.”

 

Normally you would resent the way he seems to utter the word like an order, but in this particular circumstance… you get it. There are others out here, and you don’t like the way that one guard seems to have adjusted his path to come closer as you speak with Astarion. You just nod and follow him back inside, where you hear the others still chatting at the dining table.

 

“Do you intend to go alone to speak with Erliza?”

 

It isn’t a question you’re expecting. “That depends.” You were intending on speaking to her alone. “I mean… I don’t intend on going alone, but I was hoping our conversation would remain private.” 

 

“Allow me to go with you. To speak with her.”

 

Jaheira won’t like you playing favorites - she already seems convinced you’re eating from Astarion’s palm. 

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say reflexively. You have no idea what she thinks she knows about you, but you’d rather not face the embarrassment in front of him.

 

“Of course it is. If the rumors about her are true, having me along will give you the upper hand. For one, I’ll know whether she is or is not immediately. And if she is, my gifts grant me a certain… power over other undead.”

 

You find it hard to argue. “I don’t want things to get messy.”

 

“I will be there strictly for defensive purposes.”

 

It isn’t a bad idea, but you still have your reservations. “If you know what she is immediately, she’ll know too. It might be better for you to stay behind entirely.” A secret weapon to keep in your back pocket.

 

“Please allow me to accompany you.” A pained expression flickers across his face - clearly the word please is difficult for him. “If something happens to you, our entire plan falls apart.”

 

“And I’ll have no choice but to bring you back. You’d be my spawn - and you’d absolutely detest that, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Shut up,” you groan, stomach flipping. “Fine. You can come.”

Chapter 13: Tea Party

“You let him drink from you again, didn’t you?” 

 

You freeze in place, pulling your wet hair instinctively over one shoulder to hide the marks that betray the truth. You sink into the chilly river water that bubbles calmly downstream, glittering under the moonlight.

 

“What? Absolutely not.” You can’t meet Karlach’s critical gaze, as she stands on the riverbank in her undergarments. It seems you weren’t the only one planning on bathing tonight.

 

“You’re telling me the marks aren’t fresh then?” She steps into the water unphased by the cold and wades towards you. 

 

“They aren’t,” you insist. “They just don’t heal well.” 

 

Even with magical means, vampire bites are persistent things.

 

She raises an eyebrow. “Wyll would be devastated, you know, if he knew you were doing that.”

 

“I’m not doing anything. You should know that better than anyone - your bedroll is at most a meter away from mine.” You get the impression that she’s been keeping an unusually close eye on you since your last conversation about this.

 

“You’ve been leaving Wyll behind at camp a lot. And me.” Her crossed arms express her displeasure at the fact.

“I… I don’t want him to get hurt.”

 

Karlach snorts. “You’re fucking kidding, right? Wyll? The Blade of Frontiers? What better person to have on your team?”

 

“I…” 

 

“What, are you afraid of him seeing you covered in the blood and guts of your enemies? I’m sure he can handle that. He’s a tough one.”

 

You sink further into the water, digging your toes into the gritty bottom. “No, that’s not-”

 

Her expression softens. “I get it. You don’t want to see someone you care about in danger. In battle, it can be distracting. But he hates it, you know - when you all leave at the ass crack of dawn and don’t wake us. I hate it too, to be bloody honest. You're taking all of the brains and leaving the brawn behind!”

 

You both float in silence for several minutes, only snapping to attention when you hear a nearby rustling. You duck under the water to your nose, making slow motions towards the shore where your clothes… and weapons wait in a pile.

 

It’s Wyll who steps out of the forest, and you share a relieved look with Karlach as you both relax.

 

“Wyll!” You exclaim, suddenly very aware that under the dark water you aren’t wearing any clothing.

 

He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, his eyes flickering over to you from Karlach - the larger woman a more obvious presence in the river. “Oh! Gods, there… you are.” Noticing your bare shoulders, he turns his body slightly away from you. “It’s, um… good to see that neither of you are alone out here - perhaps I best be on my way.”

“I did tell you where I would be,” you remind. You’re still getting used to informing others of your next move.

 

“You’ve been gone for some time now,” he scratches the back of his neck as he tries not to look at you. There’s nothing for him to see in the darkness - is he truly that modest? “But in any case… I see that Karlach is with you and you’re both well, so perhaps I’ll see you back at camp?”

 

“Hey, wait!” Karlach cries, water splashing around her as she starts towards the river bank.  Wyll is already hurrying away. “I can leave you both with some alone time-”

 

Wyll slips away faster than she can make it to shore. She looks back at you. “Sorry. I would have given you both alone time. I didn’t know he’d be coming.”

 

“It’s better that you didn’t,” you say quickly. Even if she hadn’t been there, nothing would have happened - Wyll has made his intentions clear. “Besides, I’ve been gone at least an hour - if he was looking for something romantic I would think he would have come by much sooner. He was only checking on me.”

                                                         

---

 

A carriage comes for you at sunset - certainly not big enough for your entire party. At most, it will fit four. Everyone stands around looking at one another, realizing the circumstances.

 

“It’s fine,” you reassure quietly, just out of earshot of the guards sent to accompany you. “It’s better if we aren’t all together - if we don’t return, the people that stay back will know something’s wrong. But… I don’t think it’s wise to have a group of just two, either. We should break up into three and three.”

 

“I’ve already promised to accompany her,” Astarion announces to your companions. If you were standing closer, you’d give him a sharp elbow for speaking on your behalf.

 

Jaheira crosses her arms and lifts her chin. “Oh?”

 

“Don’t look so cross with me, Jaheira,” Astarion says sweetly. “In fact, I was just about to recommend that you be the third person to come along with us.”

 

What is he thinking? Jaheira? After everything you -

 

No. Of course - it’s the right move. If she’s with the both of you, she can’t blow your secret while you’re gone.

 

“Why?” She asks suspiciously. She’s trying to figure out his game.

 

“Well, I doubt it’s wise to take Lae’zel . I’m not sure we’ll be as warmly welcomed if we waltz in with a githyanki at our side.”

 

Lae’zel glares at him, taking a threatening step forward, but Shadowheart puts a gentle hand on her bicep and pulls her back. 

 

Astarion wraps an arm around Jaheira’s shoulders, and then yours, squeezing the three of you together. “The three of us are perfect for this. Our invitee, a vampire, and someone…worldly. Wise.”

 

“And pray tell, what do you mean by that , Astarion?” Jaheira asks. “That I am old?”

 

He’s saved by the footman that approaches your group. “Please, we must be on our way. Lady Erliza does not like to be kept waiting.”

 

“Right. Of course,” you nod. “Let’s get going then.” You prepare yourself for a painful carriage ride as you step into the small box. It’s nothing luxurious, and between the three of you, it’s hard to give the others personal space. You’re immediately glad that a fourth person didn’t come - there isn’t enough room for your knees.

 

Astarion slides in beside you, offering a hand back to help Jaheira up to sit on the other side. She pointedly rejects his help, pressing herself as far away from the both of you as she can get.

 

The door closes behind her, and all of the air is sucked out of the box.

 

“I do not like that she separates us,” Jaheira says.

 

“She may be wary to invite others into her home,” Astarion suggests.

 

The carriage jerks into motion beneath you, the wheels squeaking on the cobblestone.

 

“She might be sending a message - it’s possible she’ll only speak with me.” But what could she possibly want from you?

 

“You should be careful,” Jaheira warns, as if you don’t know better. Careful. The careful ship has long sailed. Careful would have been not coming here at all.

 

“No, Jaheira. You should be careful,” Astarion quips. He’s smiling, but there’s a threat lurking underneath. 

 

She shifts in her seat, hand moving to a weapon at her side. You don’t know who to look at. “What are you-”

 

Jaheira lunges across the carriage at Astarion, a dagger drawn, but he’s too fast for her. He dodges to the side, leaving her to stumble forward and smack her forehead against the wall of the carriage exactly where his own head had been seconds before. She grunts a curse under her breath and turns to see Astarion in her old seat, one leg draped casually over the other.

 

Before she can make another move for him, you lean forward and thrust your hands out between both of them. “Not here! We can’t show them any kind of instability between us.” It’s critical that you don’t offer them something they can exploit on a silver platter.

 

“I knew I didn’t trust you,” Jaheira spits - but it’s meant for Astarion, not you. She puts away her dagger.

 

“Watch yourself, Jaheira,” he warns, amusement in his voice. “Our friend might have standards… but I don’t. And I should warn you, if you don’t keep our secret… I’m not above making you keep it. One way or another.”

 

She bristles, turning to you. “This is how it’s going to be then?” She throws an arm out towards him in disbelief. “You’re going to let him get away with this behavior?”

 

“Keep it down! Both of you,” you snap. “This isn’t the place for this. They could be listening.” If you’ve learned anything - it’s that the nobility have ears everywhere. Whoever it is that was sent to pick you up would be a loyal dog of Erliza. The carriage isn’t expensive enough to offer much soundproofing to the driver outside.

 

“So that’s it then? You are going to let him get away with it? Whose side are you on?” Mercifully, she does lower her voice a bit.

 

“I’m not letting anyone get away with anything - we’re all adults here. But we can talk about this later. Right now I need both of you.”

 

You glare at Astarion. Had this been his plan the entire time? Had he brought Jaheira along only to threaten her into silence?

No more words are exchanged for the duration of the ride to Caer Westphal.

                                                       

---

 

 

The monstrous building that you enter looms over you, a dark shadow against the cloudy night sky. It’s strikingly different from the colorful streets that the carriage pulled you through. Somewhere between a fortress and a castle, it’s no wonder that Erliza has earned herself the vampire rumor. Even with torchlight periodically lighting up the facade, the dark stone soaks most of it up.

 

“What a dreadful place,” Astarion comments just loudly enough for you and Jaheira to hear - he’d hate to offend the host.

 

You notice him shrink back as the guards start to lead you through the hallways - much of the bravado suddenly knocked out of him.

 

The decor is strikingly similar to Cazador’s - before Astarion had redecorated most of it. Beyond the decor, the castle holds the same heaviness in the air, like the same layer of dust has been recycled over and over again for generations. It still doesn’t mean she’s a vampire - it just means that the furniture, paintings, and upholstery are old. But the familiar atmosphere is undeniable.

 

Almost instinctively, you reach out and give Astarion’s hand a quick squeeze, noticing the discomfort in his body language. You haven’t seen him like this since… since you entered Cazador’s palace for the first time. He gives you a questioning look, and you’re both caught off guard by the moment.

 

He stands up a little straighter, and you yank your hand away. “What?” He asks in a huff. “Scared?”

 

No. But he is. You shake your head and keep walking forwards, keeping him in your peripheral vision. How strange. You thought that ascending had made him immune - long over his fear of Cazador. And even now, he seems to have brushed off whatever had just taken hold of him as he stands tall with his chin up and shoulders back.

 

The guard you’re following instructs you to wait at a heavy double door made of cedar and iron - but it turns out you don’t need to. The doors burst open and nearly knock him off of his feet, and the lady of the castle herself is beckoning you in.

 

“Welcome Duke Ravengard… and… company,” she smiles, and her gaze lingers on Astarion a bit longer than normal. Has she already figured out his true nature?

 

The guard seems to protest against the informal introduction, but she waves her hand, dismissing him away.

 

“Please come in,” she insists, gesturing to a set of couches around a low table. They seem out of place in the cavernous room - too homey for an audience room. As if they’ve been dragged in solely for this occasion.

 

The three of you follow her, but no one moves to be the first person seated as she watches you expectantly. You give in first, allowing yourself to take a seat, though still bewildered by her. She is… louder than you expected, and much more cheerful. Her clothes are just as drab as the castle, but she’s animated enough that you don’t notice. You don’t catch a scent of death on her - only strong spring flowers. Jaheira allows herself to sit beside you, but Astarion stands just behind the couch, just over your shoulder.

 

Erliza seats herself across from you, fluffing out her large skirts. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she says sweetly enough.

 

You bite your tongue to avoid making a comment along the lines of ‘of course I did - that tends to happen when you blackmail someone.’

 

“I sincerely hope your journey here wasn’t too difficult.”

 

Jaheira huffs beside you, and you think about making a sarcastic comment about the pirates, but don’t. The less she knows, the better.

 

“Why have you invited me here?” It’s better to just cut to the chase. Niceties be damned.

 

“Oh?” She’s taken aback for a moment, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Of course. I understand you must be terribly busy - filling in for a Grand Duke can’t be easy, I imagine.”

 

“It isn’t. The Council isn’t too pleased with my little vacation.” Something unsettles you about her eyes - the way they seem to be staring into the corners of your mind, poking around for something. But you’re careful not to show your unease, remembering Astarion’s advice to you. “What encouraged you to call me here so urgently, that it could not have waited for the true Duke Ravengard to return? Is it not proper etiquette for you to take on the burden of travel if you’re in need of me?”

 

“Of course.” She picks up a teacup in front of her and takes a dainty sip. There are cups laid out for each of you, but you have no interest in it. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a traveler though - I just get so terribly seasick.”

 

She pretends to be focused on you - but you know that her gaze is actually behind you. On Astarion. Whether she’s still trying to figure him out, or if she’s simply attracted to him - you can’t be sure. “Who are your friends?” 

 

You take a deep breath. She’s avoiding the question - but it might be an intentional choice, a response to your rudeness. You should have introduced them right away - that would have been the more formal thing to do.

 

“These are my close friends - and friends of Duke Ravengard - Jaheira and Astarion.”

 

“Hmm. Yes - I might have heard stories. You all defeated the Absolute, no?”

 

“Yes,” Astarion answers from behind, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Although our fearless leader here did most of the work.”

 

Erliza cocks an eyebrow. “Oh? That isn’t what the reports say.” 

 

“The reports are understated. Many seek to give Wyll the credit as the poster child of Baldur’s Gate, however… the true brains of the operation sits before you.”

 

Your mouth goes dry, painfully aware that his hand still lingers on your shoulder. You should say something.

 

“Is that so?” Erliza presses you.

 

“Well… not alone-” A squeeze of his hand puts you in place. He’s given you an opening - it isn’t the time to show weakness. “What I mean to say is yes. But I couldn’t have done it alone.”

 

Your hostess nods enthusiastically, but not without suspicion. “Interesting that the Duke would just… vanish then - after taking all of the credit.” She leans forward to retrieve her teacup again, taking a sip.

 

“He hasn’t vanished. He’s gone off to do something of critical importance. I’m filling in for his absence.”

 

“Well I suppose if he were to leave the city in the hands of anyone, why not make it the true savior? But I still don’t understand. Tell me why Ravengard is given all of the glory.”

 

“I never cared for the spotlight. I suppose that Wyll is a better figurehead. He certainly makes for a better story - it’s easier for his people to digest.” 

 

She’s right though. The resentment is louder in your mind than ever.

 

“It matters not,” Astarion says. “They are engaged, after all - his success is her success.” 

 

You lurch forward, only just able to hide your surprise. Even Jaheira keeps a straighter face than you. She at least knows better than to betray a secret in front of someone who has not yet proven themself friend or enemy.

 

Engaged ? Why would he lie about a thing like that? The thought of being engaged now turns your stomach. Thank the gods you aren’t engaged.

 

“Oh, truly? Such happy news! Please let me extend my warmest congratulations.”

 

Erliza’s reactions are so authentic, that it brings your thoughts back to the letter she sent you. What does she think that she knows?

 

“Thank you,” you force a smile. “I am so hoping that he returns soon so we can work out the details of that. But I really must ask again what you called me here for that could not be addressed through correspondence.”

 

Her empty teacup softly clatters on the table. “I really must insist that we speak alone about that.”

 

You look at Jaheira, who just gives you a small shrug, and then crane your neck behind you to look at Astarion, who has backed off from you. 

 

“Alone. Of course.”

 

She sends her sentinels at the door away with your companions, ensuring that they’ll be treated to a dinner selection for their troubles. True to her word, alone means alone on her end as well - it’s just the two of you now, swallowed by the massive room. The building is from a darker time in history indeed - austere and practical, with minimal artwork. The candles burn down quickly, unaided by magic. A possible sign that there’s a magical barrier in this room preventing any sort of spell from being cast.

 

“Enough of this. Tell me what it is you want from me.”

 

Her smile grows bigger as she drinks the last of her tea. “I know that your fiance isn’t coming back.”

Notes:

I think you're going to like the next chapter. :)

Chapter 14: Surface Tension

Fuck .

 

She may as well have just reached across the table and slapped you.

 

She knows.

 

How does she know?

 

Nobody knows. And there’s absolutely no gods’ damned way the stewardess of this random island knows. It doesn’t matter how she knows, you decide. At least not for now. It matters what she wants.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, expending a great deal of effort to keep your voice even. If you've betrayed any look of surprise on your face, you want her to think it's because she's presenting you with new information. “Wyll and I are in regular communication, even as far away as he is. Unless you’re suggesting that you know something that I don’t?”

 

Erliza’s lip twitches. “I may not travel much myself - but I have plenty of eyes in the city…and elsewhere. Eyes that say that Wyll Ravengard hasn’t once returned since leaving to Avernus over a year ago.”

 

This is good. You didn’t immediately fold under her pressure, and now she’s giving you information. You might still hold power in this conversation yet. For some reason, she’s been keeping an eye on the political climates around her. That can be dangerous. It’s possible that she only thinks she knows something, and it’s only a coincidence that there’s any truth to it.

 

There is a darker possibility that sprouts. That she knows because she wrote and sent the letter. Would she have had any of Wyll’s handwriting available to her to make such a convincing forgery? Accusing her of that would require her confirming that she knew that the letter existed at all - it’s too early to pull that from your pocket. And by the gods, is that a truth that you could accept?

It hasn’t occurred to you until now that someone else could have written the letter, but it brings up more questions that spring around in your head like rogue spells on a battlefield. If Wyll didn't write that letter... why hasn't he written at all? Or has he, and they've been intercepted? You've only just come around to accepting and moving on from his betrayal. But what if there was no betrayal?

 

You’re getting ahead of yourself. You have to be very careful about what comes from your mouth at this point.

 

“Wyll has been on a very important mission in Avernus, in part on behalf of a good friend of ours. Nothing about that suggests to me that he isn’t returning. Unless you t hink you know something further.”

 

“I have eyes everywhere, dear girl,” she says, the texture of her voice suddenly sounding much older. Her age is ambiguous - seeming somewhere between twenty and forty for a human woman. On your first impression, she’d seemed younger, but the more she speaks the more she ages. There is a wisdom and poise to her that only comes with years of experience.

 

Eyes… in Avernus ? What has she been up to?

 

She leans over to pour herself another cup of tea - her teapot is separate from the one offered to you, and the way she pours masks the contents properly from you. You try and get a peek at the dark liquid, but she’s an expert at positioning her cup in such a way that makes it impossible. It’s silly to try and guess whether there’s blood in it - you’re sure that Astarion will tell you later. But now, being alone in a room with Erliza, you start to feel a growing sense of danger. Although you aren’t entirely unarmed, you left behind any offensive or threatening weapons that were too large or difficult to conceal. There’s no guessing if Astarion and Jaheira are just outside the door, or across the castle by now.

 

“Then tell me plainly. What makes you so certain that my fiance isn’t coming back?” The f-word stumbles on your tongue. Once you might have dreamed of it. You did dream of it. Now it tastes rotten, like fruit soured in the summer heat. You could kill Astarion for setting you up with this lie, as if you aren’t also trying to carefully balance a different one. It's only a matter of time before one of the plates you're spinning falls and shatters.

 

“Perhaps I’ll tell you, if you agree to my terms.”

 

“I trust Wyll,” you stand up. If she doesn’t believe that she has any power over you… this could still go away. “Whatever it is you think you know, I’m almost certain you don’t. I can’t believe I entertained the idea of coming here at all, Lady Daressin.”

 

“I have proof,” she says calmly, standing to match you. “And unless you want me to send on that proof to Baldur’s Mouth … I suggest that you listen.”

 

Her lyrical voice washes over you at that moment, and you sit back down. That’s a risk you can’t take.

 

Was that…? Did she just attempt to charm you? 

 

Setting Astarion’s plan into motion is more urgent than ever - getting some of the forged letters published could offer some protection against whatever Erliza has on you - but only if they’re published first. If she attempts to smear you or Wyll first, their authenticity will be doubted - it will look like damage control.

 

“What proof?” You demand.

 

“Hmm. I’m afraid I can’t say unless you agree to help me.”

 

“What do you want, Lady Daressin?”

 

“Well, I was initially only going to ask for some artifacts from Baldur’s Gate. Some things that were stolen from my family long ago by a certain late Lord Cazador. But… fortunately for you my plan has evolved a bit since your arrival. What I want now is… company. I’d like to ask you and your companions to stay in my castle for a while.”

 

Everything about this new plan of hers sets you on edge. “I’ll take my chance with the artifacts,” you say. Astarion was more than eager to get rid of every trace of Cazador - you can’t imagine he’ll be too upset to part with some of them. “What is it you’re looking for, exactly?”

 

She laughs. “No, I must insist. I admit that I was initially hoping for material gain from this arrangement… but upon meeting all of you… I’ve found something more intriguing. I seek your friendship, Duke Ravengard.”

 

Her voice drips down the back of your neck like icy water. “Why?”

 

“Why? Because you and I are similar. We’re just two women, pawns to a much larger political chessboard - used to defend our higher powers. Stay here. Two weeks. I insist. And all of this will be under the bridge.”

 

Two weeks. “Are we… are we hostages, Lady Daressin?” You can’t agree to this arrangement - there are too many unknowns. It seems so easy. There’s a motive here that you’re missing. “Or is this an excuse to keep me out of Baldur’s Gate while you set off some sort of nefarious plot?”

 

Has this all been one long distraction to separate the figurehead from Baldur’s Gate? A trap indeed.

 

“You misunderstand my motivations - I can’t blame you. Any wise leader would be wary of my offer. I only ask you for two weeks here. In return, I’ll burn the evidence I hold in front of your eyes.”

 

This is a distraction of some kind - there’s no other explanation. You’ll have to find a way to send a message back to Baldur’s Gate if you can’t talk your way out of this. You need the people to see you - you need to set the plan into motion. Disappearing for two weeks won’t inspire any confidence.

 

 “Thank you, but I’m afraid the Council will have a fit if I’m away for that long. I really must insist that you tell me what artifacts you seek instead - I’m sure those will hold more value.”

“Of course,” she purrs. “You have such a large responsibility now, don’t you? I’ve been inconsiderate. I can’t imagine how I would react if someone asked me to be away from Snowdown for such a time. Perhaps I would consider the artifacts… on the condition that your friends remain here as collateral.”

 

Your jaw tightens. “Absolutely not. You already have your collateral, don’t you? Whatever it is that you claim to be able to ruin me with.”

 

“I suppose we could settle on one friend… in particular,” her smile borders on psychosis, and your skin crawls. 

 

You should attack her now, put an end to this for good. But you’re in her domain, alone - not properly armed or dressed for a fight. Separated from your backup, you’d never make it out.

 

“One friend?” You repeat incredulously. You know who she means - she doesn’t have to say it. She was working to figure him out from the moment he arrived. Her interest towards you cooled the moment she laid eyes on him.

 

Her interest in artifacts from Cazador’s palace is no coincidence - you’re certain now that even if she isn’t a vampire herself, that she’s at least heavily entrenched in dark magics and politics. Her pale porcelain skin gives her away, though the dim light makes the color of her irises difficult to identify. The rumors are true. The only question is if she knows that you know.

 

“Astarion,” she says with a sigh that you might almost describe as… dreamy. Disgusting. Even if she does find him attractive - you aren’t stupid enough to think that’s the only reason. Vampires crave one thing alone. Power. She wants his power.

 

If she has eyes in the city like she claims… how much does she know about him? Does she know that he’s ascended? Surely there would have been no way to know that detail - no one else had been in the dungeon to witness the dark ritual that had occurred that day, and everyone had agreed to keep it under wraps. The only thing Erliza can possibly know is that Cazador is dead, and that Astarion has taken his place in the palace.

 

“That would not be my decision to make.”

 

“No?” She pouts. “But he seems so devoutly loyal to you. Aren’t you the Grand Duke? Surely you could ask him as a citizen of the Gate to perform such a tiny favor.”

 

“Astarion makes his own decisions. And in any case, he now resides in the Crimson Palace. If anyone knows where the artifacts you seek are - it’s him. Leaving him behind here would be counterproductive.”

 

The sinking sensation in your core starts to intensify. Vampires are also fairly territorial - there’s no good reason that she would want him here if she believes him to be a normal vampire… you can’t rule out the possibility that she knows of the ascendancy. 

 

“Then I suppose the best thing to do would be to accept my invitation, no?” She bats her eyelashes, and you shiver as if they were strong enough to direct a cold wind in your direction.

 

You shake your head. “I’ll need to speak with them. This isn’t a decision I can make alone.”

 

“You’re the leader of Baldur’s Gate. Surely you don’t need the approval of commoners . I doubt you’d even need the approval of a lord.” 

 

“They came here with me on their own accord. I promised them that the trip would be short. I won’t change plans without consulting with them.”

 

She isn’t happy with your insistence, but she can find no footing on which to fight with you longer on the issue. “Very well. I’ll see that they’re called back in for you.”

 

Lady Daressin floats across the floor, her feet eerily silent on the rough stone. She freezes where you sit at the end of the couch, and with a deft hand brushes your hair aside. At her touch you immediately pull away and swipe for her wrist, but miss - she’s already several steps away now.

 

“Interesting,” she muses - but she’s gone before you can say anything else.

 

You’re left in the room for several minutes, growing acutely aware of the stifling silence of the castle. Try as you might, you realize that in this room, you can hear nothing but the rushing of blood in your own ears. You press your hand to the side of your neck, feeling the two, slightly rougher circles of skin where fangs had once pierced. Somehow, Erliza knew they were there, despite being covered by your hair and faded with age. 

 

Was it just a guess? 

 

Your heart is still pounding when Astarion and Jaheira rush back in. You quickly compose yourself and sit up straight.

 

“What happened?” Jaheira asks, eyes narrowing. She can read you like an open book, perfectly in tune with your subtle body language. She probably caught the trembling of your hand from the moment she stepped in the door. “What did she want?”

 

“She’s demanding that we remain here. For two weeks. Or else she threatens to put Baldur’s Gate in danger.”

 

Jaheira clicks her tongue. “Please. This isle hardly has any power to speak of on its own - they are no threat to the city, even in a weakened state.”

 

“But they are a colony of Amn,” Astarion reminds her. “And Amn would be a significant threat.”

 

“Erliza Daressin is a tiny figure in the grand scheme of things. It would take much more than her word for Amn to be provoked.”

 

“Are you so certain about that? They’ve been no stranger to expanding lately. Historically relations have been tense. What better time to try and occupy Baldur’s Gate than after they’ve been weakened by a large assault and while their leader has a proxy standing in?”

 

Jaheira’s confidence falters. “Then, this is not a matter for the three of us to decide. We must send word back immediately.”

 

No. The Council will only see you as more incapable than they already believe you are. “There’s no need,” you say, although you’re still convincing yourself of that. “I’m not sure what her ultimate motive is yet - sending word now before we have more information will only breed chaos.”

 

You stop yourself before you share that there was another solution offered - a solution in which everyone returns to Baldur’s Gate except Astarion. You’re sure that Jaheira would jump on that - in fact, you’d have to agree that it’s the most sensible solution offered. But it still leaves a long list of unanswered questions, and you would have to retrieve artifacts of unknown potential and power. Handing those over comes with a separate set of risks.

 

Erliza wordlessly confirmed to you only moments ago that she knows of Astarion’s nature, even if not the full extent of it - would she hurt him? Team up with him? Leaving him alone is a wild card, and he’s necessary to your larger plan.

 

“We should call on our companions and end her now,” Jaheira says in a low voice.

 

You don’t entirely disagree with her. “It’s not off of the table,” you agree. “But we can’t rush into that without a solid plan. We’re on an island, in a fortress, surrounded by her own people.”

 

“If she’s invited us into her home, two weeks is more than enough time to come up with something,” Astarion adds. “We may be able to get the upper hand if she thinks that we’re friendly.”

 

“Right. We just need to be sure that we can outmaneuver whatever it is that she’s planning,” your own hesitancy grows, riddled with unknowns. “There’s a motive here that doesn’t make sense yet. I know she can’t just be lonely and looking for company.”

 

“If she’s keeping us here, I can’t see any other reason for it than to keep you out of the city. Someone needs to return,” Jaheira insists.

 

“I can return as necessary,” Astarion says. “It’s a good deal of energy - but I can be across the sea and back in a night if I’m quick.”

 

You don’t like the idea of Erliza catching onto that - especially where she’s taken such a particular interest in Astarion - but you hope it will at least ease Jaheira’s mind. If anyone goes back - it can’t be her.

 

“Someone capable of sending messages back and forth would be a faster choice. A better choice.”

 

“Jaheira,” Astarion musters up the most sincere voice he can manage, a twinkle in his eyes. A significant flip in demeanor after their earlier spat in the carriage. “I assure you. I am quick. We’ll be on to her plot in hours. There’s no need to alert Baldur’s Gate yet - and if there is - I can be there in a jiff.” He snaps his fingers.

 

She seems dazed for a moment, but shakes it off and pulls herself from under the hand he’s placed on her shoulder. “Right. Fine. But at the first moment of danger-”

 

“I will rush to warn the city,” Astarion places a hand over his heart in promise. You wonder if it holds the same weight over an unbeating heart as it does a beating one.

 

It might just be paranoia after your shared moment with Erliza - but you wonder if you just witnessed Astarion make a conscious attempt to charm Jaheira. You’d forgotten about that little ability that vampires possess - and again it starts to lead your mind down paths you don’t have time to explore. From the outside, it’s easy to see him influencing her… but had he done the same to you and escaped your notice? Traditionally, most magic that alters the mind leaves the victim aware of it later, but there’s so much you don’t know about the powers of an ascended vampire…

 

“I’m glad we’re on the same page then,” you say in a hurry. “And for the record, I still haven’t ruled out fighting our way out of this if it comes to it.” 

 

Easier said than done, when the consequences could be war.

 

Astarion smiles, but Jaheira still looks unsteady, as if she’s only just entirely returning to her mind.

 

The guards announce Erliza’s re-entry into the room, and she glides back over to you with her head held high - as if she knows your answer before you give it. There’s a smugness to her that you’d like to slap off of her demure countenance. 

“Well, what have you decided, Duke Ravengard?” 

 

You hate that she calls you that. From anyone else, it would be the sign of respect that you’ve been craving. But from her, it is a calculated slight. She’s carefully concealed everything she knows from you, and yet in your gut you feel she knows all. You have to operate as if she does, until you can pull more information from her.

 

“We’ll honor your request to remain in Westphal for two weeks,” you concede. You’ll have to apologize to your friends back in the lodging later. 

 

“Excellent!” She claps her hands together. “I could never ask such important guests to remain in that dreadful Inn for such an extended stay. I must ask that you remain as guests here.”

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Jaheira says quickly. “The accommodations you’ve provided are more than suitable-”

 

“Not you ,” Erliza interrupts, unable to hide the twinge of disgust from slipping into her voice. “I don’t have space for the common folk. I was speaking of the Grand Duke and the Lord.” She gestures towards you and Astarion.

 

Jaheira blanches, taken aback at Erliza’s sudden bluntness. 

 

You don’t love the thought of being separated from her either - your secret will be as good as told.

 

“Lady Daressin - thank you for your kindness, but the Inn is lovely. I would prefer to not be separated from my friends.”

 

Astarion shoots you a disapproving look that doesn’t take you long to figure out. If you’re inside of her home, you’re more likely to be able to pick up on critical information.

 

Fortunately, your rejection doesn’t matter - she’s not ready to let you from her sight. Erliza smiles again, her voice gentle. “I really must insist as part of our arrangement that the both of you stay. But worry not, your friends are free to come by whenever they like - and their every need will be attended to where they are.”

 

This time, given your second chance, you relent. 

 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Daressin,” Astarion says warmly, when you can’t find the words. 

 

The vampires discuss some final arrangements through empty pleasantries that you’re unable to concentrate on. You just can’t seem to work out what her plan is, and what she hopes to accomplish by keeping you here. You watch Astarion carefully - his mouth is moving but you aren’t hearing the words anymore.

 

Both are vampires. Surely he can’t be in on this with her? Have they been plotting together all along? Is the smile he shares with her genuine?

No - you remind yourself to breathe. This isn't the place to sow seeds of doubt. It's likely what she wants.

 

“It’s getting quite late,” Erliza says finally as you start to return to your own mind. “Perhaps it’s time we see Miss Jaheira home?”

 

Jaheira’s lips curl downward in distaste - perhaps at being referred to as ‘Miss’, or perhaps at the idea of being kicked out rather than deciding to leave on her own.

 

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” you promise, giving her a weak smile. Please don’t tell the others too much .

 

As she’s escorted out the door by several of Erliza’s guards, you know that your secret with the group is as good as dead.

 

---

 

In the moment and distracted by other things, you hadn't managed to demand that Erliza tell you what she knows. You'll spend all night kicking yourself for that.

 

At the end of a quiet, dark hallway, you’re shown to your home for the next two weeks. It’s clear that the room hasn’t been occupied in some time - and it seems the best they could do to prepare for you was put fresh linens on the bed. It hadn’t occurred to anyone to dust, so you sacrifice a clean towel left on a dresser and do it yourself, clearing the surfaces around the bed and wiping off the antique mirror. Aside from the antique, large, four poster bed that dominates the space, there isn’t much else in the cold room. The accommodations at the Inn had been considerably nicer, and you mourn the loss of the bath.

 

Astarion had been taken in another direction entirely - and you hate the idea of being separated. This could be where everything falls apart - by isolating each member of your group it would be easier to eliminate everyone.

 

No - if that was the intention, it would have been done by now. There’s something else afoot.

 

The room offers no easy escape - a single, double-wide stained glass window offers you a distorted glimpse outside. You suspect the darkened colors that form the mosaic window are a deliberate choice - they must filter the sunlight enough to host vampiric guests. It doesn’t open, but even if you smashed it, you’re too far from the ground to avoid serious injury. It won't be a viable escape route if you come to need it. The door to the hallway opens without complaint, you haven’t been locked in, but running that way wouldn’t do much good anyway. You tried to memorize the pattern of hallways you followed, but the castle is as good as a labyrinth - many of the corridors similar and unremarkable. 

 

Locking the door to outsiders only offers you a little peace of mind. Your hosts have the key. If someone was desperate to enter, the lock would only buy you an extra second at most, assuming you even heard someone coming. Sleeping tonight is a hopeless endeavor, so instead you pass the time inspecting the crevices of the room, on the lookout for any traps or magic left to spy on you. You don’t come across anything of interest - the room is plain. There is a bookshelf, but it holds books mostly in tongues you don’t understand, or in dialects so archaic it would take hours to unravel a single paragraph. Some are so old that they threaten to crumble in your hands, rotting away from decades - or centuries - of abandonment.

 

All you have to do is make it through the night. If your suspicions are correct, and Erliza is a vampire, looking around the castle in the daylight will be less problematic. Surely she’s left enough places impenetrable to the sunlight in her own home, but you’ve already seen enough windows to reassure you that some open curtains could provide reasonably defensible locations. 

 

A sudden draft causes you to turn, and you jump to the defensive as a figure begins to materialize in front of you, coalescing in the candlelight.

 

“Gods, Astarion,” you hiss as you recover. Damned mist form. “Don’t do that. I nearly stabbed you.”

 

“What, with that little butter knife?” He laughs at the dagger that wobbles in your hand, and you shove it back into its sheath. “You wouldn’t have been quick enough.”

 

“You might have come in through the door, like any reasonable person,” you grumble.

 

“It was locked.” 

 

“For good reason. Have you heard of knocking ?”

 

“Never in my life,” he says, burning with dry sarcasm. “In truth I was rather hoping to avoid notice of our host. She had no less than seven guards and servants making themselves busy in my wing. Yours is deserted in comparison.”

 

She knows who the bigger threat is.

 

Seeing him here is relieving. Solitude in this place has begun to fill you with an unfamiliar sense of anxiety - here there’s no one to watch your back. It isn’t an accident that you’ve been separated from him.

“If you’d prefer I go-”

 

“No.” You say it so quickly that you’re almost embarrassed. You’re just as surprised as him, from the look on his face.

 

“I mean…” you take a deep breath, trying to rein in your racing thoughts. “I don’t like being here at all - but I don’t like that she’s made such an effort to separate us. Especially if you feel she’s keeping an eye on you.”

 

He takes slow paces around your room, making a full circle. “Well, she’s certainly keeping me more comfortable than you. This room is positively miserable.”

 

“You’re saying your room doesn’t look like this?” 

 

“Not even a bit. It makes this shithole look like servants’ quarters.” He crosses his arms. “Perhaps the servants got mixed up with which one of us is the Duke. Sexism at its finest.”

 

“No… I don’t think that’s it. Erliza knows you’re a vampire. I don’t know if she knows anything beyond that.”

 

“Of course she does - she’d know the same way that I do. Lack of warm blood running through the veins, no heartbeat… it’s easy to tell prey from predator.” You don't like the insinuation of that - a world in which you're the prey.

 

“More than that though. She seems to have a particular interest in you. I didn’t want to say this in front of Jaheira. But at first, she was going to make a deal with me in exchange for some artifacts that Cazador supposedly owned. Then, she changed her mind to whatever the hells this is.”

 

The mention of Cazador and the artifacts has him lost in thought. 

 

“There was another option,” you say. “She said that if you, specifically, remained behind, the rest of us could go - so long as I retrieved the artifacts for her.”

 

“And you didn’t take that deal?”

 

“Of course not. I would have been stupid to.”

 

“Not necessarily - I am more than capable of slipping out on my own. She can’t hold me here,” he laughs. "But I do appreciate the concern, darling."

 

“She’s a vampire too. I’m sure she’s thought of your abilities. It would have been a shitty deal. She would still have blackmail over me, I would be forced to hand over questionable magical artifacts, and we’d leave you behind. Who knows what she has planned.” It would have been a short-sighted deal, presented to you as an attractive option in the moment. In reality... infinitely worse than the original deal.

 

He sighs. “As much as I would love to believe that you were hesitant to leave me behind for my well-being… I get the impression that you were more concerned that I’d turn on you if left to my own devices. Is that right?”

 

You choke. “What?”

 

He’s not entirely wrong. Although vampires are unlikely to work together by choice… it wouldn’t be unreasonable for one to try and use the other for as long as they could manage. If they shared a common goal - they might work together while accepting that in the end they'd inevitably turn on one another once the goal was achieved. It's the way of these things.

 

“Don’t bother hiding it - I scare you. At least a little bit. I’m unpredictable,” he turns and takes a few steps closer to you. You refuse to let yourself back away. “Why wouldn’t the big bad scary vampire betray you at the earliest convenience?”

 

He gets closer - too close. Your heart rate quickens underneath his quickly darkening eyes. “Astarion-”

 

“Does it occur to you that if I had ill intentions towards you, I could act on them at any time? Does it occur to you that in this form, I’m faster, stronger, and more powerful than you could ever hope? If I wanted to force you to do anything at all - I wouldn’t have needed to take a little cruise across the ocean to do it. I could have dug my fangs into your neck and killed your mind any time now.”

 

“I’m not scared of you,” you blurt out, though only moments ago you’d gotten close. He’s only a step away now. 

 

“If you’re not scared of me, then why does your heart double in speed whenever I’m near? Why do you keep your distance? You want to flee from me. I can feel it.”

 

It isn’t fear. It’s something much worse.

 

“Is it so hard to believe that I want to help you?” He asks, a wild look in his eyes. “I can’t stand being in your debt any longer.”

 

Your mind empties. “My…my what?”

 

“Your debt,” he repeats. “I can’t stand owing you for… this .” He gestures to himself. 

 

“You don’t owe me anything,” you say, calming down as you start to put together his perspective. “I helped you because… you needed it. There weren’t strings attached. I thought that was clear.”

 

“You’re only saying that because of what you made me. If I was still that pissy little spawn you wouldn’t cower beneath me like a frightened rabbit.”

 

“I’m not cowering because I’m afraid of you, Astar-”

 

“Then why -”

 

You grab his face with your hands, cupping it on either side, cutting him off. Looking into his eyes, there’s something unspoken between the both of you - a realization dragged to light from the darkest recesses where it’s lived, suppressed, for longer than you can face. The feeling of desire has hidden itself away in a crevice of your mind, shriveled - from the moment he took your blood. You’ve starved it, beaten it back, kept it at bay with sarcasm and a sharp tongue. But this imp of desire is impossible to kill.

 

You only just manage to stop yourself from reaching forward and kissing him unprompted, releasing his face and stepping backwards as your cheeks flush. Fuck, you’ve blown it all - you open your mouth to apologize, to tell him that you don’t know what’s gotten into you - that you’re overtired, stressed, burdened - 

 

The opportunity is stolen from you as he lunges forward, grabbing your face just as you had his a moment ago, and crashes his cool lips to yours. Time freezes around you… and you melt into the kiss that you’ve been running from.

Chapter 15: Vanish

 

“Hey! Over here!” A silver-haired man beckons you over. 

 

You squint in the bright afternoon sunlight, eyes adjusting as you move out of the shade of the broken carcass of the Nautiloid ship. It’s a beautiful day, despite… everything.

 

He looks remarkably unbothered and uninjured for someone standing directly next to the crashed nautiloid. What is he doing hanging around a place like this? Perhaps a local? You start to limp towards him, still nursing an injury from one of the intellect devourers that had somehow survived the fall. Shadowheart is at your side, only slightly better off.

 

Your breathing is heavy and labored, but you’re saving the medicine in your bag for a more dire circumstance, thinking you can brush the worst of it off. Who knows when you’ll get another opportunity to get more.

 

“We should be careful,” she whispers as you approach the stranger. As if that thought hadn’t already occurred to you.

 

“Noted.” Speaking with a person is child’s play when faced with the alternative of confronting a mindflayer.

 

“Hurry,” the stranger urges. Upon closer inspection, you notice he’s an elf. 

 

His demand doesn’t inspire your feet to move any faster - in fact, just the opposite. You slow down, keeping a bit of distance. Nothing seems wrong or amiss here - there’s no impending danger to be seen. By any stretch of the imagination, you and Shadowheart appear to be the most dangerous things in the vicinity. You both must look awful - covered in whatever… fluids coated the inside of the Nautiloid and ran through the intellect devourers. By all means, you shouldn’t be a friendly face to him.

 

“There - in the grass,” he points. “One of those… brain things. I’ve got it cornered.”

 

Cornered? They had wasted no time lashing out at you. Perhaps it’s injured.

 

“You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others?”

 

The comment is unsettling - you hadn’t noticed him before now. Exactly how long has this person been watching you for? And can’t he see you’ve already had a rough day?

 

“You look capable enough.” More than capable, actually - in considerably better sorts than you. He doesn’t look as though he’s fallen from the sky and fought through the squelching remains of the Nautiloid. Something else strikes you about him though - there’s an otherworldly quality about him. 

 

Regardless, you crane your neck, trying to get a peek at the intellect devourer that he’s pointing at. Only, you don’t see anything. Has it scurried away? You move closer.

 

“Well, I was hoping for a kind soul, but…not to worry.”

 

You don’t realize what’s happening until he has you on the ground, a dagger to your neck. Shadowheart gasps and you think you see her reach for a weapon, but the stranger whips around to point the dagger towards her as he wrestles you down with his other arm. You struggle against him, useless in your current state of exhaustion. It annoys you, at your full potential you’re pretty sure you could take him.

 

“Don’t move!” He warns her, before returning the blade to your neck, a little more enthusiastically this time. You can feel the edge of it pricking into your throat - not quite enough to draw blood. “Move, and I empty her blood on the ground.” Then he turns his attention to you, his voice softer. “Now. Cooperate and answer my questions, and I won’t have to harm this pretty little neck of yours, hm?” 

 

Despite the control that his voice exudes, he isn’t entirely committed to this. You can feel his hand quivering. He can be talked down… you think.

 

“What do you-” you start, trying to pry the arm that holds the weapon away from you to no avail. He has the advantage. He’s larger, stronger, unwounded, and at a superior angle. You don’t have a chance. The best you can do is delay him. His back is to Shadowheart now, any minute now she’ll help…right? She owes you that, at the very least. Even as you are, the two of you can easily overwhelm him.

 

“I saw you on the ship,” he barks. “What did you and those tentacled freaks do to me?”

 

“What have I done?” You ask, dumbfounded. “You have it backwards-”

 

“I saw you!” He accuses. “Walking free while I was trapped in one of those awful pods.”

 

“Stop this!” Shadowheart interrupts. “She has nothing to do with this - if she’d seen you, I’m sure she would have let you out, just as she did me.”

 

“You shut up!” He snarls. In his current state, he isn’t open to listening to reason. “I saw you too.”

 

His strange, red eyes meet yours. At first glance he had appeared to be a distinguished man, but now you only see a feral animal. He has you in his grasp, you’ve fallen victim to his plea for help. A carefully set trap by a dangerous, pretty face.

 

So why does he look like the vulnerable, trapped one?

 

Just then, he lurches with a grunt, squeezing his eyes shut. You use the opportunity to roll away from him, grasping at your neck, relieved to find your hand come back into view without blood on your fingertips. He hasn’t hurt you. But your mind stings too, a screeching echo that pulls you out of reality and into the depths of a mind not your own - recalling haunting flashes of a memory belonging to the stranger. It isn’t enough to know him - but it’s enough to understand he carries burdens heavier than you can fathom. Dark streets - hunger - isolation -

                                                           

---

 

The kiss shatters you. It tears apart your entire world stone by stone, destroying every wall and ward against him that you’ve created and upheld since the moment you laid eyes on the pale elf. The sky overturns and switches places with the ground, and you’re falling. How fragile it all was, in the end - ideals too heavy for the paper pedestals that supported them. Walls of glass build haphazardly around your heart and without foundation - transparent and easily cracked. 

 

Stay away from that one - he’s dangerous.

 

Wyll is the safe choice.

 

Lies. Who had broken your heart first? It hadn’t been the lips that press into yours now, the smooth curves fitting just right with yours like two halves of a whole reunited. At first there’s a caution to the dance, a wordless questioning that invites you to cut it off or take it further. It isn’t the vampire that nibbles at your lower lip, but instead you nibbling first at his, igniting a deep moan from his throat. His hands build confidence, as one weaves itself into your hair, grasping at the nape of your neck and holding you close. His hands could have their way with you right now - they could have every way with you - and you don’t think you’d stop him.

 

He’s nothing but a rake - promiscuous. He uses his charm to get what he wants.

 

He’s taking advantage of you so he can drink from you again - you’re nothing but a meal to him.

 

Once, his experience with flirtatious manipulation made you wary of him. Now, his experience defies your expectations, playing you expertly under his touch. It’s so personal and intimate that you swear he’s entered your mind and studied for the occasion. This is more than empty passion, but the result of a resilient smoldering campfire that retained a tiny spark, sheltered away and patiently sustained on scraps - only to explode with a reckless and unexpected splash of oil. A kiss shared with Wyll had been romantic, fun - but there was always an immaturity to it. Sweet at the time knowing nothing better - but this is deeper. Intoxicating.

 

Initially you’re both reserved - but as the kiss intensifies your bodies close the gap between, and the sensation of his body pressed against you sends you further into delirium. You are inspired with a sense of boldness, your hands running up the length of his arm and then down his back, thumb feeling the faint outline of electrified muscle beneath fabric. A light touch is all you can manage - you fear a firm hand might push him away. Your tongues press together and he kisses you with a hunger and desperation that makes you feel as though you’re the only one that has ever mattered.

 

The kiss fills a part of you that has been left empty for months, an empty air pocket forgotten as you worked to fill in the holes that Wyll and the people of Baldur’s gate left. No - it’s more than that. The empty space of the puzzle has been empty much longer, waiting - and you nearly settled for someone that almost fit. Astarion fits with no forcing, bending, or daylight showing through the sides. If there’s any manipulation to it… you don’t think you care. You might let him manipulate you a thousand times, if every time felt just like this.

The kiss rebuilds you. It takes you to a place you’ve never seen before, and offers you a new beginning. A place to grow. Your heart accelerates, thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird made of lead, and you nearly fall backwards, protected only by his hands falling to your waist as he pulls away suddenly.

 

No - you don’t want it to stop . You’re confused. Dizzy. 

 

You inhale suddenly and sharply, realizing you’d nearly forgotten to breathe. Sputtering, you stumble back from his grasp, the talons of embarrassment replacing his hands. You can’t meet his eyes, or it might happen all over again.

 

“I apologize,” he murmurs softly, running his thumb across his bottom lip. “That was rash of me.”

 

Still breathless, still thoughtless, you reach around in your befuddled mind to try to pull anything coherent from it. 

 

Say anything. 

 

But you can’t. You try - your lips hang open as you gasp for fresh air again - but no words form.

 

“I’d best be on my way. It’s late.” His face is blank - what is he thinking?

 

“Wait-”

 

But just as he had arrived, he disappears in a barely visible cloud that sucks itself right up underneath the door, escaping any final words. You collapse on the bed, your body suddenly too heavy for your knees to support.

 

As the drug begins to wear off and you drift closer to the edge of sleep, the unforgiving judge of reality stares back at you.

 

This is bad .

 

This could ruin everything if anyone finds out. The world still needs to believe that you’re madly in love with Wyll for the plan to work. You’re only a sympathetic character in the narrative if society comes to see that he’s betrayed you. Everything falls apart the moment anyone suspects there’s anything between you and Astarion.

 

It can’t happen again. 

 

So why do you want it to?

 

                                                           

---

 

 

The night passes, and the sun rises, though through the murky stained glass window you can’t make out the time. Whether it’s only just crested the horizon or if you’ve slept until noon, you aren’t sure. Your sleep was inconsistent, your body on high alert, waking itself every hour in fear of the worst. You remember nights like this from your time on the road - survival mechanisms are a funny thing when they’re cruel enough to keep you sleep deprived. The fogginess in your brain gives way to the ache in your gut - a punishment for missing dinner. How hard will it be to find food in the castle? With a secret to hide, Erliza can’t afford to ignore the needs of her mortal guests.

 

It now dawns on you that your belongings are back at the Inn - you had had no reason to expect an extended stay, and had traveled light to meet with Erliza. A little bit of extra digging around the room reveals a few things with which to take care of yourself - a brush, a vial of perfume that’s gone sour, and some clothes that were pulled out of another century entirely. You forgo the clothes and perfume for now, hoping at some point today you’ll be able to return to the Inn for your own belongings. On the road, you’ve gone longer in the same set of clothes. At least the day before hadn’t been strenuous enough to work up much of a sweat.

 

Time to go.

 

You’re surprised that there’s someone waiting for you outside of your door. A young, human man no older than twenty-five, with leathery skin suggestive of an unhealthy amount of time spent in the sun that just peeks out from the rolled up sleeves of his slightly wrinkled silk dress shirt. He jumps to attention at the sight of you with a brief bow. He reeks of naivety so strongly that you’re sure he isn’t a vampire. The way his gangly limbs hang in their sockets suggests a lack of coordination - and you haven’t even seen him walk yet.

 

“Duke Ravengard,” he addresses, pushing a set of wiry, bent spectacles up his nose. “Lady Daressin assigned me to see to you today. My name is Riven.”

 

Referring to you as Ravengard , especially now, makes you want to gag - a thought you hide with an uncomfortable smile. The servant intends to be polite. He doesn’t know how much you long to be called by a name all your own. Your thoughts that drift to last night bring with them a tide of guilt that hadn’t existed in the moment. You may have been lying to the public for some time now, but this is a new low.

 

“To… ‘see to me’?” You think you get the idea of what he means, but in the morning haze, you seek clarification.

 

To spy on you is more likely. If Lady Erliza can’t be seen in the daylight, you can be certain that every mortal eye in the castle will be studying your every move.

 

“Yes. Whatever you need. Physical items, a tour, a question answered. Most things I am permitted to help you with.”

 

At first you think about asking him to show you to Astarion’s room, but thinking his name unleashes the events of the night before that flood back all at once and form one large, swirling whirlpool fortuitous enough to capsize a ship. A hand reaches up and pats down your hair, an irrational worry that it might give anything away despite already brushing it.

 

“Thank you, Riven. Could you show me to the kitchen, perhaps?” You try not to sound overeager.

 

“Of course.”

 

Again you struggle to follow the layout of the castle, even as you try to pay close attention to the path. In the daylight, the inside of the building is darker than the night - heavy velvet curtains drawn over every window, with no one bothering to light candles or magical lanterns during the day. Your route doesn’t pass by many other signs of life - only seeing a single other servant on the way.

 

“What would you like to eat? I’ll have it made straight away.”

 

“Oh,” you say, sounding more surprised than you are. “Is there not a standard meal prepared for the residents of the house?”

 

An innocent question on its own, but Riven squirms. “Oh, no. At least, never for breakfast or lunch,” he gives a nervous smile that might escape notice from anyone else. “Lady Daressin doesn’t make a grand affair out of the daytime meals - she takes great care to watch her figure.”

 

Right. Her figure…

 

You nod at the ridiculous lie, stifling a dry laugh of disbelief. “It doesn’t matter, then. Anything is fine.”

 

“I’ll see what can be arranged. Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Riven gestures to the inside of a small sitting room that he’s led to you. “The dining room is the next door down - I’ll come fetch you when it’s settled.”

 

One look around the small, dark sitting room makes you reconsider. “Wait. On second thought… it seems a waste to make a meal just for me. I think I’d prefer to head out into Westphal and see a bit of the town.”

 

A meal anywhere else would be better than here. It will limit the time available to you to explore the castle. With luck, Astarion will handle that part - he’s far more suited for sneaking around her domain unnoticed. Your skin shivers at the thought of seeing him and of looking into his eyes again. The shared moment of last night can never happen again. What will you say to him when you see him again? He had disappeared so quickly afterwards, that you hope he knows it too. 

 

He’s realized it was wrong, surely… and with luck maybe you’ll both mutually, silently , agree to never speak of it again. Desire be damned - you’ll bury it.

 

Again . You’ll bury it again . The tiny voice in your head is louder than ever now with such a recent development. No matter, it will take no time at all to practice smothering it again.

 

Riven hesitates. “In town? Are you certain? Alright then, I’ll go ready a carriage.”

 

“Oh, no, really - there’s no need for that. I’m happy to explore on foot.”

 

“I must insist on extending the Lady’s hospitality-”

 

“I’ve been on a ship for several days, Riven - there’s nothing wrong with stretching my legs.”

 

“I don’t think it’s wise for a foreigner - let alone a foreign noble , to be walking around in the streets of Westphal out in the open.”

 

This time, you don’t stifle the laugh. Calling you a noble is a far cry from the truth - you carry no proper title of your own. You have nothing of your own to lay claim to - you only ride on the coattails of Wyll’s name.  “Please. My own people hardly recognize me on the street.” For now.

 

“I really must discourage you from this - the town is quite large and although it is mostly a thriving, bustling port… there are some areas you would not know to avoid.”

 

Is he looking to protect you from Westphal?

 

Or Westphal from you?

 

“I am perfectly capable of handling myself, I promise. I am no stranger to self-defense.” Or offense, when necessary.

 

“Fine,” he relents. “Let me put on a change of clothes, and then we’ll be off.”

 

You agree out loud and make a show of sitting down to wait for him, but as soon as his footsteps recede down the hall you hurry in the other direction. You have no intention of getting whatever curated, sanitized version of Westphal that he has to offer. You want the truth.

 

                                                               

---

 

 

It doesn’t occur that anyone at the gatehouse outside of the castle might give you trouble until you’re staring at it - but you’re let out without any questioning or fanfare. In fact, you’re barely acknowledged. When the portcullis slides open, you take a deep breath of the fresh sea air, much purer than that of the mainland. You aren’t a prisoner of the castle. A relief. 

 

Or… is it? For Erliza to be so willing to let you come and go as you please, you wonder if it’s because she’s more than confident that she has the entirety of Westphal watching and under her thumb. You might be outside of her walls now, but you are not outside of her influence. Maybe it’s not the castle that’s the prison, but the Isle itself.

 

Immediately around Caer Westphal, the buildings are posh and well-kept, the streets engaged in the lives of the well-to-do. It doesn’t escape notice that the citizens in this area carry strong Amnian accents, and a picture is soon painted. The upper class of the Isle of Snowdown is composed almost exclusively by these people - foreigners that have taken over after occupying it. This is the part that Riven would have made an effort to confine you to. No one pays you any attention as you stroll down the street, where you eventually find a stall that you purchase a pastry from. It quiets your stomach for now, and allows you to eat while you explore and hope that Riven doesn’t manage to catch up to you.

 

After about a half hour of mindless walking, the atmosphere shift becomes perceptible. It happened so slowly that you didn’t notice until you were further along. Gradually, the citizens' clothing and speech has shifted, and the buildings, though still colorful - show more signs of exposure and lack of upkeep. It isn’t unusual or uninhabitable - there are worse parts of Baldur’s Gate - but it is noticeable. You were hoping to come across something familiar that would lead you back to the Inn, but after speaking to some of the locals you learn you’ve gone the wrong way entirely. The narrow streets managed to turn you around, losing your view of the waterline for long enough to lose your sense of direction. A carriage has not passed by for some time.

 

This is where the people of Snowdown who have lived here for generations reside. The Amnian influence has mostly faded on this end, even visible in the smaller fishing vessels anchored at barnacle-encrusted docks. Here, more people do start paying attention to you, their eyes lingering just a little too long. Judging? Criticizing? Sizing you up? It’s hard to say. You had worn some of your nicer clothes to meet Erliza - and without changing them, you stand out in this part of Westphal.

 

You aren’t one to judge places solely based on the perceived poverty of the residents - but then you recognize someone pass by you twice. A human man with a sour expression and a dirty scruff of hair, wearing a blue and red striped scrap of cloth wrapped around his neck. When he passes by you a third time, a warning bell blares louder in your mind. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets - and you can feel his eyes on you each time he passes. It’s time to turn around.

 

As you retrace your steps back, your concern grows. There - leaning against a building smoking something from a pipe, is a different man, with the same blue and red cloth wrapped around one of his thighs. You only just dodge his eye contact - but you get the worst feeling in your gut that he caught you noticing him.

 

If the need arises for self-defense… would Erliza accuse you of assaulting her people?

 

You walk a little faster, and ease your mind. It’s broad daylight - there are plenty of other people around. There’s no reason to worry.

 

But then someone brushes by you in a crowd- and you catch the blue and red stripes again, this time wrapped around a bicep - though you don’t get a proper look at the face. There are at least three of them… and from the position of the last one, you get the feeling they’re forming a perimeter around you and closing in. You don’t waste time looking back to find out, and start to move as fast as you can without drawing unwanted attention.You take a side street, and then another, in an attempt to move more erratically. If you see them again… you’ll know.

 

The crowd has thinned out on this narrow side street, and again you’re turned around, the buildings obscuring your view of the ocean.You stop to ask a stall vendor for directions, and use the excuse to give a quick survey of your surroundings. No stripes in sight. You need to get out more, you think - maybe being a homebody for so long has brought out an unexpected side of paranoia.

 

Remaining alert, you press on using your newly acquired directions. It will be nice to see familiar faces again… even if they aren’t feeling so friendly towards you now.

 

The atmosphere of the streets shifts as the street breaks to a major plaza, and Caer Westphal reaches towards the sky within your sightline again. Now, if you follow his directions and head west -

 

Someone grabs your arm and you jump out of your skin, ripping it away and patting around for the dagger that must be somewhere on you. Your assailant will regret this -

 

“There you are!” A relieved, panting Riven exclaims. You haven’t found the dagger yet, thankfully - but he holds up his hands in surrender. “I apologize. I should have warned you first. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he stammers apologetically.

 

“It’s… okay,” you clear your throat and pat down the wrinkles of your clothes.

 

“Why didn’t you wait for me? You shouldn’t have-”

 

You shouldn’t have gone alone. You agree now, although you’d never admit it to him. Giving him a proper look over, you get the feeling that you’d be the one protecting him in a dangerous situation. His breathing is still shallow, and his skin glistens with a layer of perspiration. He’s been searching for you for a while.

 

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble. Could you please show me to the Whispered Embrace ? I’d like to meet up with my traveling group.”

 

He momentarily deflates in exhaustion, but straightens himself. “Of course.”

 

As it turns out, the walk to the inn isn’t much farther at all - despite the fact that the carriage ride with Astarion and Jaheira had felt like an hour sandwiched between whatever disagreements swelled between them. Riven respects your space and your privacy by waiting near the front while you pass through the courtyard to your quarters.

 

“You’re back!” Shadowheart and Lae’zel are immediately running to the door as you enter. “When you didn’t come back last night we nearly stormed the castle.”

 

“What?” Why would they do that? “Jaheira didn’t tell you?”

 

Shadowheart’s face goes white as Gale pokes his head around the corner.

 

“Jaheira?” Lae’zel’s brow knits together tightly, as if trying to unravel a lie. 

 

Their perplexed expressions can only mean one thing.

 

“Oh gods. Jaheira… Jaheira didn’t come back last night, did she ?”

 

Notes:

thank you for all of the nice comments. I especially liked all of the variations of "ahhhh!" last chapter, lol. :)

Chapter 16: Shifting Sands

Jaheira didn’t come back last night - a decision she would be unlikely to come to of her own free will.

 

No one speaks as they take in the gravity of the situation. Shadowheart slowly backs up, falling into a chair. Gale steps entirely into the room and leans against a wall, staring up at the ceiling. Lae’zel stands as still as a statue, face contorted (In rage? Horror? Shock?), her hand gripping the hilt of the longsword at her side. She’s the only one of you fully armored, clearly not adjusting the comforts of Westphal. She seems as if she’s prepared to jump into battle at any moment now, maybe even itching for it- only waiting on someone to give the word.

 

“She’s… not with you?” Shadowheart asks, breaking the silence. Of course she knows the answer. You all do.

 

“Lady Daressin sent her back last night - she said she’d be escorted.” You swallow your building nausea, scolding yourself for finding the silver lining in the situation. If she isn’t here, she can’t betray your secret. You've been spared another day.

 

“Wasn’t it you who suggested we stay in groups of three?” Shadowheart asks, her tone accusing.

 

“And we should have,” you wince. “But Lady Daressin changed the agreement, and sent Jaheira back, and… I didn’t think any harm would come to her.”

 

Surely Erliza knows that if Jaheira is harmed, whatever fragile deal she’s trying to weave will fall apart. Right? Was she foolish enough to hope that you wouldn’t come back here immediately?

Or did Jaheira fall victim to something of random chance?

There's a third possibility, a more sinister one that you don't entertain.

 

“The agreement,” Gale interrupts. “ Tell us everything you know of that. What is the agreement, exactly? What did she want?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure of her motivations quite yet, to be honest. But she’s asked that we remain here for two weeks. Astarion and myself have been invited to remain in her castle.” It’s embarrassing to admit it aloud. You were invited to stay, and they weren’t.

 

Payback for the statue . Someone recognizes that I’m important, the intrusive thought whispers.

 

“And you just agreed ? Without consulting us?” 

 

You bite back a retort along the lines of ‘you never wanted to be consulted before .’ How many decisions have you made on behalf of the group that they declined to offer any kind of opinion or disagreement towards? How many hard decisions have you made? It’s only bothering him now ?

 

“She didn’t give me options, Gale.” You got a strong feeling in the moment that refusing would have led to a far worse outcome. “But it’s okay. We have access to her home. That counts for something.” 

 

Her guards and servants seem easy enough to outsmart - but you aren’t as confident you’ll be able to do much snooping when she’s awake and prowling around.

 

"Right," Lae'zel sneers. "All she wants is company. Something smells foul."

 

“This is all a trap, isn’t it? This is her game. To pick us off one by one.”

 

You can’t exactly rule out Shadowheart’s theory.

 

“I… I don’t know. But we can’t go in swinging.” You make purposeful eye contact with Lae’zel. She rolls her eyes at your wordless accusation. “We’re on an island without any backup. But I don’t think Erliza would do something so brazen. It’s possible that Jaheria’s cart was attacked, or maybe she ran into some Harpers-”

 

“We should not be separated,” Gale interrupts. “Where is Astarion? Why didn’t he come with you?”

 

Your lips twitch at the memory of the kiss. The “pick us off one by one” comment suddenly hits you a little harder realizing that he’s alone.

 

“We were in separate wings of the castle. I didn’t think it was necessary.” It sounds so stupid in hindsight. Whatever happened between you can’t affect your decision making process while in unfamiliar territory. “Obviously if I had known that Jaheira never came back… I wouldn’t have left him behind.”

 

“In any case, I’m not about to make the same mistake now. Everybody get your things together. Erliza is going to take more house guests, whether she wants to or not.”

 

If she isn’t guilty, she should take no issue in accommodating your guests in the interest of their safety.

 

If she is… 

 

You’ll cross that bridge if you get there.

 

                                                                             

---

Riven is not happy with the news. His eyes widen as he spots the caravan behind you, everyone loaded up with bags and weapons.

 

"No, no. Absolutely not - I mean, respectfully, of course. Lady Daressin, despite her generosity, does not take kindly to lodging just anyone."

 

"They aren't just anyone. They are my traveling companions, and I am her guest. More importantly, in their own right, they are heroes. If we hadn't vanquished the Absolute, how long do you think it would have been before there was a war of mindflayers on your doorstep?" You won't budge. "They were permitted to visit - I am requiring that they stay. One of my friends has already gone missing under the eyes of her people."

 

"I am not sure she'll agree to this - there are few things she hates more than an uninvited guest..."

 

"I'm not asking for the same level of hospitality she's offered me. They can stay in the same room with me - it does not matter. But we stay together."

 

Resigned to your resolve on the matter, he leads you all back to the castle - to the same sitting room that you’d fled from. Unloading all of your belongings - and Astarion's - is a relief. You give your tired limbs a proper stretch. It must have only been an hour or two ago that you were last here, but the day is unusually long. Still seething but never impolite to his guests and still under his mistress’ order to look after you, he goes to arrange lunch for the lot of you.

 

“I do not like sitting here,” Lae’zel growls under her breath. She’s sitting hunched in a chair that looks comically small beneath her, arms crossed across her chest. “We are wasting time if Jaheira is in danger.”

 

“When Riven comes back, we can ask when Lady Daressin will have a moment to spare. But… I suspect it won’t be until after nightfall.” At least six or seven hours from now, if you have to guess.

 

You’re the last to sit, and all three sets of eyes fall on you. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Aren’t you going to get Astarion?” Gale asks.

 

Oh. Oh. “Ah… right,” you stand up again and wring your hands. Riven is gone - and you never knew the way to Astarion’s room. But the group is staring expectantly, and it’s at least an excuse to escape their judgment, even if it means wandering for a while.

 

You’re relieved to find a servant in the hall, who is happy to show you to Astarion’s quarters - a good sign that he’s alright and that Erliza hasn’t done anything horrible to him, too. This time, you think you’re starting to memorize some of the layout of the castle.

 

The wing he’s been set up in is far grander than yours, the decor slightly more modern and well-decorated, and free of dust and cobwebs. Absent are the staff he warned you about the night before - now the hall is deserted. Even the door you knock on suggests a room twice the size of what you’ve been given, double wide with gold leaf embellishing the contours. When your first, tepid knock goes unanswered, you try again, putting a bit more elbow into it.

 

“Astarion? It’s me.” You press your ear to the door and hear nothing - no sound of anyone stirring. Your hand falls to the gold door handle, and you press it down with a finger, testing it. It doesn’t resist, it’s unlocked.

 

Your heart quickens, and you knock one more time. This time, it’s a frantic bang of your fist that rattles the door. Still, no one answers.

 

“Has he gone somewhere today?” You turn to the servant that escorted you.

 

She shrugs. “I’m sorry - I do not know. I’m not typically assigned to this part of the castle.”

 

Icy tendrils of fear creep up your spine and weave into your ribcage. Shadowheart’s comment echos in your mind again. It had seemed too bold, but maybe Erliza really does intend to pick you off one by one. You know that you didn’t imagine her interest in Astarion, and fear the worst. You throw open the door to the room - uncovering not just a room, but an entire suite.

 

“Astarion?” Your voice jumps an octave as you pace through the first room - a sitting room with a large fireplace at the center.

 

Again you repeat his name in the bedroom, then the washroom, but no one answers. There’s no sign that he’s been here at all. The bed is made, the towels untouched. Not a single piece of him has been left behind - not even a strand of hair. Just to be sure, you check each room of the suite three times, checking for any sign of a struggle or clue. Nothing appears to you. It’s as if he didn’t spend the night here at all.

 

Maybe you will go in swinging, after all. 

 

You turn back and brush past the servant with a murmur of gratitude, and successfully test your memory returning to the sitting room. As you rush through the door panting, you make no effort to hide the concern on your face.

“He’s gone,” you barely keep yourself from shouting, leaning against the doorframe for support.

 

“Oh dear. Who is gone?” An amused voice asks from behind that immediately causes you to sink forward. Astarion. You look over your shoulder to see him coming towards you down the hall.

 

“Y- yo- where the hells were you?” You glare at him, but looking him up and down several times over gives away your relief. He is here. Unharmed. A bit more tired looking than normal, and hair unusually ruffled… but here.

 

“ Me ? You were the one that went off gallivanting around town today.”

 

Still out of sight from the vantage point of Lae’zel, Shadowheart, and Gale, he places a hand on the wall next to the doorframe that you lean on for support. His hand is inches from your face. “You’re shaking,” he whispers in your ear. “Pull yourself together, darling.”

 

“Nice of you to join us,” you say, loudly . You want to be sure that the others hear. You are trembling - your body hasn’t caught up with your mind yet as the anxiety clears 

 

He deliberately presses himself against your shoulder as he passes, squishing you against the doorframe despite having plenty of open space. You catch a strong whiff of salt air on him. 

“Oops. So sorry.” His eyes flash. Definitely not sorry. He’s putting on his damned front again. “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on all of us, fearless leader. ” The question of where he was remains unanswered. 

Your frustration is instantly rekindled, his smirk offering no hints of last night. That’s one way to kill the awkward tension.

 

“Well it seems I have to,” the attitude in your retort dies off, and you swallow a lump in your throat. You fall for his attempts to rile you up, every time. “Jaheira is missing. She never made it back to the inn.”

 

“That is… curious,” Astarion says. “I suppose we’ll have to take that up with our host.”

 

“You look tired, Astarion,” Gale comments as Astarion moves to sit down. You remain hovering by the doorway - sitting down now would mean sitting beside him. An irrational fear has formed that if the others see you and him too close together, they’ll somehow come to realize what’s happened. “I didn’t realize that vampires could get bags under their eyes.”

 

Astarion laughs. It’s different - the laugh he uses when others are around. It makes it challenging to tell who he’s playing, and when. “Only when I haven’t properly rested in days. Even the unfathomably powerful need our beauty sleep.”

 

You can’t be sure he properly rested even when he was on the ship. It seemed he was always watching for something. Still, when he left your room, he didn’t look like… that.

 

“If you aren’t going to use your accommodations I’m more than happy to trade,” you say sarcastically. “Your bed appeared far more comfortable than mine.”

 

He dramatically waves a hand. “Be my guest, I had a much more interesting evening exploring all of the debauchery that Westphal has to offer.”

 

Your breath hitches. Had he really been out all night?

 

“Well, someone’s been having a fun little vacation,” Shadowheart rolls her eyes.

 

“The rest of you should really try it sometime. As it turns out, Westphal has an incredible nightlife. Bars, shows, brothels, gambling. A deviant’s dream. I just figured that if we’re going to be here a while… why not have some fun?”

 

Your hand squeezes the doorframe, feeling like you’ve been stabbed in the gut. Brothels? Surely he didn’t kiss you, only to-

 

“Are you okay?” Gale asks. You don’t realize he’s speaking to you until he follows it up with your name.

 

You snap out of it, mind circling the drain, teetering on the edge. “What?”

 

It doesn't matter. It shouldn't have happened anyway - it was just a moment of weakness. It meant nothing.

 

“Are you okay?” He repeats. “You look ill.”

 

“Yes. I just… haven’t eaten much. It must be catching up with me.”

 

“Why don’t you come sit down?” Astarion pats the cushion beside him. “You’ve suddenly lost all of your color. It would be a pity to see you faint.”

 

You’re saved at that exact moment by Riven, who arrives to inform you all that lunch is served.

                                                           

---

 

 

No one says much during the meal, an unusually quiet affair for a typically close bunch. You’re hardly able to eat, instead cutting up your food and pushing it around your plate. The empty gap in your chest isn’t one that can be filled by food… 

 

Lae’zel is the first to finish, her chair scraping as she stands up and hits a fist against the table. Across the room, a servant jumps in surprise. “Tchk. This is ridiculous. We’re sitting around a table eating with leisure, while Jaheira is missing! Where is your urgency?”

 

“There’s no sense rushing out before attending to our own needs. I, for one, am useless on an empty stomach.”

 

The vampire’s joke falls flat, Lae’zel grunting in disgust.

 

“Gods, you’re all so boring , do you know that?” Astarion shakes his head, swirling around some wine in his cup in front of his face before taking a lengthy sip. “Can’t even appreciate a single joke. Honestly.”

 

“You’re right,” Shadowheart says, looking apologetically at Lae’zel, then you, then Gale. “I just… where do we even begin?” She rests her fork on the table, appetite lost in her guilt.

 

“Well, we’re at the best possible starting place. Where she was last seen,” Gale says. He injects a healthy dose of optimism into the group. “The distance from here to the Inn isn’t too far - perhaps we can find some sort of clue.”

 

You need to say something, concerned that silence will damn you. You’re aren’t unconcerned about Jaheira, but you’re also concerned about your secret. It’s selfish to value that over her safety. 

 

You don’t value that over her safety. Do you ? 

 

“I’m ready,” you declare. “Let’s go.”

 

“Are you certain?” Shadowheart asks gently, surprising you. “You still don’t look well… and despite what you claimed, you’ve hardly eaten.”

 

You look down at your plate, full of food cut into tiny slivers - much of which had no need for cutting at all. It gives the appearance that you’ve eaten more than you have, but not enough to fool your friend.

 

“I’m well,” you insist. You’re no worse off than you ever were on the road with them. “I regret every day not going with Wyll and Karlach because I was injured. I don’t want to make the same mistake.”

 

“It’s decided then,” Lae’zel starts for the door, and it takes everyone else a moment to catch up to her.

 

You don’t make it far before your chaperone Riven is running after you. It’s clear that he’s been gifted with no athletic prowess. “Wait!”

 

Ugh. “It’s okay, Riven, I don’t need you to accompany me,” you try to wave him off, but he’s undeterred.

 

“You can’t go,” he protests.

 

You raise an eyebrow. He’s caught the attention of the group now, most of whom turn to look behind to see what’s holding you up.

 

“I can’t? I was under the impression that I wasn’t a prisoner here.”

 

“No, you aren’t. It’s just that - Lady Daressin wishes to speak with you soon. She’s presently occupied, but it is urgent. On the matter of your…guests.”

 

Hm. The sun is still positioned high in the sky - you assumed she’d still be resting. Someone must have brought the matter to her attention. Surprise, surprise. In the safety of her own lair, it’s safe to assume she has a wide variety of places that she can utilize unharmed during the day. If she’s willing to speak with you before sundown, it’s the perfect opportunity to see one of those very rooms and come up with a plan to defeat her if necessary. 

 

Someday you’ll live in a world where endless contingency plans aren’t necessary.

 

“Do you have an estimate when she’ll be ready for me? I can plan to return.”

 

Riven shrugs, passing a wary eye over your party. “The Lady of the House doesn’t operate on a schedule, I’m afraid. The schedule operates on the Lady.”

 

How entirely unreasonable. 

 

“Respectfully, the Duke is a guest here. Arguably one of equal status and importance in Baldur’s Gate. You cannot possibly expect her to cater to the whims of your Lady,” Astarion intervenes.

 

Riven pales, a shadow passing over his face. “Yes, but please, I implore you-” His voice cracks, and you think he might throw himself at your feet and grovel.

 

“You should stay.” It’s Gale who says it. He’s reading the expression on the servant’s face, too. He walks up to you slowly, and takes your hand. “Speak with Lady Daressin - perhaps she has valuable insight to offer on Jaheira’s disappearance. She might even offer us aid.”

 

The gesture is a strange one, and you almost pull your hand away before he can touch it - but you realize what’s happening as he discreetly passes something from his palm into yours. It’s cold to the touch, and mostly smooth. You stealthily tuck it into your pocket to inspect later - but you’re fairly confident it’s a sending stone. A magical artifact capable of sending short messages back and forth to the person who holds the other half - another stone that’s been magically bound. A lifeline, but a limited one. If only he’d thought to give it to Jaheira.

 

You nod. “Okay. Please be careful out there.” You haven’t had the opportunity to share your experience in town with the suspicious individuals with them. You hesitate to share it now in earshot of Riven and several other castle staff that mill about.

 

Astarion’s eyes linger on you as the rest of the group starts out again, but Riven isn’t done.

 

“Lord Ancunin,” he squeaks, after plucking up the courage to interrupt again. “Lady Daressin also requests to meet with you. About a separate matter.”

 

“A separate matter?” He narrows his eyes. “Of what kind?”

 

“It isn’t my place to say.”

 

For the urgency in which Erliza called you here, it becomes clear that she's much more interested in Astarion. If she had a plan, you get the impression that she's rewriting it with a different goal in mind.

Chapter 17: Guilty

“How ridiculous that she thinks she can just demand that we wait around, as if we don’t have anything better that we could be doing. She certainly doesn’t know how to treat her guests.”

 

Riven gives Astarion a heavy side-eye, but doesn’t say anything. He's too much of a coward for the confrontation, or he's smart enough to know that Astarion is trying to rile him up. Maybe Riven is more insightful than he comes across. It would do you well to take a page from his book when dealing with Astarion.

 

Unfortunately, Astarion isn't satisfied leaving it at that, and throws in a more direct jab for good measure. “Honestly, someone needs to read a book on proper hospitality. In fact, I might mail her one when we return to Baldur’s Gate. Do keep an eye out for it, won’t you, River?”

 

The servant opens his mouth, but must think better about correcting him. His job has him dealing with enough pompous nobles that he navigates their taunts expertly. You put a hand on Astarion’s shoulder and guide him away from Riven.

 

“Don’t take it out on Riven ,” you make a point to correct the name. “He might be annoying, but-”

 

“I know, I know. The poor bastard is just doing his job,” he grumbles. "I can't help myself."

 

"Please try."

 

Then you properly come to terms with the fact that you’re alone with him again, and you turn your body slightly away before your eyes can linger on his lips too long. Gods, pull yourself together . With that out of the way, you don’t know what to say next, and an uncomfortable silence blooms between the both of you. Your hand slides to your pocket where you let your fingers study the contours of the object that Gale gave you before he left. It’s cool to the touch, oval shaped, its width a little thicker than your thumb. It’s mostly flat, but you can feel small runes carved into it. Definitely a sending stone.

 

“You look anxious.” 

 

It doesn’t sound like genuine concern. Whether he means it or not, his tone is tainted with an amused lilt that makes you think he’s trying to get under your skin again. Two steps forward, one step back.

 

“You look tired .” You cross your arms and walk towards the nearest window, pulling back the curtain and watching as Gale, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel walk across the courtyard towards the gate. You should be with them. Not cooped up in here, alone with Astarion again, vulnerable to his... provocations. 

 

“You hardly ate. Does something trouble you?” You aren’t looking in his direction anymore, but even with his silent footsteps you can feel him approaching behind you.

 

Suddenly, the world outside of the window is absolutely fascinating, and nothing in the world could draw your attention away from it. It's easier if you don't look at him. “No. I ate in town. Earlier.”

 

“Don’t tell lies, darling. It isn’t a good look for you. You should never lie to a vampire about these things - I can smell when you don’t have enough sugars in your blood.”

 

Maybe that can draw your attention away from the window. You whip around to face him. “You can what ?” 

 

The corner of his lips creeps up, and his stoic facade breaks into genuine, hearty, laughter. He places a hand on his stomach in an effort to contain it. “Gods, the look on your face. Absolutely exquisite. Relax . It was just a harmless joke.”

 

You don’t know if it’s worse that the bastard lied about it to scare you, or that you fell for it . You tighten your arms to your chest and stare out the window again with such intensity that you could burn a hole in the glass. His laughter has died, and he’s quiet as he stands just behind your shoulder.

 

“You admitted earlier that you hadn’t eaten much, remember? But then, when you were given the opportunity to remedy that, you didn’t eat. Which leads me to believe that you’re either in on a conspiracy with Erliza to poison all of our good friends… or something else is on your mind.”

 

Your group has left through the front gate now - you won’t be able to see them for much longer.

 

“It’s nothing,” you mutter. He’s smart enough to put it together himself - why does he want to put you through the torment of saying it out loud?

 

He lowers his voice to barely a whisper - there could be servants nearby to overhear. “Is this about last night? I apologize if I misinterpreted-”

 

You hold up a hand.

 

“ Stop . Gods, fuck. No… Yes… I don’t know.” The words spill out of you against your will. There’s no room left for them in your head. You take a deep breath. “What I mean to say is…Let’s both agree to never speak of it again, yes? Forget it. It meant nothing. It was the heat of the moment, and apparently I’ve been- never mind.”

 

Don’t look desperate. Desperate is a terrible look. You’d almost admitted that you've not only been starved for intimacy, but for any kind of connection at all, pining away in Ravengard Manor.

 

“Of course. Say no more, then. I understand.”

 

“There’s too much at stake. It didn’t happen . No one can know that it happened.”

 

“It didn’t happen,” he repeats. Mercifully… he’s taking you seriously. Any hint of the earlier smirk has washed away. He brushes your shoulder with his fingers, encouraging you to look him in the eyes. “But if you might indulge me for just a moment… did you want it to?”

 

The gods made this man to ruin you . “I…” the answer is caught in your throat.

 

Yes. You wanted it to. You want it to happen a thousand more times - 

 

But then he went to a brothel -

 

“Yes or no. One word .” He commands with an alarming degree of authority.

 

“Yes,” the word is hardly louder than a shaky breath. You squeeze your eyes shut, your stomach drops to the floor. “I wanted to.”

 

Your eyes stay glued shut as long as you can get away with. You fear his reaction - you don’t want to read his face. There is no good outcome. When they release and he comes back into focus, he expression is flat.

 

Astarion clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “Good. Because I am shit at apologies. I’m relieved to hear that you aren’t owed one.”

 

“Was it not…” you hesitate.

 

“Go on.”

 

“Obvious?” Your face is on fire. It must be. Someone has held a match to your flesh, and now you’re going to burn to a pile of ash right in front of him.

 

He smirks again as if that side of him never retreated - his maddening duplicity on full display. “Oh, it was quite obvious - I would have never continued if your lips had given anything less than enthusiastic participation. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

 

“You - you,” your entire body tenses with humiliation and rage. Did he really have you fooled the entire time? You can’t believe that. You don’t want to believe that. Is he such a skilled charlatan and lover that he made you believe the kiss meant something to him? Of course it didn’t, or he wouldn’t have turned around and gone to a brothel the same night.

 

‘But you’re not a couple. He has every right,’ The rational voice in your head is asking to be decked by the emotional voice. Together they roll around in your mind, brawling.

 

“Uh-uh,” he holds a finger up quickly to your lips, and you just know the way he accidentally brushes them is intentional. “Watch your volume. There are nosy little rats about.”

 

‘You don’t even know that he didn’t just say that to take suspicion off of you. Or to test you - to push your buttons to see how you’d react. You know how he is.’

 

The emotional voice quiets. It has no rebuttal for now.

 

‘Or to take suspicion off of himself , because-’

 

Astarion takes a few steps away just as Riven comes to interrupt, and you try to make yourself look not guilty of… something. 

 

                                               

---

The smell of every possible scent of incense on the market assaults your nose, mixing with the various worldly perfumes of the patrons of Sharess’ Caress. Wyll takes your hand in his, and your heart flutters. It’s almost comical that he does it now - even a small public display of affection feels somehow tonally inappropriate with everything else going on.

 

“We shouldn’t have come here,” he mutters, glancing around. You realize why he’s holding your hand - everyone here sizes everyone else up, maybe determining who is…willing and available. His cheeks are a tinge of pink, and he walks with his head low. Is he holding your hand for your comfort, or for his own?

 

“Oh grow up, Virgin Prince. No one is rutting out in the open. Unfortunately,” Astarion rolls his eyes. 

 

“Astarion,” you warn.

 

“What? If he’s going to be a baby about it he’s welcome to wait outside. Or go back to camp with the others.”

 

Wyll stands up a little straighter, giving your hand a squeeze to thank you for your support. “This is my city. I will see this through. And for the record, I know who I am. I’m not ashamed of my morals.” He looks down at you, and you give him a small smile.

 

“Not all of us find the idea of meaningless pleasure appealing.”

 

Astarion scoffs, a sour look on his face. “Not all of us have taste.”

 

But even as combative as he is, he has a vacant, far away expression for the rest of the time you spend there. His humor is noticeably absent, and his taut shoulders reveal a man on edge - as if at any moment the walls might implode around you.

 

---

The sun is still up, so you aren’t surprised when Riven leads you to a dim, windowless interior room of the castle, with heavy tapestries lining the walls for good measure. The furniture at the center, two couches with a low table between them, is dull and sunbleached. It must have lived a long life in a more cheerful room before being dragged here. You are alone with her, though you would wager that Riven stands just outside.

 

Hopefully Astarion, too.

 

“You’re back. It is so good to see you again. I hope your first night here was restful.” She extends her hand to the table, gesturing at a teacup laid out for you. 

 

She drinks something a bit harder from a chalice - a golden plated carafe on a smaller table to her left, well out of your reach. You avoid looking at it for too long. She’s less put together than last night, unwillingly roused from her sleep and hurried to get dressed. Her complexion is notably more pale, the liquid in the chalice hasn’t yet had time to work its magic.

 

“It was excellent, thank you,” you lie. Though I have to wonder why you gave Lord Ancunin the better room.

 

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m certain that I employ some of the most attentive servants in all of Faerun, so please don’t hesitate to ask them for anything you need.”

 

“Yes. Riven has been… attentive,” you agree. To the best of his ability, anyway. “Why have you called me here? I’m hoping it’s because you already know about my friend that went missing under your care and you’re going to explain to me exactly how something like that happened. And what you’re going to do about it.”

 

She cocks her head. “The old elf? My driver returned. His report suggested that she was dropped off at the Inn without incident.”

 

“My colleagues’ report suggests otherwise.” You grit your teeth.

 

“She is an adult, yes? Perhaps she had other matters to attend to.” 

 

“She never returned, and your driver was the last person to see her.”

 

Erliza sighs and takes a long, relaxed sip from her chalice. She relishes in making you wait. “I will question the driver further on this issue.” She makes it sound as difficult a task as asking her to swim the distance from Westphal to Baldur’s Gate.

 

“Last I recall, you said you wanted my friendship ,” you try not to sneer as you say it. Maintaining your temper and…sassier disposition  is critical. “I would appreciate it if you would treat the matter with more urgency.”

 

Unless she’s ready to tell you the actual reason that she wants you to remain here - which you doubt.

 

“Of course.” Her frown is pointed. “But understand that as she is well into adulthood and we have no reason to suspect foul-play, the town guard will be reluctant to search for her until tomorrow. You can hardly call her missing yet.”

 

“Where would she go? She’s on an unfamiliar island! She’s far too smart to wander off alone.”

 

“Oh? You mean… like you did this afternoon? According to Riven, anyway. He did try to go with you, yes? He begged for my forgiveness for not being able to fulfill his duty and losing track of you for a time. But if he lied, of course I’d like to know of it.” She dabs her lips with a napkin, satisfied when you freeze.

 

“In any case, Jaheira is a Harper, is she not? They can be fiercely secretive, you know. I just don’t see a reason to worry about her yet.”

 

She’s hit you twice now - two carefully crafted arrows fired with expert precision. Erliza shouldn’t know Jaheira is a Harper. But she does .

 

Whatever information she claims to have on you suddenly becomes significantly more credible. It’s less likely that she stumbled across a lucky piece by accident, and more likely that she’s been studying and collecting you and everyone around you for some time. That wouldn’t be easy without help inside of the walls of Baldur’s Gate. The person most well-positioned to get it…

 

The worst case scenario grows larger in your mind, and you can’t ignore it any longer. It’s at least the size of a dragon now, and starting to torch your other explanations.  If Jaheira was right about Astarion and Erliza having connections, her disappearance may not be a coincidence. After your moment of intimacy last night, he disappeared into Westphal… and Jaheira never returned to the Inn. He could have been planning this all along, to get you to trust him and allow him to accompany you here. 

 

“You’ve gone silent. What’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing.” Despite the chaos that’s unfurling in your mind, you manage to keep a calm exterior this time. “I must respectfully ask that you allow the rest of my traveling party to remain here in the castle with me as a precaution until this is sorted.”

 

Her disdain spreads like a cloud in the air that threatens to choke you out. “I don’t care for guests. As soon as the elf is found, I want them gone immediately.”

 

“I’m glad that we can both agree that finding Jaheira is urgent then.”

 

Immensely satisfied to beat her at her own game, at least for now, you excuse yourself. Astarion is waiting in the hall, the next unlucky victim for an appointment with Lady Daressin. You can’t shake the fear that he has something to do with it all. Now that you’ve acknowledged the possibility, the weight of it is crushing. Do you run now, and try to catch up with the others who wander somewhere in the streets of Westphal? Do you share your suspicions with them?

 

“How did it go?” Astarion asks. You look at him, and you can’t help but soften under his gaze. Whether it is some immutable power of the Ascendant that lures unwitting victims, or a need for that connection you shared to be authentic…. 

 

“We need to talk,” you say robotically, sterile of all hint of emotion. You leave it at that, and find your way back to your quarters.

 

When you speak with him again… you’ll be careful. But there’s no sense sharing your suspicions yet. They’ll be quick, perhaps even eager to accept the possibility as fact. A misunderstanding is a risk. Someone could get hurt. It won’t take much convincing. You owe it to everyone to try and glean a little bit more information first. 

 

Right?

Chapter 18: Fangs

“Astarion.” After a moment of no answer, you pull back the drape that closes his tent. You immediately regret it. He’s shirtless, his back turned to you - and you definitely see something that you feel you weren’t supposed to. His back. There’s something wrong with it. You only see it for a moment though - covering your eyes and turning back towards the outside as soon as you realize what you’ve walked in on. “Oh. Gods, I’m sorry.”

 

He lets out a grunt of surprise and whips around, dagger drawn at his side. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” He accuses.

 

“Never in my life,” you retort, grasping the cloth in your hand in a fist and wagging it. “It isn’t like there’s a door. I tried to warn you, but when you didn’t answer-” You don’t look at him as he scrambles to throw on his tunic. 

 

“You decided you’d waltz in anyway?” He snaps.

 

“Well…” 

 

Astarion remained behind in camp today, claiming he needed a rest. But something had been noticeably off about him the night before, with no obviously correlating event to set him off. You were half expecting to come back to find his tent deserted.

 

“Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry for barging in. I just… I found this for you. I think it might open the book. The Necromancy of Thay.” You still aren’t entirely sure why he wants the damned thing - he has no strong magical affinity with which to use it. He might end up cursing you all. 

 

The purple stone sends a chill down your spine as you yank it from your pocket and place it on the ground in front of you. You still feel too sheepish to look at him, even now that he’s wrestled his shirt back on. It’s backwards though - you can tell even from the outskirts of your peripheral vision. In any other circumstance you might laugh, but now you fight to hide your reddening face.

 

 “I should go.” Gods, if any of the others saw you right now with him shirtless in his tent -

 

“Wait.” He stops you before you can properly leave, and you finally allow yourself to return eye contact.

 

“You look like shit.” He states. “You’re covered in…what is that, exactly?” He wrinkles his nose and gives you a very judgmental once over.

 

You let out a frustrated sigh. “Fuck, Astarion - don’t you think a ‘thank you’ might be more appropriate? I’ve spent the better part of my day in a gods’ damned dungeon full of giant spiders, my sincerest apologies if I’ve left any cobwebs or spider guts on the dirt floor of your tent in the woods .” 

 

Looking down at yourself now, it’s easy to see how desperately you need to wash up. As you do so, your vision blurs. You quickly blink it away.

 

“Hm. It seems I chose the right day to stay back.” He approaches and picks up the stone, only briefly regarding it before placing it on top of the small table he keeps - directly next to the book. Seeing the two items side by side… you’re confident now that the amethyst will be a perfect fit.

He continues towards you, and reaches out to pull a long cobweb from your hair. It sticks to his hand, and he has to shake it in disgust several times to get it to float away. “You might want to bathe before the spider eggs in your hair hatch.”

 

Even though you’re confident he’s only kidding, your hands reflexively reach up to run through your hair and check for any residual hitchhikers. After today, you don’t think you’ll ever shake the feeling of bugs crawling on your flesh ever again. “I’m still not hearing a thank you.”

 

“You might earn my gratitude, once we confirm that it does what you claim.”

 

You gesture at the book. “Well? What are you waiting for then?”

 

“Oh darling. I’ve never been very good at receiving gifts. Is it not the appropriate response to make sure that you’re okay first? You do really look like shit.” It’s insulting, but you don’t think he means to mock you - his tone has softened.

 

“I’m fine.” You aren’t fine. You’re cold and filthy, your boots might be wearing a hole in the toe, and your skin is a mosaic of burns, bruises, and cuts. On top of everything, your stomach is empty. The smell of Gale preparing dinner is beginning to carry on the air over the smoky scent of the campfire. It has you on edge.

 

“You won’t get any points for acting tough.” He rustles through his backpack and pulls out a small metal container. He gives a small warning underhanded swing that gives you barely enough reaction time to catch it. “It’s some salve. Not sure how far it will get with… all of… that, but at least it’s something.”

 

You turn the little medicine tin around in your hands, opening the lid to find it full of an indistinct, bluish-green, slightly luminous  gelatinous substance with a large scoop taken out of the center of it. It smells so strongly of mint that your nose burns and your eyes water.

 

“Did you… make this?” You put the lid back on.

 

He snorts. “I’m flattered, but no. Hardly. I… borrowed it while we were in the grove.”

 

“You stole this from someone? Hells. Why would you do that?” You grip the tin so hard that your knuckles turn white. Holding stolen goods, you suddenly feel like an accomplice. “I’m sure we could have paid for this - what did you even need it for?”

 

“Don’t sound so shocked. It must have occurred to you by now that I’m no bastion of morality like the rest of you.” He crosses his arms.

 

You’re starting to feel a little off balance. You should sit down. “Obviously not.” You grit your teeth. “But maybe I’m less surprised that you stole, and more surprised about what you stole. Why this? We have plenty of legally acquired medicines.” 

 

Shadowheart has also been more than capable of producing minor healing spells.

 

“Never mind. Give it back then, if you don’t want it.”

 

“Are you afraid we won’t look after you?” You ask quietly. “I might not trust you, Astarion - but you should know that I - we - wouldn’t let you die, either. ”

 

He swallows and looks away before you can properly read his expression.

 

“Or… is this about your back?” You ask cautiously as the brief image flickers in your mind. Even though you only saw it for a second - his back was somehow marked.

 

His expression darkens, and you regret asking. You know now that you definitely weren’t meant to see it. He’s guarding that piece of himself closely. There would have been a more tactful way to approach that.

 

“Whatever you think you saw, you didn’t,” he snaps. “Get out. Leave. I’ll let you know if the stupid book works.”

 

“Dinner’s ready!” Gale chirps out to everyone happily from the campfire. “I do think I’ve outdone myself this time, if I do say so myself!” It doesn’t take long for you to hear rustling and soft chatter as everyone congregates. Astarion’s tent is on the outskirts of camp - it’s hard to make out their voices unless you listen closely.

 

“Go on then,” Astarion repeats. “I won’t be joining the party tonight. I’ll find my own supper.”

 

“Do you need-”

 

“No,” he cuts you off. “Absolutely not. You smell like a sewer and the codpiece of an orc.”

 

Enraged, you open your mouth, but you don’t get a chance to get a word in.

 

“And even if you didn’t,” he says more gently, “You don’t look like you’re going to be able to stand for much longer. I won’t be responsible for killing you. Next time, prioritize taking care of yourself over a stupid trinket.”

 

You want to say, ‘I wasn’t prioritizing the trinket, I was prioritizing you because it’s unlike you to want to stay behind and I wanted to check on you,’ but you don’t. Something about that sounds too intimate, and you don’t want to give the wrong impression.

 

Suddenly, the flap of the tent whispers from behind you, giving only a breath of warning before Wyll pops his head in. Every muscle in your body freezes.

 

“Astarion, have you seen- oh! There you are. You’re both in here.” He glances around the tent, clearly looking for some sign of something uncouth occurring. 

 

“Wyll!” You say quickly, your heart rate picking up at the sight of him. Gods, how embarrassing to be caught in Astarion’s tent - he’s the last person you want to get the wrong idea about the situation. “I-”

 

“She was just on her way out,” Astarion finishes, much more composed than you. “She was just here to drop off the stone.” He picks up the amethyst and holds it up before pressing it into the book. A perfect fit. The moment it clicks into place, an invisible energy bursts from it, crackling against the billowing fabric of the tent. The amethyst and the eyes inlaid on the front of the book begin to glow a swirling, pulsing purple.

 

You breathe again. It worked.

 

“And look at that. It works. Now if you two don’t mind - I have some reading to get to.” 

 

Wyll nods, putting a hand on your shoulder. He’s wary of the book. And Astarion. “Right. Let’s go.” He tugs you gently towards the door. You don’t resist. Your vision clouds again, but when you stumble, Wyll steadies you. 

 

“Woah there. Are you alright?” Your ears ring, and it sounds as if there are two of him asking it, slightly offset, the words dancing from your right ear across to your left.

 

You have to keep your eyes on the floor - it stops the room from spinning. You’re overcome with nausea. Gods. Are you going to vomit bile on Wyll’s shoes? That would be embarrassing. You’d never live it down. You see Astarion’s shoes too - one foot stretched out towards you that slowly slides back into place beside the other one.

 

Your nausea is over as quickly as it began, and you right yourself. You feel cold sweat running down the back of your neck. “Sorry,” you murmur in a croaking voice. “Long day.”

 

Wyll lets out a relieved chuckle. He wraps his arm underneath yours and behind your back to better support you. “Of course. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed. Not necessarily in that order.”

 

You had been starving a mere minutes ago, but now your stomach is in knots. Hurling whatever liquid remains in your stomach isn’t out of the question yet.

 

“Wyll.” Astarion says. It’s flat and firm - no nonsense. It doesn’t sound like Astarion’s voice at all.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Have someone look her over for bites - no - don’t look at me like that, you stupid -” he scoffs and takes a deep breath. “Spider bites, obviously. You should rule out poison. She’s stumbling around like a drunken pixie.”

 

“Poison,” Wyll repeats to himself under his breath. “Do you remember getting bitten by anything?”

 

You weakly shake your head. “No. I don’t think so. I think I’m just running on empty. Honest.” You try to stand up a little straighter. Is it more embarrassing for Wyll to see you this way, or Astarion? “Let’s go. Please.”

 

“Oh. And by the way Astarion… your shirt is on backwards.”

 

A vial of antidote taken with dinner as a "precaution" perks you right up.

                                                 

---

 

 

Astarion’s meeting with Erliza either isn’t going as quickly as yours, or he’s taking his sweet time coming to speak with you. You pace a path in the aging carpet of your room as the sun dips lower and lower into the sky. Without a lightsource, the shadows begin to grow longer, and the room is tinged with a dusky orange through the stained glass of the windows.

 

Remembering Gale’s gift, you remove the sending stone from your pocket and get your first proper look at it. It’s small and unassuming, emblazoned with several unfamiliar runes. Aside from the runes, it’s mostly ordinary - a dark charcoal color, shiny and smooth from centuries underneath lapping water. It doesn’t hold a message for you - it’s cold. Inert. You try to reassure yourself that there’s nothing wrong with that.

 

No news is good news…

 

Repeating that mantra over and over does little to quell your anxiety. The stone is limited in use, and should be saved for an emergency. But they aren’t back yet either. It’s safe to assume that they’ll exhaust every last minute of daylight searching, if not longer. 

 

What if they meet the same fate as Jaheira?

 

They won’t. Together, they make a formidable team, even as a trio. Rounded out with you and Astarion, it would take an extraordinary threat to bring all of you down. Of course, you might be giving everyone a little too much credit. Aside from Lae’zel, the rest of you have been indulging in a time of peace. Unused muscles wither. Unpracticed swords grow clumsy. War magic loses accuracy. 

 

Eventually there’s a knock at the door, and you breathe a sigh of relief - for now. You recognize the timbre of the knock immediately. Although you want to hurry to the door and let Astarion in, you temper yourself. You walk at an even pace, push your hair behind your ears, and calmly open the door to see him standing on the other side. Something is wrong, though. Your breath catches when you see him.

 

“Astarion, what’s… you look like shit ,” you cover your mouth with your hand. He looks drained, more so than ever. He hasn’t really recovered since the ship, and whatever conversation he’s just had with Erliza has pushed him towards the edge of… something. You don’t know what the consequences of this would be for a vampire, let alone one with the powers of the Ascendant. “Come in.”

 

He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the room - your comment ignored for the moment.

 

“ What happened ?” He’s reaching a new low, sluggishly moving across the floor to collapse in an armchair that squeaks in protest.

 

He sighs, his normally perfect posture crumpling, an elbow digging into the arm of the chair to support his head with a weary hand. “Never mind - give me a moment.”

 

His free hand shoos you away, but you don’t retreat. Instead you walk right up to him and grab it, gently pushing it down. “Moment’s over. What happened? You have some explaining to do. Starting with where in the seven hells you were last night .”

 

“Oh. That .” He sounds a bit delirious - you might almost say drunk if you didn’t know better. Maybe you don’t know better. He was with Erliza for some time - drinking together wouldn’t be so far-fetched. “I was wondering when you’d get over your weird little whatever it was you were going through earlier and just ask me.”

 

He looks up at you and smirks a little, but it dies quickly. His lips don’t have the energy to maintain it, or maybe he reads your face and decides that you mean to be serious. “I was up all night and into the day - I flew all the way to Baldur’s Gate and back.”

 

Oh. 

 

You believe that he’s being truthful, and you feel the rage you’ve been holding release. “Baldur’s Gate… but why?”

 

“We’re stuck here for longer than anticipated. It was important that I started getting the letters published.”

 

Whoever the man is in the chair in front of you isn’t Astarion. Well, it is in the literal sense - you’re sure he hasn’t been replaced by some kind of magic - but he’s too tired to give you his usual attitude.

 

“You’re joking. The letters? Baldur’s Gate, power… none of that matters right now. We have more important things to prioritize. Why would you-”

 

“It is important! It is the most important thing,” he barks, his hand suddenly clasping your wrist and squeezing. There’s a slight tremor to it, a vibration that suggests his hardened exterior is cracking. His hold isn’t painful, but you flinch in surprise. In response he immediately pulls his hand away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

 

“You didn’t.” It isn’t a lie, and there’s no time to dwell. “You can’t do that again. We need to focus our energy here. On Erliza. On Jaheira.”

 

You’re so ashamed that the thought he might have been responsible for Jaheira crossed your mind that you could reach out and hug him and beg for his forgiveness, even as you swear to yourself that you’d never admit to him why.

 

He shakes his head. “No. It was urgent. I worry about the moves the Council might be making without you. It’s important to turn the public in your favor - especially while you can’t be there.”

 

“For gods’ sake, Astarion!” You cup his face with your hands and bore your eyes into his. “Forget Baldur’s Gate - it will still be there when we get back. You haven’t rested properly in days. You look like a corpse. I worry that-” you cut yourself off. You worry that you won’t be able to protect him if something goes south. But you don’t know if he’d appreciate hearing that - you know he can’t stand the suggestion of weakness.

 

“It seems that even my Ascendant powers have limits,” he says sourly. “I’ll need to go out and find something to feed from later. I may not feel hunger the same way as a normal vampire in regards to survival, but it seems my abilities might still require it. And I’ll be damned before I take a drop of blood offered by our hostess.”

 

Your mouth is dry - the words don’t come out. Offer your blood to him . Your inner voice is so persistent that you second-guess whether it’s you at all. Is he exerting some sort of power over you?

 

No. He’s not. You can still hardly admit to yourself that you didn’t hate it when he drank from you. It’s passionate. Intimate. Painful, maybe - but not for more than a moment. To offer it to him now feels self-serving, as if you’re gaining something from it rather than giving. Do you yearn for close contact with another person so much that you’d willingly accept being bitten ? 

 

Yes.

 

You swallow and push away those thoughts. “What did she want from you, exactly? I think I convinced her to render aid to help find Jaheira - or at least see the benefit in it.” 

 

“I haven’t quite worked that out myself. She was erratic,” his voice is low and husky, as if he barely has the strength to speak. “She was asking so many questions about Cazador, and certain artifacts he owned - I believe she had some information about the Rite. At first I thought she was looking for something, then I thought she might be looking for someone… I’m not sure what her goal is. At one point she demanded that I host her at the Palace.” 

 

You get the impression that he’s being truthful about what he’s sharing, but also that there’s something he’s leaving out. It isn’t enough to accuse him of anything… yet.

 

“It would make sense if she was looking for something - when I first met with her she was interested in some of the things in his collection. Though she didn’t say what.”

 

“I can’t imagine what she’d want, either, and she wasn’t specific. It seemed as if even she didn’t know quite what she was looking for. It may surprise you to know that Cazador didn’t keep much of magical value. Rare artwork and books? He had them, but most of it was inherited. I’ve been through all of it. Some of it was burned, some was sold - almost nothing was kept. I would have known about and secured anything magical or dangerous… and there was nothing notable. After all of it, I doubt she’s looking for a specific item at all. I think she’s trying to distract us from her bigger motive.”

 

“It’s too early to say yet - I’ll have a look around the castle tomorrow in the daylight.” He stands up, tilting forward for a fraction of a second, but not enough to throw him off balance.

 

“Where are you going to go?” You ask nervously.

 

“I’ll try to avoid some poor sap in Westphal, I promise,” he rolls his eyes. “I would hate to offend Lady Daressin by making a snack of her people. Of course, if we find out she made a snack of Jaheira, all bets are off.”

 

You shudder at his callousness. “So what then? You’re going to wander off alone into the woods? You don’t know the area.”

 

He laughs, although there’s barely any strength to it - like the world's smallest set of bellows for a fireplace giving out a single puff. “I’m the most powerful vampire that’s ever lived. I’ll be fine.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow.

 

“No,” you reaffirm, crossing your arms. You back up and stand in front of the door.

 

“Please. I could easily turn into mist and pass right underneath the door. Spare me the theatrics.”

 

“No one else goes off alone. Not even the ‘most powerful vampire that’s ever lived,’” you make sure to aid air quotes with your fingers for that little bit of extra emphasis. He’s no stranger to narcissism, that’s for sure.

 

He’s growing irritated now. “You were the one that only minutes ago told me to take care of myself. Come with me if you feel the need to babysit.”

 

You grab his arm before he can push you out of the way. “You’re struggling with walking right now, what hope do you have of catching any prey?”

 

“You severely underestimate me,” he growls, his tired eyes narrowing. “And you’re playing a dangerous game.”

 

Suddenly, he’s closing the dagger’s length of space between you and pressing you into the door with his pelvis, a hand on either side of your face, and a knee pinned between your legs. Fuck. You can’t think. You stop breathing. He doesn’t have to hold you here, his eyes do all of the work at restraining you without even laying a hand on you. His gaze alone ensnares you, frozen. 

 

His upper body closes in, his face coming right up to yours, and you think he might kiss you - but you know better. He goes straight for your neck, and you feel the points of his fangs on your skin - gods it’s so different now than it was when he was a spawn. Ascending has returned some of his human characteristics - including some of his warmth. You can feel the warmth of his tongue lap against the crook where your jaw meets your neck, just in front of your ear - 

 

You close your eyes and relax your body against the door, anticipating the bite - 

 

“What kind of idiot are you?” He asks suddenly, snapping you back to reality. He’s pulled away from you a bit, but he’s still pushing against the door, hovering just above you. “You’re just going to stand there? And let it happen?” He looks offended. Tired. Starving. 

 

“I…” you’re at a loss for words. Your cheeks are burning .

 

“Don’t just stand there and let me take advantage of you!” He says angrily. “Push me away. Stand up for yourself. I’m not compelling you, I’m not even holding you - I’m just making a point. Stand aside.” He pushes himself back from the door.

 

You peel yourself off of the door, flustered. “I’m going with you.”

 

“Have you gone mad?”

 

“Maybe,” you say, eyes glued to the ground. You open the door. You still can’t catch your breath. “But I’m still not letting you go out there alone.”

                                                     

---

The sun is minutes from disappearing entirely over the horizon by the time you’re out of Caer Westphal and heading towards the forested area to the west of the city. Somehow you managed to get out without being bothered by Riven or any servants - Astarion seemed to be able to navigate a path mostly free of people. He takes long strides that you have to have a spring in your step to keep pace with. You’re glad that he stays a little ahead, because it means he isn’t looking at you. And if he isn’t looking at you, he can’t see that your face is still blistering red. If he doesn’t speak to you, he can’t hear that your voice is cloaked with a breathless quiver.

 

Your decision is already made long before he slows down, and long before the lively, dancing streets fall to a quiet chatter on the outskirts of the city, and then fall to nothing but sounds of nighttime wildlife as you breach the tree line. You just aren't sure how to bring it up to him yet.

 

The further into the woods you go, the more you start to swat at bugs, and the worse your vision gets. It’s dark now, and you aren’t lucky enough to have the vampiric sight that he does. He presses forward, muttering unintelligibly to himself, mind sharpened on his singular goal. You respect his desire for quiet - you aren’t here as a wanted guest, after all. Just a babysitter. To make sure that nothing goes wrong. It isn’t your place to interfere, and you’re glad for it. Right now, there’s nothing to say.

 

Unfortunately, you aren’t as light on your feet as he is, and the forest floor is littered with hazards. Tripping isn’t the only concern… nor is it the biggest, which you discover quite quickly. It turns out that hunting prey is a very delicate operation, and many of the animals of the forest are easily spooked by the smallest noise, and in the dark, you don’t see them or sense them as Astarion does. Your clumsy mortal feet crunch leaves and twigs underfoot with nearly every step. It’s worse that you’re wearing skirts - there had been no time to change into pants. When he glares back at you, all you can do is mouth an apology and start to stare at the ground, better plotting your steps. It’s dangerous in its own way because of how easily you could lose him if you aren’t looking up - he’s fast. But for a while, things seem to go better. Your steps have more finesse, though you can never match the ethereal, silent way that he prowls through the trees.

 

As you’re concentrating on avoiding a particular complex network of tree roots, you don’t catch that Astarion has stopped in front of you until it’s too late. You look up just in time to catch a glimpse over his shoulder of the deer he had his sights on. As you look up, you miscalculate where your next step would have landed. You trip directly into Astarion, who topples over in his weakened state, and you both land on the ground with enough sound to send the deer bolting away into the darkness.

 

Astarion utters an expletive as he props himself up with an arm, and you hear him suck in a deep breath before turning his glaring eyes on you. “I almost had it!” He hisses. “You shouldn’t have come.”

 

He pauses. Closes his eyes. Inhales. “You’re bleeding. Of course you’re bleeding.”

 

You’re bleeding? You are. Just a little - you scraped your palms on something and a few pin prick sized droplets are blooming up through your scratched skin. You squeeze your hands shut and push to a seated position before wiping them on your skirt. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m not going to lose control, don’t look at me like that.” You aren’t sure what he’s referring to - it must be his own paranoia. “I’m not a slave to my hunger any longer.”

 

Is he trying to convince you? Or himself?

 

“I’m not afraid of you.”

 

“No?” He lets out a low laugh, and then he pushes you on your back and he’s on top of you in one swift, graceful motion, his hands pinning your wrists to the ground by your ears. “You should be. If I were still just a poor spawn controlled by my hunger - wouldn’t it be more forgivable? Instead I’m something much worse. I would take your blood just because I wanted to . No longer out of a need for survival, but out of a need for power .”

 

He lifts one of your wrists to his mouth, pressing his lips against the broken skin. It’s already stopped actively bleeding, but it doesn’t stop him from slowly pressing his tongue to what remains of it on your skin. It tickles, but you don’t pull away.

 

“You still don’t struggle,” he says, outraged. Confused. “Have my powers of compulsion exceeded my conscious abilities?” He pushes your wrist back down to the ground. His expression rapidly cycles through several conflicting emotions. “Tell me to stop,” he demands. His body lowers down on top of on yours, his lips at your earlobe. He doesn’t kiss, but trails them down lower grazing against your skin, finding the old spot where his fangs once pierced. “Last chance.”

 

You had planned on allowing this from the moment you followed him out here, but it feels too humiliating to voice the words aloud now. How can you admit that you'll allow this? No, worse - that you want it. You shouldn’t want this at all. It’s meant to hurt. Vampires are meant to instill fear. They’re monsters, and mortals are their prey. Where is your sense of self-preservation? 

 

Your arousal is holding it down at knife-point, demanding it doesn’t make a peep. You can’t kiss him - you can’t have a picturesque romance with him - but this? It toes a line. It’s necessary . 

 

But as his mouth opens and he readies his strike, your breath hitches. His hands lock yours in place. “Wait,” you choke, tensing against his grip.

 

To his credit, he immediately pulls away, though he looks furious about it. For a split second you wonder if he might not have his hunger as under control as he claims.

 

“You can’t… I was just thinking. You can’t. Not there. Someone will see .”

 

He nods. “Somewhere else, then. But I don’t think you’re going to like it." His voice is little more than a whisper. 

 

The next thing you know he’s lifting up your right leg and pushing your skirt aside. You gasp as he nestles his face between your legs. “Or maybe you will,” he smirks, noticing the damp spot that inevitably formed on your undergarments. You feel his lips against your inner thigh, and your entire body trembles at the contact. He sucks gently at first without breaking skin, saving his fangs but marking you the way normal mortals mark one another -

 

“Don’t make this intimate, Astarion,” you beg. You can’t afford to enjoy this. You can’t afford extraneous fantasies right now, on top of everything else. You have to remember who he is. “Business only,” you struggle to whisper out the words through heavy breaths.

 

“Fine, have it your way,” he murmurs. Without hesitating, fangs pierce into the delicate flesh of your thigh. It’s an entirely different sensation from the neck, the skin more sensitive and erogenous. You cry out and recoil at the initial entry as your hips buck upwards, but his hands hold you in a vice - one under the leg he drinks from, the other at the opposite hip. Slowly, as you feel the blood being rhythmically drained, your muscles relax, and you settle into his grip, the cry fading to soft moans which you try to stifle.

 

For a few minutes of total bliss, you forget you’re on the forest floor on an island under the control of someone who is already blackmailing you. You forget about Wyll and Karlach - and you don’t give a shit what they’re doing right now. You forget about Baldur’s Gate, and the outside world. You forget about Astarion’s history - his questionable past and how it might be influencing him now. There is nothing but the twisted pleasure of a vampire’s bite. 

 

He pulls away just as you start to feel a little woozy, and you suck your teeth as his fangs exit. The exit is somehow always the worst part - it leaves you feeling exposed and empty. You shiver, feeling much colder than you did five minutes ago.

 

“I’ve missed your sweet blood, darling,” he purrs, stroking your outer thigh before separating himself entirely to stand. You can barely make out his face in the darkness, but from what you can tell from his posture alone, he looks reinvigorated. 

 

“Our agreement is just as before,” you clarify, clearing your throat. “The Absolute was a dire circumstance. We needed you at full strength. This is another dire circumstance. And what use is the ‘most powerful vampire that’s ever lived’ if he can’t use his abilities?” 

Notes:

<3 hope this didn't escalate too fast it's two in the morning and I'm second guessing it

this fic has me thriving currently so I hope you love it as much as I do

Chapter 19: Trust

“Really? Again?” Shadowheart groans incredulously, swallowing a bit of breakfast lingering in her mouth as you walk by her. Her bowl clatters on the ground as she hoists herself to her feet.

 

You hold your hands up, too ashamed to face her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” After you say it, you could kick yourself for how unbelievable it sounds. Of course you know what she’s talking about - but you don’t know how she caught on so quickly this time.

 

The morning glow of the sun feels extra bright this morning, and your head aches with dehydration. You pick up one of the canteens full of water from the pile of supplies at the center of camp and take a hearty swig. Still uncoordinated from sleep, some of it dribbles down your chin and onto your shirt. You wipe it off with your sleeve.

 

“Don’t bother lying, I know your tells.” She lowers her voice and grabs your arm, yanking you towards her tent. You barely have time to put the cap back on the canteen and toss it back. “This is happening too often for my comfort.”

 

You sigh. “It’s fine - don’t worry about it.”

 

“Don’t worry about it? Don’t worry about it? How do you expect me to sit back and look the other way while he…” she trails off, considering how to phrase it. “You don’t even like him.”

 

“I don’t have to like him, that hardly matters. To be honest, I don’t much care for Lae’zel either after she almost killed me in my sleep. He’s more useful well-fed.” A strong team is the only way to survive this.

 

“Do the others know that you’re doing this?” She crosses her arms in displeasure. Her eyes might roll back into her skull if she isn’t careful.

 

“It’s no one’s business but mine,” you shrug. 

 

“It is our business, because we need you. Do you honestly think the rest of us would be able to get our acts together without you? I thought we agreed that we didn’t trust him.”

 

“And I don’t,” you agree. “But-”

 

“You’re ingratiating yourself to him? Not everyone can be fixed with good deeds.”

 

Fix him? You aren’t trying to fix him. He’s beyond saving.

 

“He shouldn’t have to suffer,” you correct. “The rest of us get proper meals. And in any case, he whines less when he’s fed. Haven’t you noticed?”

 

Her lips tighten. “You shouldn’t have to suffer. And don’t get me started on proper meals. Where are they then? You think this is a proper meal?” She points at her bowl of… something. “I’m beginning to think that you like this. I’m not going to waste my energy to keep healing you from your own-”

 

“Good morning-” Karlach interrupts as she cheerfully walks over. Her sunny attitude quickly storms over when her eyes fall to your neck. You instinctively press a hand to it, although it’s too late to hide. She’s already seen it. Shit. It’s messier than usual. Underneath your palm you feel dried, cracking blood that clings to your flesh. When you look down, you notice that it’s created a path down your neck and stained your white undershirt. How annoying - usually he’s more careful. 

 

Her eyes widen. “Hells,” she breathes, before her eyes narrow. “That’s the biggest fucking bed bug bite I’ve seen.”

 

“I’ll kill him,” she adds without giving you any response time. “Astarion!”

 

“No, no!” You reach for her with a panicked hand, momentarily forgetting her condition. She pulls away and tries to warn you, but not quickly enough, and you burn your hand on her skin. “Shit. No - Karlach - keep your voice down. It’s fine. He asked.”

 

Her face falls as she remorsefully looks at your hand. “Sorry,” she murmurs. 

 

“Don't be. It was my fault. I knew better. I wasn’t thinking.” You fight the pain signals that are firing off in your brain to keep your face straight and spare her the guilt. You don’t even look down at it, opting instead to repeatedly flex your fingers. It’s comforting knowing the hand still functions.

 

You nervously look around, hoping that she hasn’t drawn anyone else’s attention. Although it’s no longer a secret that Astarion is a vampire… it is a secret that he’s been biting you. You’ve been carefully arranging your hair, or the collar of your jacket to see that it remains that way. Blood on your shirt is damning. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Fortunately, no one else appears from their tent.

 

“You… allowed this? Why? Are you…?” She makes a gesture with her hands, poking a single finger into a hole made with her thumb and pointer finger.

 

Your face becomes as hot as her skin. “No,” you say quickly. “It’s definitely not like that.”

 

She looks skeptical, but drops it. “Your choice, then. But if the bastard kills you, I can’t promise-”

 

“It’s fine. Please.”

 

Shadowheart sighs. “Come here. Let me heal you. Again. But I’m starting to think that I’m enabling this sort of behavior. I’m not going to do this forever. You need to cut him off.”

 

“She’s right,” Karlach agrees. “We need you. You’re our fearless leader. We can’t do this without you. Gale might step up...” she leans in closer to you. "But between you and me, things would go to shit with him in charge real fast."

 

You bite your tongue, wondering how you found yourself in this position. Karlach is the first to suggest it aloud, but you’ve been feeling the pressure of leadership for several days now. It is you that they look to to make decisions, or speak on their behalf. Sometimes Gale would try to include himself, but even he defaults to you in the end. You don’t necessarily want it to be true, but you hold these people together. Without that, would they have enough in common to overcome the tadpoles?

 

                                                         

---

 

 

There is no graceful way to handle the walk of shame that follows the bite. You could compare it to the walk of shame following more intimate activities, especially when they involve alcohol. In the past, you could each retreat to your own bedroll immediately, and by morning pretend as if the whole thing had never occurred at all. Some nights you weren’t even sure if it did - it wouldn’t be unusual for the bastard to slip into a dream here and there, and some nights the blood loss left your head as empty as your veins. 

 

But tonight you’re forced to walk back all the way to Caer Westphal alongside one another, both clearly disheveled. This time you’re worse for wear, while Astarion has perked up considerably from the meal. His posture is more confident, his shoulders rolled back and his chin high - much like when you met him again for the first time. With nothing to say to one another, you trod along in unbearable silence, remaining just a few steps behind him so he can’t see the extent of your current delirium. 

 

You’ve made a choice that there’s no going back from now, one that still feels like a betrayal. It’s only natural that you would move on from Wyll, especially in your shoes. After all, he betrayed you first. But to do so with Astarion of all people, a mutual companion, is somehow taboo. Off-limits. You’ve asked to keep the relationship professional, but even still, it’s all wrong when your heart is hard at work repairing itself and sorting new information into tiny compartments. It will be a delicate balance from here on out. 

 

There’s more underneath the surface than “just business.” 

 

Was there always ?

The woods fade away and the fringes of Westphal begin to surround you again, much of it already turning in. Towards the center and ocean, the activities continue, evidenced by the dancing lights and far-off shouting. On the outskirts the streets are deserted, the residents either asleep or away downtown getting a slice of the nightlife.

 

“We were gone for longer than I realized,” you murmur mostly to yourself. 

 

“Yes, that happens when you’re dragging your feet slower than a glacier. Quite maddening, actually.” Astarion turns around. You hadn’t really been speaking to him and didn’t think he would hear you.

 

“Then go on without me,” you say in exasperation. 

 

“Would that I could, but I would feel responsible if anything terrible happened to you in this state. Perhaps I should carry you.”

 

“Absolutely not.” You’re already mortified. “Ascended or not, I’ve never known you to be gifted with physical strength.”

“You might be surprised - you can’t be that heavy.”

 

Doubtful. He’s lithe and graceful, and his muscles are softly defined but more pretty than useful. His power comes from his speed and dexterity, amplified from the ascension. It’s unlikely that he’s suddenly capable of immense feats of strength.

 

“Have it your way,” he shrugs dismissively, walking a little faster. “I was only trying to be nice. That is rather hard for me, you know.”

 

“I’m sure it is.”

 

“You might want to reconsider my charity - you’re moving like you’ve had an entire barrel’s worth of wine.”

 

“Oh please. You’re exaggerating, it isn’t that bad.” You aren’t stumbling, and you still have all of your faculties about you. At worst, you’re fatigued. Keeping pace with him is a challenge. You aren’t acclimated to this anymore, and you’ve never done any intense physical activity immediately after… donating.

 

“Your heart is working twice as hard as normal just to keep you upright, I can hear it from here. Your skin is pale and clammy, and your gait is as unsteady as a newborn foal.”

 

“What happened to trying to be nice ?”

 

“That window of opportunity closed. I did warn you it was hard for me.”

 

Right.

 

You slowly continue towards the walls of Caer Westphal, some life returning to the streets the closer you get. There are two very distinct categories of people here. One group seems to retire to their beds right at sundown, while the other keeps busy until several hours after midnight. It isn’t quite that late yet tonight, but the precise hour is lost on you.

 

Astarion stops short, and you manage to catch yourself just in time before you bump into him.

 

“What-” Before you can speak another word, he clamps a hand over your mouth.

 

“Shh,” he whispers.

 

Annoyed at his audacity, you pry his hand away from your mouth - but you do listen. Just around the corner, you hear voices Not just any voices.

 

“I don’t trust him,” Shadowheart’s voice sails over the sound of the townsfolk in the distance. This particular sidestreet is quiet, lacking any vendors or late-night shops to tie it into the community. “Jaheira didn’t either - isn’t it odd that she would disappear? He was one of the last people to see her.”

 

Him . She means Astarion - you don’t need any more context.

 

Gale’s voice is much softer, either more wary of listening ears or not as fired up about their conversation. You can’t pick out all of his words from where you’re standing. 

 

“She seems to get closer to him every day!” Shadowheart replies to his shrouded words in exasperation. “For all we know, she’s in on it, and this is all a scheme to pick us off one by one so we can’t interfere with whatever coup he’s planning.”

 

“A coup? You have no reason…” Lae’zel’s voice fades away as the distance between you grows.

 

You look up at Astarion, wearing a bitter expression on his face.

 

“Astarion, we should-” talk to them. Clear this up. But how far off are they really ? They don’t fully comprehend that you plot to take over Wyll’s seat. They still think he can be found. In a way, they aren’t terribly far off from the truth.

 

“Say nothing,” he orders icily. He isn’t looking at you, but at some point far beyond. “We should make an effort to return before they do.”

 

How? They already have the lead. 

 

He pivots and starts to stride in a different direction, still towards the castle but towards the back. There’s something about how tense he’s grown…

 

“Astarion. Tell me you had nothing to do with Jaheira’s disappearance.” You had asked him where he was the night she went missing, but hadn’t asked him directly.

 

He snorts, but continues on, leaving you to hurry behind him. He purposefully keeps you in his wake, always a few steps behind. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re asking me that. She was proving to be rather inconvenient to the plan. But unfortunately, no. I had nothing to do with it. And although she needed to be dealt with one way or another, I can’t stand not knowing what happened to her either. Her absence throws a wrench into things.”

 

It sounds honest. “Do you swear it?”

 

“Gods,” he says with venom on his tongue. “Don’t you think I owe you the truth at least? If any of our companions need to meet a sudden end for the greater good I’m in no position to lie to you about it.”

 

He finally turns to see how much distance he’s put between the two of you, and glides back to stop you in your tracks. “You’re too slow - we’ll never make it at this rate.”

 

Before you can react, he’s grabbing you under your arms and throwing you over his shoulder, knocking the wind from your gut. He initially buckles a bit under your weight, but once he’s stabilized he’s moving again at a pace that doesn’t give him much trouble.

 

“Put me down,” you gasp, digging your hands into the back of his shirt as his shoulder digs into your core. The balance is...precarious.

 

He pretends not to hear you.

Chapter 20: Secrets

It’s well after dark now, and you’re only just pretending to get settled when Shadowheart knocks on your door. Try as you might, you can’t seem to find yourself in a comfortable position. You mutter an expletive before taking a deep breath and calling her in with all of the false cheer you can muster. As she looks you up and down, you start to feel nervous - can she see through you like she could before? Out of all of the fucking people…

 

“Oh! Shadowheart. You’re back,” you feign surprise. Has your skeleton always felt this unnatural under your skin? “How did the search go?”

 

Shit, you could slap yourself. Your tone is far too chipper for the situation… she’s going to see right through you. Deception isn’t typically so difficult for you… but the shame adds a complicated distraction.

 

Her stony face studies you, and you know that she’s trying to figure out what’s going on with you. Her stare is intense, and it almost drives you to crumble and tell her everything outright. At least about what you’ve just done for Astarion - it might be enough to throw her off of everything else. But with the seeds of distrust growing amongst them, you can’t give her any fuel.

 

Why did she come to you alone?

 

Studying her back, it doesn’t seem like her day has been exceedingly difficult. At least there’s no evidence of any physical altercations.

 

“Unsuccessfully, but I s’pose that’s obvious,” she says. Her green eyes narrow. “You look tired.” 

 

“Do I?” You say, stupidly, before quickly trying to recover. You shake your head. “Sorry. What I mean is, is it that obvious?”

 

There’s an accusation in her observation, and it doesn’t escape your notice how her eyes linger on your neck. Visibly searching for proof, but finding none. Your thigh burns at the memory of his fangs.

 

Apparently, so do your cheeks.

 

“Your face is all red…” her wariness is growing, but you can tell that she hasn’t worked out why yet.

 

You reach up and touch your forehead. “Oh,” you say, swallowing back a quiver in your voice. “You know… I’ve actually been feeling a little ill ever since we got off of the ship. It’s been so long since I’ve traveled outside of the city, let alone got on a boat.

 

It’s obvious that she doesn’t believe you, but has no evidence with which to call you out on either. 

“Travelling can be grueling on the body,” she agrees, much to your relief. You’re going to have to be careful. “So what did Erliza want?”

 

“Nothing major. She just wanted to express her displeasure at me inviting you all to stay here. But she agreed to allocate some resources to help us find Jaheira.” You check to make sure the door is entirely closed and lower your voice. “I’m not sure it’s worth much - I haven’t ruled out her responsibility in the whole thing yet...”

 

She nods. “I think that’s wise. What about Astarion?”

 

“Astarion?” You repeat, a little too quickly and too loudly. Does she mean-

 

“His meeting with Erliza,” she clarifies, and you deflate. That was… close. You were sure she was referring to his ‘responsibility’ in Jaheira’s disappearance. Maybe she was. She chose the words intentionally, trying to catch you in a cunning verbal trap. 

 

Shit . His meeting with Erliza. You internally kick yourself. Somehow, you had missed your window to ask him about it. Forgotten about it entirely, consumed with a greater concern over his well-being.

 

“Well?” She cocks her head, awaiting a response.

 

You swallow. “I don’t know - I haven’t spoken with him.” It’s only half a lie, yet the truthful half has you chewing the inside of your cheek. 

 

How the hells had that very important thing slipped your mind in your earlier conversation with him? Surely it hadn’t been intentional misdirection on his part… you replay the earlier conversations in your mind, but it offers nothing conclusive.

 

“You haven’t spoken with him,” she repeats, her voice flat. She doesn’t believe you .

 

“No. He said he’d come speak with me when they were finished - he never did.” A more convincing lie.

 

She frowns and brings a thoughtful hand to her tucked chin. “We should speak with him. Urgently. You know where to find him, don’t you?”

 

You’d rather speak with him alone, but that chance is lost for now without raising eyebrows. Their suspicion fills you with dread - it feels like another betrayal at the end of a growing list. It’s partially your fault for losing contact with them - if you’d made more of an effort to stay in touch, maybe the relationships wouldn’t have deteriorated so quickly.

 

You nod. Astarion won’t enjoy the intrusion, but you’re curious too. Even if you hadn’t asked, it surprises you that he wasn’t more forthcoming with the information. Is he as loyal as he claims? Or is he playing the same game as before, trying to win your heart for his own protections? Is it possible that he’s gotten better at playing that game? Every moment that you think you start to trust him… a sprig of doubt springs up in the most inconvenient place. Weeds nestled between the garden that you’re finally trying to cultivate that appear faster than you can pull them.

 

You lead Shadowheart down the hall, to the quarters that Erliza has established for Astarion. His door is embellished with delicate metal inlays and painted details that you didn’t notice the first time you came here. The servants you pass say nothing, but they share a wordless language with one another through their glances. They watch you both closely.

 

“Someone’s the favorite,” Shadowheart mutters under her breath.

 

“No kidding. He has an entire suite to himself.”

 

Shadowheart pounds on the door before you have the chance, shaking it on its hinges. “Astarion!” She shouts. “Open up!”

 

You cross your arms and step back, distancing yourself from her direct approach. He might have been more amenable to you announcing yourself at the door. But it’s better to stand back now and let her take charge - it will add more deniability to your relationship with him. 

 

“Go away,” his voice rings out from behind the door. “You might not understand the meaning of the word, but some of us need our beauty rest. Come back in the morning.”

 

She snorts. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news Astarion but your so called beauty rest isn’t working. What sort of…” she stops herself, remembering the servants in earshot. “Since when do you sleep at night?”

 

“Since I’m surrounded by morning people. Weirdos, the lot of you.” 

 

Never one to leave an insult unanswered, he doesn’t leave much time for her to formulate a response. “And you’re one to talk - who copied my luscious silver hair? Hm?”

 

You have to hold back a laugh. At the risk of outing the growing closeness of your relationship, you step in front of her, which earns a raised eyebrow. You knock more gingerly than her to announce yourself, with some power behind the rap of your knuckles. “Astarion. We need to speak with you. It’s important. Please.”

 

An extended silence leads you to believe that you’ve failed - but just as you turn to give Shadowheart an apologetic look, you hear footsteps on the other side of the door. A lock unlatches and the door swings open.

 

“See, Shadowheart? You might catch more flies with honey. Someone was much more polite about it. Honestly, were you raised in a barn?” He clicks his tongue, mocking her.

 

Her hands clench. “You catch more flies with dung, but I prefer to slap my mosquitos.”

 

Astarion rolls his eyes. “I thought you’d grown out of your edgy phase.”

 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from-”

 

You take Shadowheart’s wrist and pull her into his room before this can go any farther, away from Erliza’s ears. The last thing she needs is to hear of discord within your group.

 

“Cut it out, both of you,” you scold. “Don’t give Daressin something to use against us.”

 

It’s effective enough to shut them both up for now.

 

“Well then,” Astarion plasters a poisonous smile on his face. “By all means, come inside my humble abode. I’d pour you tea if I had any, but I’m afraid our host hasn’t given me any. Sit down, stay a while.”

 

Dishonest code for ‘Tell me what you want and get the hells out before I make you.’

 

Shadowheart ignores the invitation of the sitting room couches, choosing instead to pace along the walls furthest from the door. When she’s facing away from you, Astarion directs a pointed frown at you, displeased that you’ve brought her along.

 

“How was your meeting with Erliza?” She’s straight to the point - no need for frivolous formalities.

 

“Positively tedious,” Astarion laments, taking a swig of something from a chalice that appears to be normal wine. You might be offended if he were already indulging in blood so soon after taking yours. “Tell me, did you find anything relating to our dear Jaheira?”

 

“I asked first,” Shadowheart steels herself.

 

“She merely wanted to have a conversation with her own kind. We so rarely run into one another. Unfortunately I have nothing nefarious or otherwise to report. We were only recounting our experiences with one another.”

 

It does nothing to ease your concern. The opposite, actually - you’re positive that he’s lying, but you won’t call him out in front of her - there’s no point in stirring up trouble. You think you can dig the answers out of him later, without her around. For now, she can give it her best attempt. When she looks towards you for backup, you can only shrug at her.

 

“You expect me to believe that?” She spits out, incredulous.

 

“Would you prefer to hear all of my tragic backstory in explicit detail? Unfortunately she offered nothing incriminating in return.” Astarion wears his signature cocky smirk. “Your turn. Did you turn up anything of interest in town?”

 

Shadowheart looks at the door. “Nothing interesting, unfortunately. Erliza’s people seem to adore her. Or at least, the Amnians do. Snowdown’s natives are less thrilled, for obvious reasons. At least in Westphal, you won’t find much vocal dissent. The city prospers underneath her according to the average local. She’s beloved, fair, and strong as a general sentiment.”

 

“You look disappointed,” Astarion prods.

 

“Disappointed isn’t the right word - but do you not get the impression that she’s hiding something?” She looks towards the door again.

 

“Everyone has something to hide,” Astarion says, his voice dropping almost too low to hear. “It’s possible she’s just looking for allies.”

 

“Well you did just say she’s generally popular with her own people. I’m curious to hear more from the side of the Snowdown natives,” you add.

 

“So were we. But when we tried, the few we found were unsurprisingly not very open to speaking with outsiders. It doesn’t seem like there are many of them left in town to begin with, but we may have just been lurking in the wrong places. Westphal is much bigger than it seems, it would take days to explore it all.”

 

“Something to do while we’re stuck here, I guess.”

 

Astarion snaps to attention and just barely manages to hiss a “shh!” before the door flies open and a frazzled looking Riven comes barreling through. 

 

“Oh thank gods you’re all in here,” he says in breathless relief. “Lady Daressin would like to meet with all of you in her audience hall.”

 

“You might try knocking next time, boy,” Astarion growls at him. “Try barging in here again and I’ll have some choice words to share with your Lady about your performance.”

 

Riven falters, unable to say whatever he was going to say next, something unintelligible sputtering from his lips as the color drains from his face. 

Momentarily, he collects himself and clears his throat. “I apologize, Lord Ancunin. It’s just that Lady Daressin can be very demanding at times with her orders, and I’ve already wasted quite a lot of time looking for her ,” he gives you a pointed stare - rather rude for a servant.

 

Astarion strides over towards him. Although Riven has a bit of height on him, there’s no question which of them commands more authority. “That’s no way to speak with Lady Daressin’s guest of honor. The Duke of Baldur’s Gate?

 

“Right. I forget myself.” He turns and gives you a hurried bow. “I apologize. Now if you all wouldn’t mind following me? Lady Daressin hates to be kept waiting.”

 

You and Shadowheart move to immediately follow him, but Astarion takes slow, deliberate steps that he uses to punish Riven all the way down to Erliza’s audience hall, halfway across the castle.

 

                                                                   

---

 

 

The audience hall is more full than expected. Aside from Gale and Lae’zel who have already been rounded up, likely a while ago if their questioning glances and anxious body language are anything to go by. Lae’zel’s shoulders visibly drop as the three of you enter. At the center of the room a man you don’t recognize kneels before his Lady, head bowed and shoulders hunched. You can see him trembling from here. There are several guards around the perimeter, and a young man with a swirling blue and purple robe that leaves no question about what he is. He has a similar face to Gale, but is younger by at least ten years, his face free of any age lines that humans get so young. He has short, dark facial hair that covers his jaw and circles his lips, leading up to his crisp jet black hair.

 

Erliza stands up from a plain looking throne as you enter. “Thank you for joining me,” she sings across the room, beckoning for her wizard to follow her. “I’d like to introduce you to some of my staff. This is Zane - one of the finest and most promising young wizards in all of Amn. He’s quite the prodigy,” her eyes lock with Gale - who is desperately trying to remember something. “And this is Gideon. The driver responsible for your friend. To ease your fears, I thought I would give you all the benefit of questioning him publicly.”

 

It’s surprisingly open of her, but something worries you…

 

“Zane, would you do the honors, dear boy?” She beams towards him like a proud mother.

 

He stoically nods, and his left hand raises, a teal glow coalescing around his fingertips before rerouting to the floor beneath Gideon. You open your mouth to protest, but Gale puts a hand on your shoulder, never peeling his eyes from the wizard. “It’s only a truth spell. It won’t hurt him,” he says just loud enough for you to hear.

 

A circle of swirling, magical energy pulses underneath Gideon. It spreads out like spilled water, coming just up to your toes. Gale steps back, pulling you with him. “ Don’t step in it.”

 

Suddenly Astarion is at your other side, encouraging you back a few extra steps - and out from underneath Gale’s hand. “You can’t be too careful,” he whispers.

 

“Gideon,” Erliza’s voice booms. She tucks her hands behind her back, pacing in front of the man at her feet.

 

“Yes, My Lady.”

 

“You will be compelled to answer my questions - and those of my guests, should they find mine insufficient - truthfully. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, My Lady.”

 

“First, for the benefit of my guests and as a testament to your loyalty and character… did you consent to this?”

 

“Willingly and without hesitation, My Lady. I have nothing to hide from you.” The words fall effortlessly from him.

 

Is there any chance this is being elaborately faked? You study the circle of magic, but you aren’t familiar enough with the spell to say for certain. Gale has the same thought - it’s written all over his face. His eyes are still trained on Zane. The young man is a statue with an expressionless face, who stands more still than the trained guards. The only sign of life he exhibits at all comes from his pair of dark, glittering eyes. You’ve never been more thankful to have a wizard of your own on your side.

 

“You were responsible for taking back the old elven woman to The Whispered Embrace last night, is this correct?”

 

“Yes, My Lady.”

 

“Did you complete this task as directed?”

 

“Yes, My Lady.”

 

“Did you encounter any difficulties on your way?”

 

“No, My Lady.”

 

“Did I give you any additional orders that would bring harm to her or alter her ultimate destination?”

 

No.

 

“Explain the last you saw of her.”

 

“I dropped her off at the front entrance of the Inn, and watched her make it through the doors before I left. It was rather late at that point, and I didn’t stop to look behind me after that.”

 

Erliza turns to your group, her chin held high. “Well. I would say that’s rather conclusive, yes? But please, feel free to ask him any other questions you might have. Zane will recast the spell if necessary.”

 

“Did you see anyone else around the Inn when you dropped her off?” Shadowheart asks. She’s walked right up to the edge of the circle, arms crossed and feet spread apart, peering down at the man at the center.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes, there were a few people around - but no one unusual. I didn’t pay them much mind. No one stood out to me as particularly suspicious.”

 

“Did you recognize anyone?”

 

“It was too dark - I wasn’t looking closely enough to say.”

 

Defeated, Shadowheart looks towards the rest of you. Gale would be the best person to ask a question to get around any possible loopholes in the spell, but he’s remarkably silent.

 

Zane’s spell begins to fade, the magic slowly fizzling out.

 

“Do you require him to cast it again?” Erliza asks.

 

You all share a long glance. None of you believe her, but no one knows how to refute it. Is it possible that Jaheira was the victim of random chance? Or did she make a decision to split off on her own? 

 

The driver claims that Jaheira entered the Inn, while your companions claim she never made it back to the room. Both could be true - she could have been intercepted, or left afterwards. Or… is there a chance that Gale, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel are lying to you? No… their concern for her seems genuine…

 

“Well?” Erliza asks, still awaiting an answer.

 

“No… I suppose not,” you speak up finally. 

 

“Thank you for your quick action on this matter, Lady Daressin,” Astarion adds.

 

“Of course,” she smiles sweetly at him. “I’m sorry it didn’t give you any answers, but there are other avenues we can try. I’ll send correspondence and have whoever was on shift at the Inn that hour summoned. Perhaps they saw something. I’m sure you already thought of that, of course - but I’m more than happy to provide Zane’s services again.”

 

“Thank you, Lady Daressin,” Gale chokes out. “That’s very kind of you.”

 

“You should all have some temporary arrangements settled by now,” she glances at Riven who confirms with a nod. “And I know the hour grows quite late, but I have had the servants put out some light snacks for you all in the west sitting room. Feel free to have your fill before you turn in for the night.”

 

                                                                               

---

 

 

Astarion doesn’t join the rest of you for the snacks. As the rest of you clear from the sitting room, several servants come to guide you all back to where you’ll be staying. It seems that Erliza has found room for them all, though Shadowheart in Lae’zel will have to share. Not that they’ll mind .

 

You reassure the young girl that insists on escorting you that you’re capable of finding your own way, lingering behind longer than the others. She’s more easily swayed to leave you alone than Riven - which leaves you to wonder where he’s gone off to. He’s tried to stay near, though you’ve made it difficult for him, but you haven’t seen him since the audience with Erliza.

 

Even the servants must get breaks, it’s only rational, but there’s something unsettling about his absence. 

 

This part of the castle is mostly free of servants at this time of night, aside from the few that now clean up the room behind you. The ‘snacks’ were anything but - it might as well have been a buffet large enough to feed a group of forty. The four of you hardly made a dent in it, and you hope the rest doesn’t go to waste. 

 

You start back towards your room, your footsteps echoing through the eerily empty hallways that suddenly seem too cold for the weather. A chill crawls up your spine like a spider, and you find yourself repeatedly checking over your shoulder expecting to catch someone watching you - but no one appears. Inspecting the portraits, you don’t sense any magic emanating from them, but it’s possible they’ve been enchanted with scrying spells. Their dead eyes follow you in the shadowy light of the magical sconces, set to burn at a low light indefinitely.

 

It’s safest to assume you’re being watched - there’s no other explanation for how easy it was to be left unattended. Your eyes linger on the hallway that leads towards Astarion’s room, your initial plan to speak with him alone again feeling more risky. In the daylight hours, it would be less incriminating than visiting him alone now. Only two types of private conversations ever happen after midnight. Plots, and trysts. Maybe allowing the servant to escort you would have been less suspicious - you wouldn’t look like you were trying to hide something.

 

You resolve to go ahead anyway. Without a proper conversation, you’ll never sleep tonight. You need to ask him about his conversation with Erliza without Shadowheart present.

 

The grand hallway his room is situated in is surprisingly darker than the rest, every other sconce burning at barely a smolder, with the other half of them entirely unlit. Strange, when it’s otherwise the most ornamented and well-cared for. You pass several suits of armor that seem to move in the dim orange light, each one giving you pause to look into the eyes of the helmet and make sure that no one lives inside.

 

There is a stifling silence to this hallway that differentiates it from the others with their booming echoes. A plush carpet runner in every hue of the sun with golden embroidery muffles every step - something that works for you, but can also work against you. When you stand still, you only hear the rushing of your own blood in your ears. 

 

Where are all of the servants?

 

Only when you approach Astarion’s door do you finally hear something breaking through the other side. You hear it just in time to hold your knock, pulling your hand away and pressing your ear to the door instead. Two voices.

 

One is Astarion’s, though his words are muddy and hard to define.

 

The other… your heart drops to the floor.

 

Erliza.

 

You quickly cover your mouth to mask an involuntary choke that builds in your throat, as your hands vibrate with a nervous energy. Why is she here ? The door is too thick to make out any part of their conversation - not even a single syllable loud enough to decipher.

 

But then, as much as you try to concentrate - the voices both stop abruptly, cutting off in an unnatural cadence. 

 

You take a step backwards. They know you’re here . They might be able to smell you, if they haven’t already heard you.

 

Footsteps grow louder on the other side of the door, and you glance around, for anywhere to hide. Just to the right of his door, there’s a thin decorative table with a gauzy cloth draping over it, the resting place of an ornamental vase with a huge, fresh bouquet of tropical flowers. It’s your only chance, though the cloth doesn’t quite reach the floor. You’ll never make it down the hallway in time to round a corner, and there’s no telling what or who is on the other side of any of the other doors in the hallway, or if they’re unlocked.

 

You dive under the table, stilling the cloth with your hand, squeezing yourself into a ball and hoping the darkened hallway works to your advantage. The cloth is semi-transparent - and hear and see the door open, quickly enough to flutter it. The silhouette of Astarion steps into the hallway, who looks left and right down the hallway once, then again, hand on the door. His gaze stops on the table, drawn to the slightly swaying cloth, and you hold your breath, unsure if he can see you.

 

“It’s nothing," is all you hear him say before the door clicks shut behind him, and you can breathe again.

 

Despite your burning curiosity, you don’t make the mistake of lingering.

 

---

 

Notes:

Thank you for your patience for this one. I've been travelling a bit this summer and I've been writing snippets here and there for several of my fics but haven't had time to edit and pull it all together properly.

This fic is truly one of my favorites to write (which is funny, because the early chapters and notes sat in the drafts for so long, it almost never got published!), and I love hearing all of your comments and theories! I don't always respond to theory comments just because I don't want to give anything away or hint at anything, but it means a lot hearing from you. :) As always thanks for reading and sticking it out with me, and I hope to be updating more regularly again.

Chapter 21: Outsider

Notes:

Happy Friday! Have an update two days in a row, I'm impatient even though I suppose I could have saved it for a dry spell...

It's a long one, get comfortable!

A pounding, rattling door startles you awake, pulling you from an empty, dreamless rest. It’s a miracle you fell asleep at all - the racing thoughts you were left with as you tossed and turned in bed were worth several hours of torture. The doorknob jiggles madly as someone tries to intrude - relieving, actually. If it were Erliza or anyone working under her, they’d just have used a key and taken whatever it is they wanted while you slept. It’s not Astarion either, thank the gods - if he were that desperate he’d be sneaking underneath your door in a puff of mist again. You aren't ready to confront him about last night, even after the extensive imaginary conversations you held with him about it before you found sleep. The reasons why he would be alone with her that don't paint him as a villain are few, and seem far less likely than the other possibilities.

 

“Just a second,” your dry throat croaks as you throw your legs over the edge of the bed. At the sound of your voice, whoever is waiting on the other side calms down, and the assault on your door ends. The amount of sunlight successfully penetrating the stained glass window tells you it must be afternoon - a consequence of the tormenting thoughts that kept you up to an uncertain hour. Before greeting your guest, you pour a cup of water from the silver pitcher that sits on a refreshment cart by the door - the only thing on the cart. The water is room temperature and has taken on some of the metallic taste of the container - it’s been sitting there a while - but you’re too parched to care.

 

Finally, you open the door. Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel are standing on the other side, fully dressed and ready to greet the world. 

 

You, on the other hand…

 

You become painfully aware that you’re opening the door with a frizzy, ruined braid, bleary eyes, and ill-fitting nightclothes. It’s unlike you, to say the least, and they wear their surprise plainly on their faces. 

 

“Good afternoon,” Gale says, clearing his throat. He gives you a little wave and lets his eyes look anywhere but directly at you, as if he’s witnessing something he isn't meant to see. You aren’t indecent by any stretch of the imagination, all of your skin is adequately covered, but your dignity takes a hit. “Did you, ah… sleep well?”

 

“No,” you groan. You feel the beginning of a headache festering behind your eyes.

 

Lae’zel’s eyes narrow. “Did you return and drink a gallon of ale last night?” She accuses - but not without a touch of pity. Unlike Gale, she doesn’t avoid looking you over, instead making it painfully obvious that she’s scrutinizing you. Tact has never been her strong suit.

 

It’s Shadowheart glowering over her shoulder that you’re more afraid of - she’s thinking you're worse off than a night of heavy drink, and you can’t blame her. 

 

You kick your tired brain into gear fast enough to save face and lean into the lie you told her yesterday. “No… just feeling unwell. Worse than yesterday. I had trouble sleeping and… expelled some of what I ate yesterday. To put it nicely.” You offer a weak smile.

 

Gale shuffles through his bag. “I think I might have something to help with that…just a moment.”

 

Shadowheart steps forward, her expression unchanging. “Are you well enough to go into town with us, I hope?”

 

Another trap, only this time you aren’t sure of the right answer as she holds you beneath a spotlight. Are you expected to refuse and to stay in to lend credibility to your illness? Or to power through to make it look as if you aren’t using an excuse to stay behind and plot with Erliza and/or Astarion? It has to be better if you stay with them and look like you’re making an effort. If you’re with them, they can’t ruminate on their own conclusions about you.

 

“I think so,” you agree, standing a little taller. Your mind adjusts to being awake again. “Give me a few minutes to get ready. Is Astarion coming?” You ask innocently.

 

The three exchange uncertain glances. 

 

“No,” Shadowheart says. She doesn’t elaborate.

 

Good. You aren’t ready to see him after last night yet - especially when you’re unable to confront him about it with the others around. Admitting you went to his room in the dead of night won’t help ease their growing distrust of you. 

 

“I thought we weren’t leaving anyone alone.” Gale’s alarmed voice surprises you. You hadn't expected anyone to argue it. They haven’t spoken about this first, then. Maybe not everyone is as lost to paranoia as you thought.

 

“Whatever you all decide is best then,” you give a quick nod of your head. “I’ll get dressed.” 

 

You shut the door before anyone can argue or worse, invite themselves in. It’s an excuse to exit their conversation where any opinion you have to offer might be analyzed too closely later. Let them hash out whether they want to invite him along or not - it’s better if you don’t influence the decision. 

 

Their voices are loud on the other side of your door, and you try to ignore it as it heats up. You drag a comb through your hair and redo your braid, tucking it neatly out of the way, checking it over in the aging mirror that holds a layer of dust that just won’t clear. Today is a chance to earn back or their trust and reestablish yourself as part of the group. It’s important that you act as normally as you can manage. How had things devolved so quickly? Without the tadpoles, do you really have that little in common?

 

You dress as quickly as you can to rejoin them, realizing quickly how much the air has soured between them since you left.

 

“What do you think?” Gale asks as soon as the door opens. “Is it wise to leave him behind?” He holds out a vial to you - right. He had been looking for something in his bag to help with your ‘illness.’

 

“I…” you look across each of their faces, knowing exactly which side each of them lies on. “I don’t know.”

 

There’s no winning side. You carefully take the vial from Gale, knowing that some of his solutions have a foul flavor. Maybe later. You hold it in your hand until he's forgotten about it and an opportunity presents itself to shove it in your bag.

 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Shadowheart asks. “You’re the closest to him.”

 

“I… wouldn’t say that,” you say carefully, to immediately regret it. Denying it outright is suspicious in its own right. “Well, closer than the rest of you, maybe. But not close .”

 

That sounds so much worse - your efforts at damage control are clumsy this morning. You try to bury the comment before they can react to it. “I can see an argument for both sides. On one hand, Jaheira went missing when she was alone. It seems unfair to risk leaving him to the same fate. On the other hand, Erliza made a fairly strong case that she wasn’t involved in her disappearance… and I think out of any of us, Erliza trusts Astarion the most. He might be able to look around while we’re gone.”

 

“She trusts him? What do you mean by that?” 

 

Gods, nothing gets past her.

 

“You heard him yesterday. They had a little chit-chat about vampirism. They're bonding...for better or worse." Close enough to have a little midnight rendezvous. 

 

“Assuming you think what he told us is true,” Shadowheart says.

 

You cock your head, feigning ignorance. “Do you have a reason to believe that it isn’t?”

 

That throws everyone a little off guard. Shadowheart is on the receiving end of the doubtful glances for once. You’ve found a foothold.

 

“Do you have a reason not to trust him?” You pry further, even though your own opinions of him are called into question after last night. Lacking information, you have to keep playing every side for now. It was one thing when only Jaheira was suspicious… but now, even without her here, the sentiment is contagious. If it continues, everything could come unglued.

 

Shadowheart’s mouth opens, then closes. “He hasn’t been the same since he Ascended. You know that as well as I do. I just can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to something, and I only feel more sure about it the more time I spend with him again. They are both vampires…” 

 

That comment earns the smallest glare from Lae’zel. Perhaps Shadowheart hasn’t entirely learned her lesson not to lump everyone of a certain kind together.

 

“I’m open to listen to any concrete evidence you have, but that’s not much to go off of,” you say.

 

Erliza meeting with him privately in his room in the middle of the night, however…

 

You shake off the thought that keeps intruding, knowing it won't disappear until you speak with Astarion. “I’m glad to have his help navigating our unusual host.” Without him, dealing with Erliza would be much more dangerous. Having a vampire in your midst works to your advantage and protects you from certain tricks that he’d catch.

 

“She’s right, Shadowheart,” Gale says gently. “Astarion has always been on our side. It isn’t fair to assume the worst of him. If you had donned your Dark Justiciar garb, would you want us saying the same of you?”

 

“But I didn’t !” She snaps, too loudly. “Don't compare our situations, they aren't remotely the same. And even if I had … never mind. That isn’t important.” She sinks, her eyes downcast. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just… Jaheira didn’t trust him, and now she’s gone, and it’s terribly convenient that he admitted to being out in town the night she disappeared, don't you think? Anyway. We’re wasting time. Let’s just get moving.” By the end of it, she's muttering and walking down the hallway, doused in shame.

 

“And Astarion?” Gale calls behind her.

 

“It’s best for us to invite him,” she says begrudgingly. “If he is plotting something I guess we’d better not leave him behind to do it.”

 

                                                                 

---

 

 

It turns out that it doesn’t matter - because Astarion isn’t in his room. Shadowheart perks up again, carrying a haughty 'see? I told you so!' air about her after you search his quarters to discover him missing. In her mind it's evidence. She assumes the worst of him, rather than assuming that the worst happened to him. Mercifully, she at least keeps her mouth shut. Gale and Lae'zel are visibly concerned, but whether it's concern for Astarion's well being, or concern for his intentions you can't say.

 

You run into Riven, who looks immediately exhausted the moment he sees your group dressed to leave. The bags grow under his eyes by the second.

 

“Have you seen Astarion?” You ask the cornered servant. 

 

He pales. “No. Forgive me but… is it so hard to let me do my job?” He asks, exasperated. “Won’t you let me escort you into town? Lady Daressin has given me strict instructions-”

 

“We’re more than capable, Riven. I’m sure you have plenty that needs doing here,” Gale smiles.

 

Riven brings a tired hand to his forehead. “Of course. Why do you spurn my good Lady’s kindness? I could help you, you know - wherever you’d like to go I’ll bring you, and we can even bring a cart.”

 

He’s desperate. At least on this, your party is in full agreement. Bringing Riven along is a liability. 

 

“We appreciate the offer, but we’d prefer to go it alone this time.” You’re grateful for Gale denying him this time, so you don't have to. You can’t be the only one responsible for carrying the burden of Riven’s disdain.

 

“Westphal can be quite dangerous, how will you know-” he knows that he's losing, but he says what he's be told to regardless. You hope Erliza isn't too harsh on him for your refusal. 

 

“Tell me,” Lae’zel interrupts. “What could be more dangerous than fighting an invulnerable goddess on the astral plane who is capable of ending your puny life with a snap of her fingers. Or vanquishing hordes of mind flayers before felling a Netherbrain the size of a dwelling?” She jabs a finger to the center of Riven’s chest, who reels backwards.

 

His mouth hangs open, speechless underneath the intensity of your intimidating friend. He gawks at the large weapons that hang on either side of her waist, cowering under her gaze. 

 

“Tch. That’s what I thought,” she spits, turning on her heel and leaving him sweating.

 

He doesn’t bother trying to stop you after that.

                                                               

---

 

 

“Should we be more concerned with Astarion’s whereabouts?” Gale asks tentatively as you exit the gates of the castle and walk briskly down the main thoroughfare of Westphal. You agree but say nothing, looking up behind you at Caer Westphal. You have no doubts that he’s alive - Erliza is too invested in him. But there are fates worse than death…

 

“He’s likely frolicked off carousing again last night - I’d bet that’s why he didn’t join us after Erliza’s interrogation. Probably splayed out in the bed of some whore,” Shadowheart grumbles. You know that she’s angry, but it doesn’t stop you from flinching underneath her harsh words. “Maybe we’ll even run into him, if we’re lucky.” Lucky. Her voice drips with sarcasm.

 

Right now she's expectedly cross, further wound up from the earlier disagreement, and unwilling to let it go. The Shadowheart you know is good. Underneath it all she cares for Astarion's well-being a little. It’s better not to say anything to her while she's in this state- without fuel, she’ll put out her own fires soon enough if she feels her complaints taken by the wind. You look out over the glittering ocean and wonder if he’s crossed it again.

 

“I suspect he’s alright. Erliza definitely has an interest in him,” you say to Gale, purposefully not looking in Shadowheart’s direction. “We can worry if he isn’t back later. It's not unlike him to disappear for a few hours at a time. Maybe he needed to go out for a hunt.”

 

"I suppose he would need to do that now that he isn't-"

 

Lae'zel grunts and digs an elbow into Shadowheart's side, stopping her mid sentence. "Your attitude is growing tiresome. Stop sowing discontent. We are allies."

 

Shadowheart softens under Lae'zel's scolding, but continues to watch you closely, desperate to figure out your intentions. You’re happy to keep her guessing, but her paranoia is grating. Her personality is much more palatable when she’s unquestionably on your side. Is this how Lae’zel felt? As you walk back to the Whispered Embrace , no one speaks, subjecting you to the torture of Gale’s whistling. 

 

“Gah! You make me want to drive daggers into my own ears!” Lae’zel eventually explodes.

 

He’s not terrible at carrying a tune, but you’re inclined to agree. Can anything make a tense situation worse than extended whistling ?

 

He holds up a hand in apology. “Terribly sorry. I just can’t stand the silence.”

 

“You call this silence?” Lae’zel growls, gesturing to the busy street.

 

“None of you were speaking, so I figured I would provide a little traveling music.”

 

“Stick to wizardry - you’d never make it as a bard. We’ve been blessed to make it this far without one,” Shadowheart says.

 

By now you’ve made it to the Inn, but there’s no use going in for now. If Erliza calls in the employee later, you’re not interested in tipping them off.

 

“Yesterday we headed straight in that direction,” Shadowheart points, filling you in. “Today we thought we’d try the opposite. There are four of us now though, so we could split up…”

 

“An excellent idea,” Lae’zel perks up immediately. “I’ll go with you then, and Gale can go with-”

 

“No,” you protest. How quickly they jump on the idea of leaving you alone with the whistling wizard. “I mean… you heard Riven, Westphal can be dangerous. We should stick together.”

 

“Well… do you still have the sending stone I left with you?” Gale asks. “We could give them that one, so if anything urgent comes up, we can stay in contact. We can cover more ground and draw less attention in duos.”

 

It’s in your bag. You consider lying to keep an argument for staying together, but ultimately decide against it. “Yes… it’s in here.” 

 

“We’ll meet back just outside of Caer Westphal before sunset. No one goes inside until we’re all together again.”

 

You slowly pass Shadowheart the stone, internally cursing her for this perfectly sensible plan. If you had to split off with anyone right now, you'd pick Lae'zel - but under current circumstances, it isn't an argument worth having. Maybe alone, Lae'zel can bully some sense into her.

 

And as for your part, at least Gale might be the easiest to win over?

 

                                                                 

---

 

 

Gale is more eager to chat with strangers than you are, so you let him take the lead, allowing him to pull you along for the ride. Unfortunately, many of his targets are less willing to chat back, and together you make quick work of the residential streets that dominate this side of the city. There aren't too many people wandering about, and you're relieved that Gale has no intention of going door to door to look for answers.

 

You wrinkle your nose as you catch a whiff of a putrid scent, strong enough to make your stomach lurch and your eyes water.

 

“Gods!” Gale exclaims as it hits him at the same time. He pinches his nose. “What is that?”

 

Whatever it is has a definite touch of dampness to it, and you quickly realize that this section of road that you’re walking on is actually a small bridge. It’s so small and crowded between the buildings around you that it was easy not to notice right away, the stone blending in seamlessly with the road on either side of it. You look over the railing into a thin canal, barely two meters wide. Buildings abut it on either side as close as they can without falling in, casting permanent shadows over the slow-moving, muddy water.

 

“It’s… full of trash ,” you say, horrified at the sight of it. There’s so much of it in fact, that it’s hard to tell it’s meant to be a waterway at all, and not a pit of garbage. It goes on like that for as far as you can see.

 

“If Halsin were here, heads would be rolling,” Gale jokes. His humor does little to mask his horror, and soon he's coughing. "You know... I once had the most peculiar magical item in my possession when I lived in Waterdeep. One of my very first, actually - I treasured the thing as a young boy despite the fact that it wasn't remarkably useful. It was an amulet of translation that allowed you to speak, understand, and read Infernal, which as you can imagine, doesn't come up very often. I mostly wore it because it looked neat."

 

He coughs again, leaving you waiting for him to get to the point. "Anyway. Turns out the thing was cursed - it had been enchanted incorrectly, or maybe a trickster of a cambion dropped it into the material plane on purpose. The tamest curse I could ever think of. When you wore it, your sense of smell was severed. Totally harmless, but wish I had the damned thing now." He laughs.

 

“It smells like the damned sewers in Baldur’s Gate. Ugh,” Your stomach violently churns as you fight to breathe through your mouth. “Let’s get out of here,” you choke.

 

Gale doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact that he's having a conversation with himself. You're only half-listening to his story, distracted by the stench. "I let a friend borrow the thing - he was searching for a treasure he'd been researching, and his hunt led him to a tomb covered in Infernal carvings he couldn't translate - so I let him borrow it. Only, when he opened it, he must not have been able to smell the gas inside with the amulet on, lit a spark to get a better look...boom."

 

The buildings immediately to the right and left of the canal appear to be apartments… How can anyone live next to that twenty four seven? There must be some kind of code violation.

 

"I held onto it after they found the body - the damned amulet still worked, if you can believe it. It was one of the first magical items I ever absorbed."

 

As you get further from the canal, the smell weakens, but you notice that it lingers in the air throughout this section of the city. And the residents notice. Many wear some kind of covering on the lower halves of their faces, and wreaths of half-wilting flowers around their necks.

 

Desperate to get out of the open air, you both duck into a tavern - one of the first non-residential buildings you’ve seen in while. The smell is better in here, masked with candles and incense. The establishment is fairly busy for this time of day, between lunch and dinner. You aren’t here for pleasure - it’s your best chance at speaking with the civilians of Westphal. You both take a seat at the bar and wait, soaking in your surroundings. It’s a drab, bare-bones sort of place with almost nothing decorating the walls, and it’s clear that they haven’t hired anyone to sweep up in some time. The only thing that seems clean is the bar itself, but it’s hard to say for sure when the surface is scarred with pockmarks and tiny etchings of graffiti - mostly initials, dates, and curses.

 

The bartender approaches - a gruff, middle aged human man with a mane of hair that looks red in some angles, brown in others - with a strip of grey forming at his temple. He has a bushy beard to match that hides most of his mouth and much of a scar that peeks out across his cheek. You think he’s frowning at you, but it’s hard to say between his beard and the low lighting.

 

“What’ll it be?” He asks, sizing up Gale.

 

You get the feeling this is a place for locals - they don’t see many outsiders.

 

“Whatever you recommend,” Gale says cheerfully.

 

The man turns to you, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll just take some water, please.” Alcohol doesn’t seem like a wise choice.

 

You aren’t expecting it when he lets out a roar of laughter, drawing all of the eyes in the room to you. “Water? Water? Wouldn’t that be a treat. I’m not looking to be responsible for the next outbreak.”

 

You glance at Gale, seeking his help.

 

“You must both be lost. Get out,” The bartender points to the door, laughter dying. The other patrons have grown quiet, their attention on you. A quick glance around at them and you recognize several instances of the red and blue striped bandanas that followed you in town that day…

 

You put a hand on Gale’s arm, your blood running cold.

 

“I… my friend didn’t mean any offense, I’m sure,” Gale says hurriedly. “Whatever you have to offer us we’ll happily take.”

 

“I’ll piss in a jar for you if you don’t get out,” he sneers, unveiling a mouth with about a third of his teeth missing. Some of the patrons close enough to hear laugh.

 

“Oh…well…” Gale balks. “If you insist then, we’ll be on our way.” He stands and starts to push in his stool.

 

“Nah, Felix - the Lady asked for water,” someone else approaches the bar, cracking his tattooed knuckles. He feels almost twice as tall as you - a giant by human standards - with limbs as thick as several of the pillars that support the bar’s structure. “I say we give it to her.”

 

“Now gentleman, I’m sure we can talk this out civil-” Gale’s thought is lost as one of the men now surrounding you spits on him.

 

“Amnian scum.”

 

“Must be fresh off the boat.”

 

They’re closing in on you, blocking any path of escape as you’re both pressed up against the bar. Too many to fight with just the two of you, and no time to use the sending stone to call for help.

 

“We aren’t from Amn,” you protest, deciding not to mention that you’re from Baldur’s Gate. That might not make it any better. Who knows what prejudices these people hold.

 

“Well you certainly aren’t from around here,” the tree of a man replies. He smells like ale, rotten fish, and sweat. One of his eyes is a milky white, a blindness that went uncorrected.

 

“We’ll leave,” Gale insists, holding up his hands in surrender. “Swear it. We didn't mean any harm. If there's anything you need help doing, we could-”

 

But it isn’t enough. Gale is hoisted up by the arms by two large men, who start to drag him to the door. "Hey! Put him down!"

 

Fuck. “Wait-” You try, but there’s already blood in the water, and the crowd has gone mad. Even if you were to draw your weapon, you’d have no chance.

 

“Careful boys, that scrawny chicken of a man looks like a mage of some sort - better stuff his mouth.”

 

You can’t see Gale over the crowd any more, but you hear him protest, then make a choking sound. You’re next, yanked up by the arms, a rancid cloth stuck between your teeth and tied around the back of your head - then another to cover your eyes. You squirm and grunt as hard as you can, but there are too many hands on you.

 

“Ay! Can’t we at least play with them a little bit first? She’s a nice little present wrapped up like that. Hell, I’d even stick it in the chicken if you put a few more tankards in me.” Laughter.

 

No. No .

 

“Fuck that, these Amnian trash ain’t worth it,” a voice bellows near your ear. “We still have a code, you stupid sick fuck. Stick your stupid meat in a rusty sewer pipe, you’ll have a better time. Probably pick up less disease, too.”

 

You hear the sound of something slapping skin, a grunt, and a cheering crowd.

 

They bind your hands and wrists, and you feel yourself being carried into the streets by the mob, a breeze against your skin. If any onlookers see you - and you’re sure they do, it’s the middle of the day - no one makes a fuss over it.

 

“Here’s your water, princess,” the voice of your captor taunts. Then your body is flung through the air, limbs bound, unable to cushion your landing or protect yourself.

 

You smell the water before you hit it, suddenly terrified that you’re going to drown. Worse, to drown in water full of sewage and trash. You try to hold your breath, but your mouth can’t close all the way with the gag in place. 

 

You hit the water back first, with a slapping splash that reverberates up your spine and into your teeth. Panicking, you wiggle around, trying to right yourself before you sink, and fighting to keep your airways above water.

You never sink lower. The water is shallow enough to sit up in, enough trash to dam the flow and to create a false, shifting bottom underneath you. You aren’t going to drown, at least not in water. If you can’t get free you might choke to death on the vomit that you’re barely able to suppress. There was a higher chance of breaking a bone on impact than there ever was of drowning. You pull at your bound wrists and the cloth breaks open with minimal effort - it hasn’t even been knotted, just wrapped around twice with the excess tucked through. Your ankles follow suit, and you scramble upwards, pulling what remains off of your face, desperately looking around for Gale.

 

He’s about ten feet down the canal from you, and he’s already freed himself, just pulling off the blindfold and blinking in your direction. His robe is soaked through with black water riddled with detritus that you try to convince yourself is just coffee grounds. He flicks the arm of his robe, uttering a very long string of un-Gale like curses.

 

Your heart is still racing in your chest, but you’ve both survived. The men from the tavern had no intention to kill either of you - just to frighten you. To rough up the outsiders a little, and intimidate you as a warning to stay out of their territory. You look around to see if they're coming after you for a second wind, but they’re long gone now - they haven’t stuck around to see the resolution of their efforts.

 

“Are you okay?” You ask, trying not to look down at yourself. If Gale is anything to go by, you can imagine well enough what you must look like, and for now you need deniability.

 

You’ve been in a Nautiloid, it’s not much worse than those fleshy, squelching walls...

 

“Hardly,” Gale mutters, sloshing up to the road and nearly slipping. “But decidedly not dead , so there is that.”

 

The smell. Oh gods, the smell makes you wish you were dead.

 

"Next time, we're all sticking together." The four of you together might have made for a more intimidating group.

 

What in the hells just happened?

 

                                                                 

---

 

Your entire day now derailed, there’s no way you can continue your search for Jaheira in your current state. Unfortunately, finding a place to clean off is much more difficult than you’d expect, and you’re both far too proud to try and return to Caer Westphal looking and smelling like... this. You both agree to speak of it to no one . At least not the part where you were both thrown into a river of sewage and trash.

Walking through the streets of Westphal is mortifying. Townsfolk cross the road rather than come near you, some visibly swallowing back retches and covering their noses. You get vicious comments hurled at you from the brazen crowd, while the more polite folk make partially audible remarks under their breath. The Inns and bathhouses immediately turn you away in every corner of the city, and Gale finds out the hard way that his coin purse was swiped during the altercation. Yours is intact, but you don't have near enough to convince an establishment to let you in through old-fashioned bribery.

All other options exhausted, the best you can do is rinse off in the ocean with a shared stick of soap one of the bathhouse owners threw at Gale’s head out of sheer pity. It's the closest thing to kindness the damned city has shown you all day. Soaking in the ocean by the docks earns you some glances from concerned onlookers, but fortunately none of them heckle you here.

 

“I’m never going to feel clean again,” Gale laments, scrubbing at a stain on his robe. "Doomed to be a leper for the remainder of my miserable existence."

 

An empty bottle floats by, carried along by the calm ocean water. You try not to think about everything your feet are brushing against underneath the murky water. The sea is only cleaner than the canals because it’s diluted - but at this rate, given another decade, there might be an entirely new coastline made of Westphal’s waste.

 

“We’re going to need to head back soon…” you say, inspecting the position of the sun. You’ve wasted hours trying to clean yourselves. “I know we agreed to meet them outside of Caer Westphal… but I’m not sure I can wait for a proper bath.”

 

Gale is staring out along the docks in a daze.

 

“Gale…?”

 

You say his name at least three more times before you splash some water at him to try and pull his attention to no success. Eventually you tread over to him and touch his shoulder - the only thing that works. His face is gray.

 

“Gale, are you alright?”

 

“What happened to our ship?”

 

Amongst all of the colorful sails fluttering in the breeze, and masts that reach for the sky… yours is nowhere to be seen.

 

                                                                     

---

 

 

Today is quickly moving itself to the top of the list titled ‘Worst Days You’ve Ever Had.’ It's beyond time to crawl into bed and start over again tomorrow.

 

The sun begins to set as you stand at the designated meeting place, shivering in clothes that just don’t seem to dry. At first their lack of punctuality is irritating as you long to feel clean again, and you almost tell Gale that you might as well just go back to the castle without them. In the end, you decide to stick it out a little longer. Just as you start to hit the point where you begin to fear for their safety, Shadowheart and Lae’zel appear sprinting down the road.

 

“Sorry,” Shadowheart apologizes breathlessly. “We were following a lead and lost track of time.” Recognition dawns on her face, and she stumbles backwards with a cough.

 

Lae’zel makes a noise of disgust. “Has your journey taken you to the sewers? You both smell rotten.”

 

They both keep their distance.

 

“It’s a long story - one that I’d preferably like to tell inside after a hot bath,” Gale mutters. “Though I hardly relish the thought of walking into the castle like this. I'm afraid our host won't appreciate, and that servant... I'm in no rush to see the look on his face if he sees we've proven him right.”

 

“Can’t your magic do something?” Lae’zel asks.

 

“Thought of that, but not this time, I’m afraid.”

 

“Bah. What good is it, then?”

 

“It might be best if you burn those clothes,” Shadowheart says. Neither her nor Lae’zel are sparing your feelings this evening.

 

“Nonsense, I like this robe!” Gale says indignantly. "I'm sure it can be recovered."

 

You’re less attached to these clothes. The sooner you can strip them from you, the better. 

 

To spare yourselves from unwanted attention and gossip from the servants, you lead them around to the back entrance that Astarion showed you the night before as you raced them back. The path isn’t entirely deserted, but it’s more respectable than walking in the front door looking like two drowned rats… and company. You all agree to meet one another back at your room in an hour, give or take if Gale can quickly sort out his bathing situation. None of them have accommodations with personal washrooms, and he’s either going to have to search for one - or swallow his pride and ask one of the servants where he might find a bath.

 

At this point you remember that the washroom beside your room also lacks a bath - housing only a small basin to draw water and a seat for eliminating waste. You had assumed one of the nearby doors must house a bath, but because you had no need of it yet, hadn’t thought to check. You find yourself sneaking down your wing opening door after door, but finding no bath. Desperate, you try the wing where Astarion is staying - you’re positive some of the doors must house other suites like his.

 

Your search pays off. Another set of doors identical to Astarion’s leads to an identical suite, its setup mirrored from his. The suite is unused, an annoying discovery that Erliza has decided that you aren’t worthy of it. The other rooms in the castle harbor enchantments with which to light and darken the room - but this one has none you can find. You stumble around in the dark to open the curtains, inhaling clouds of thick dust as the moonlight spills into the room. Most of the furniture in the room is covered with white tarps, a gathering of deformed ghosts congregating in the dusty room now bathed in a silvery glow. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re intruding on something in this space -like you aren’t supposed to be here.

 

Recalling the layout of Astarion’s room, you open the door to the washroom. Here the curtains are drawn too, and you carefully feel your way along the wall until you reach them, this time avoiding dousing yourself in dust as you open them. The room taking shape before you in the moonlight, you notice some wilted candles along the rim of the large marble tub, though you find nothing with which to light them with. You turn the handle of the tub, the pipes squeaking and reverberating, shuddering down to the bowels of the castle. Somewhere far below, a magical reservoir exists to serve the castle. A feat of engineering and magic reserved for only the wealthiest establishments.

 

You peel off your clothes, thinking of those that did this to you. They made their point - they have no clean water to even drink. Meanwhile, you’re about to bathe in a tub of it - enough for hundreds of glasses of water at least. There aren’t many places that struggle with securing clean drinking water now though - not in cities. It’s nearly unheard of these days between purifying magic and improvements in plumbing, even if more luxurious uses of water aren’t universal.

 

What’s going on in Westphal?

 

You step into the bath as it continues to fill, the warm water scalding the grime from your skin. On the rim of the tub between the nubby candles is an array of glass bottles full of mysterious liquids in a variety of colors. You uncork one full of an orange-colored oil that smells of citrus and coconut, and pour a small amount into the water, expiry date be damned. It’s better than nothing.

 

Sitting back in the water, you put together a grisly image of the city. Occupied by Amn, the original citizens of the island have been pushed back to smaller sections of the city, or different areas of the isle altogether. The men had called you Amnians as if it were a slur, a dirty word for them to pin all of their troubles on. The original people of the island now suffer in less than ideal conditions, as a corrupt government hides their problems under the rug, to the same place they’ve effectively banished the original residents of Snowdown to. It’s no wonder the men at the tavern met you with such animosity…

 

There’s a peace in the dark washroom that you haven’t known in months. Everything feels far away, the sound from the rest of the world blocked out. Not a sound but the gentle swishing of the bathwater and a rhythmic drip of an old faucet that’s gone unused. Still soaking, you sort through the glass bottles on the side, musically clinking against one another as you slide the unwanted ones away. You pick each one up, test its viscosity with a swirl of your wrist - hoping for liquid soap or hair product of some sort. The bath oils are thinner, more transparent, and move like water - whoever last used this room built quite the collection. The soaps are more creamy, many of the ingredients separating and in need of a good shake.

 

You shake a gelatinous blob of lavender into your hand, lathering your skin. Soap. Sweet soap. A treasure after the day you’ve been put through. As you coat your thigh, you feel the sting of the twin marks from Astarion’s fangs, barely healed…

 

You’d let him do it again, if he asked. You’d ask him to do it again. You dunk your leg back under the water, a ring of cloudy soap rising to the surface. Fuck - where has all of your sense gone?

 

Click.

 

A sound so soft that you question if it’s the water. No. You’re certain it was louder than that, but more distant. The sound of a door. You sink into the tub, freezing in place, letting the water still around you. Listening. Fixing your eyes on the washroom door that leads out into the suite and begging for the knob to stay still. Did you lock it? You can’t remember, and can’t see the position of the lock shrouded in shadow.

 

Do you hear footsteps beyond the door, or is it just the sound of your heart beating in your ears?

 

Footsteps - it’s easier to tell as they become louder. Closer. You’re going to be caught if you didn’t lock that door… there’s nowhere to hide. 

 

Should you warn them you’re in here? Erliza can’t be angry with you for seeking a bath - the door to the suite was unlocked. You aren’t doing anything expressly forbidden. It’s only the heavy atmosphere of the room filling you with unwarranted caution.

 

You’re about to call out and warn the person on the other side of the door, but when the door creaks in its frame and the handle twitches, you immediately lose your nerve. The guest yanks on the door handle, but it doesn’t yield.  You remembered to lock it.

 

The shaking stops, and the footsteps recede. It’s one too many close calls for one day…. 

 

You relax against the side of the tub, back to the door. After a minute, your heart begins to return to normal, and your unsteady breaths settle into their normal rhythm. Until a chilling air blows against the back of your neck like a winter draft through an open window. The warning breeze of a particular visitor.

 

“You’re certainly spending quite a bit of time skulking around in this wing, aren’t you?” 

 

Even though you know he’s entered the room with several seconds of warning, the sound of his voice causes your chest to catch and the bath water to ripple. You pull your knees to your chest  to preserve a scrap of your dignity, the darkness offers no protection from the eyes of a nocturnal predator. His question is a tell - he knew you were there underneath the table last night.

 

“Last I checked, I’m not confined to my room. I needed a bath… and this seemed as good a place as any to not be bothered. Why are you here?”

 

“The overwhelming scent of rotting meat and shit concerned me. What the hells were you up to today?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, keeping your voice perfectly flat. The truth is too embarrassing to mention, and you intend to honor your deal with Gale regardless. “It must just be what I smell like.” 

 

He scoffs. “That is not what you-”

 

“You shouldn’t be in here. What would everyone think, if they caught us alone together in an abandoned, dark room? In a washroom no less?” With your back to him, you can’t read his face.

 

“ You shouldn’t be here,” he corrects. “This wing is where Erliza hosts vampires. Consider yourself lucky it’s only me that found you. You shouldn’t come down this way after dark.”

 

“Is that really why you don’t want me to come down here after dark, Astarion? Are there really any other vampires here? Or is it because you don’t want me catching fucking Erliza Daressin in your room?”

 

He appears on the far side of the tub, in your field of vision, grasping the edge with a clawed hand. “There are other vampires here - consider yourself lucky you didn’t walk in on one,” he growls, volume ticking upwards. “The only thing protecting you from them tonight is that… unusual sewage aroma. Try making a gods’ damned soup of yourself again in this hall and you might as well be serving yourself to a curious vampire breathing down your neck. Why do you think Erliza is such an unwilling host to our companions? Because now she has to protect them from becoming an unwitting meal for her other guests. She might be able to order her spawn to leave you alone, but she can’t do much about her guests.” 

 

He follows the edge of the tub, closer to you, dragging his fingertips along its smooth edge.

 

“Strange that you suddenly seem to know an awful lot about her,” you quip. He ignores it.

 

You’re surprised when his cool hand wraps itself around your mostly submerged bicep and attempts to pull you from the water. “Get out, before they come sniffing around. The water will only make your scent travel further.”

 

You resist, slipping out from his grasp and using the arm to cover your bare breasts. “No. Not while I’ll still smell like the back alley of a fishmonger’s stall.”

 

“Trust me when I say that you smell perfectly fine now. Like your delightful, sweet self - the perfect midnight snack for a salivating vampire. It’s your clothes that still smell like a sewer. Put them back on and go back to your room.”

 

“Are you suggesting that I’m not safe under the Vampire Ascendant’s protection?” You know exactly how to wound him.

“What? No. I could wipe the floor with any lesser creature that walks through those doors without sustaining a scratch in return. However, I’m in no hurry to show my hand so early, and certainly not over you.” He knows how to wound you back, even unintentionally.

 

“Not over me ,” you repeat. The words are more bitter on your tongue, your eyes burning as you’re forced to swallow.

 

“I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way,” he protests.

 

“Of course you didn’t. Why would you?” You roll your eyes, trying to brush the comment off. “It would be disastrous if anyone believed there was anything going on between us.”

 

It isn’t the facts that hurt, but the way he said it so callously in a private conversation… it shouldn’t hurt. You’ve made your boundaries clear to him. This is the time to let your maturity shine - an attribute of your character that you’ve always been proud of.  Only now, you feel like a child again, helpless to fully communicate your needs with the world around you and on the verge of tears over a stupid feeling that’s overpowering every rational thought in your brain.

 

His eyebrows push towards one another, head tilting slightly to the side, lips slightly parted in confusion. “I’m glad you understand.” It sounds more like a question.

 

“Get out.”

 

“You first,” he picks up an embroidered towel and throws it towards you. 

 

You barely catch it, the edge of it skimming the water, momentarily exposing yourself before scrambling to ball it up in front of your chest.

 

“Relax. I’m not looking.” He focuses on something outside, absent-mindedly clenching a fistful of curtain.

 

You pull the drain on the tub and wrap the towel around your body while that’s still true, watching him the entire time to ensure he doesn’t try to peek backwards. 

 

“I’d prefer it if you left. I’ll take your word for the vampires - I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

 

He lets out a single, icy, ‘ ha,’ before turning towards you, amusement dancing across his lips. Under the light of the moon, his red eyes appear to glow an unnatural, luminous hue. You clutch the towel to your chest. He slowly walks towards you, forcing you to take steps back to keep the distance. As you move you bend down to grasp for your clothes on the floor, only successful at picking up most of the pile.

 

He bends down and picks up what remains - a holster from your thigh with a dagger still strapped inside of it.

 

“Can you handle yourself? Not if you can’t keep track of your weapons.” He plucks the dagger from its sheath and holds it up in the moonlight, inspecting it.

 

Dramatic bastard .

 

He’s walking towards you again, and you look for anything to put between the two of you. With only a towel - you’re cornered in the room - you can’t exactly go sauntering down the hall. You back into the door of the washroom, your damp hand fumbling with the lock on the doorknob. Too long.

 

Faster than you can blink, he grabs the hand grasping the knob and yanks it over your head, crushing it into the door. His other hand brings your own dagger to your throat, hovering just above where you clutch the towel and your clothes to your chest. He smirks, and then his mouth is on your neck, the air fading from your lungs. There’s no point in screaming - it will only draw attention from the wrong people. No one would rush to your aid.

 

His fangs rest on your flesh, and you steel yourself, ready for them to break the surface -

He pulls away, releasing both of his hands at once. The dagger clinks on the marble floor and skitters a few feet away, circling like a hand of a clock.  “If I were one of them, you’d be dead.”

 

With your hand freed, you shove it into the center of his chest. “What the fuck , Astarion?” It’s taking everything in you to keep your voice low. Your heart is doing gymnastics in your chest.

 

Your push doesn’t unsteady him, he stands entirely unbothered. “You were going to let me do it. You weren’t even struggling.” His smirk has faded.

 

You run a hand through your wet hair before picking up the dagger. “Because I knew you weren’t going to do it,” you say. Your voice is cool, but your face is burning. Your core is burning. “You warned me about the other vampires - you wouldn’t bother to do something as obvious as spill my blood here.”

 

Now that you can think again, it’s obvious. But in the moment? Your mind was blank. You weren’t thinking at all of whether he was actually going to do it or not. It didn’t matter. 

 

Part of you craved it.

 

Did he catch the way your neck tilted up to him willingly?

 

You swallow. “You were just playing another one of your games. Teaching me a lesson. Proving a point. Well… point taken . I’ll be more careful.”

 

You open the washroom door and put as much distance as you can between the two of you, bolting for the closet - a place to change in peace, out from underneath his suffocating gaze. “Oh. And Astarion? We need to talk later.”

 

It's becoming a recurring theme that you're quickly losing patience with.

 

Chapter 22: Soiree

 

“That’s it then…” Dammon says, dusting off his hands. “It’s the best I can do - it should cool you off enough for now.”

 

Karlach is positively giddy, twirling around like a little girl. “Does that mean…?” 

 

“Yes, you should be able to touch again. But remember. It isn’t a permanent solution. You’re going to have to go back to Avernus at some time or an-”

 

“No,” she vigorously shakes her head. “Fuck that. Let me enjoy this. Who’s ready for a hug?” She holds out her arms, a stupid grin of pure joy plastered on her face. She’s looking directly at you.

 

There haven’t been many happy moments like this. Even the celebration after wiping out the goblin camp was tainted by the impending tadpole problem. The tieflings and druids might have been able to enjoy the night with reckless abandon… but some of you had bigger problems looming just ahead.

 

You take a moment too long, and it’s Wyll who brushes by from where he stood just behind you and wraps his arms around her without hesitating, giving her a tight squeeze and a pat on the shoulder. You exhale in relief. Wyll’s flesh doesn’t bubble and fall away from his skin, Karlach can touch and be touched again. “It worked. It worked!” She cries, voice trembling with emotion.

 

“Wyll!” She nearly squeals, squeezing him back when she realizes he doesn’t jump away with the contact. She picks him up in her surly arms and spins him around just off of the ground. “This wouldn’t have been possible without you. You never gave up on that iron.”

 

“Well, actually-” he tries to give you the credit you deserve, but she squeezes him again, the air choked from his lungs. “Careful please.”

 

It’s hard to believe that when they first met, Wyll intended to kill her. You’ve never met anyone quite like him. Although his convictions are tightly held, he’s always open to change when presented with new information. He cares about people. A comforting presence, always able to see the good in everyone. It’s refreshing, compared to some of the eternally brooding members of your party. Even now, Astarion sulks in a corner against the wall of the barn. HE certainly isn’t lining up for a hug from Karlach.

 

When she’s done with Wyll, you’re ready for your turn - no one else will butt in front. The two of you embrace - the first time you’re hugging her. “Couldn’t have done it without you either,” she says. “Shit, I’m not sure I would’ve stayed sane without you.” She rests her chin on your shoulder and rocks you back and forth. “It feels so nice to be able to touch again. You can’t imagine what it’s like.”

 

“I can’t, you’re right - but not being able to comfort you properly kind of sucked.”

 

She laughs. “I never have to go back to that again.”

 

You can see over her shoulder that Dammon is frowning. He hasn’t known Karlach long, but even he knows she might not be easily swayed to go back to Avernus for a more permanent fix. He doesn’t trust his own handiwork, not entirely. It isn’t every day you make repairs on a heart like Karlach’s…

 

What you don’t see are Wyll’s eyes on your back, as he smiles warmly at Karlach, relieved that something has gone right for her. You don’t see the way he doesn’t take his eyes off of her, and you don’t see the smile they exchange.

 

“Promise me you’ll go back to Avernus when all of this is over? I’ll go with you if it means we can fix you up and bring you back here for good.”

 

“I’ll go too,” Wyll offers, stepping beside you and holding up your hand. “The more, the merrier - though  I doubt Zariel will be happy to see us.”

 

Karlach groans. “Spare me the mention of her name, won’t you? We don’t have a fucking chance against her on her home turf. I’d rather live and burn out too soon on this plane than be immediately squashed like a bug under her boot.”

 

Wyll gives her a comforting smile and takes her hand in his free one, linking the three of you. “We won’t let that happen. We’ll get through it together.”

 

“You guys are the best!” She says, wrapping an elbow around each of your necks and wrestling you into her body. “But… fuck no. I’m not going back there. Never again.”

                                                                               

---

 

 

By the time you return to your room, Shadowheart and Lae’zel are already waiting for you. 

 

“Has it already been an hour?” You ask, immediately digging through your belongings for a fresh set of clothes. Shadowheart was right, there’s nothing to do but burn the ones on your body, still damp and salty from soaking in the sea. The smell is less offensive, but still pungent enough to notice - you might never cleanse it completely from your nose.

 

“Longer,” Lae’zel says. She’s sitting on top of the small writing desk next to your bag, polishing her longsword with a piece of cloth she definitely found in this room. “Almost two.”

 

Two? How quickly the time slipped away… “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. It turns out there isn’t a place to bathe in this entire wing, and I wasn’t going to torture the servants with my scent by asking for directions. Has Gale come up?”

 

Shadowheart sits on the edge of your bed, leaning backwards on her elbows. “He came… he left. Not without giving us a few details of your day, but I get the feeling he wasn’t entirely forthcoming with the whole story.”

 

“He left when Shadowheart began interrogating him like he was under investigation.”

 

“Oh please. She’s exaggerating.”

 

“You can take the woman out of the Dark Justiciars, but you can’t take the Dark Justiciar out of the woman. Or… I think the phrase goes something like that,” Lae’zel mutters. It’s only loud enough for you to hear as you turn to the wall to keep some privacy and change your clothing piece by piece. You let out a single breath through your nose, a stifled laugh as you feign a scowl at her.

 

“ What did you say ?” Shadowheart shoots upright, glaring at Lae’zel.

 

“Nothing,” Lae’zel hums. “I’m certain I misunderstood the turn of the phrase.” But she gives you a knowing smirk - a tiny upturned lip as she silently beams at her joke, a celebration of her furthered understanding of your world’s phrases and customs.

 

“She was just trying to express how… impressed she was at your fearsome demeanor and your impeccable ability to chase Gale away.” Not exactly a lie.

 

“That wasn’t the only reason he left. He mentioned some other business - sounded like he found something that piqued his curiosity while he was looking for a bath.” Shadowheart falls backwards onto your bead, and stuffs a pillow on top of her face, muffling a frustrated, primal noise somewhere between a groan and a scream, and then throws it at the wall with a force that leaves several feathers fluttering out of it. “Is everyone turning against me?”

 

Lae’zel sets her sword down on the desk and drops down from it, going to sit beside her on the bed. “No one is against you. But today you have been…ah…” she struggles to find a word more gentle than what she really wants to say. “Less… yourself …than normal.”

 

Shadowheart sighs. “Go on, just say it plainly. I know you’re itching to. I’m being a -”

 

“Bitch.” Lae’zel is relieved by the permission to tell her frankly. In fact, she seems to enjoy the word a little too much. “You are being a bitch .” Lae’zel looks over to you. “She’s nearing her moon cycle .” The last words are whispered, but you aren’t sure who it benefits, because you all hear it.

 

Shadowheart bristles, raising her voice. “Selune give me strength. That isn’t something you’re meant to share , Lae’zel.”

 

The gith cocks her head. “Is it not something that allies in battle should share with one another to account for adequate strategizing? All weaknesses should be accounted for. This is a normal thing that happens to many female species on your world, yes? Why would you act as though it is some large secret-”

 

You finish changing clothes and dump the old ones in a trash can that you then put out in the hall. Maybe a servant will get the message, but you won’t have it stinking up your room. 

 

“Stop. Talking.” Shadowheart holds up a hand to Lae’zel. “ Please .”

 

“We go through something similar-”

 

You clear your throat. “It’s generally frowned upon to share that sort of thing on someone else’s behalf. Now… maybe we can talk about what happened today?”

 

“Yes. Thank gods,” Shadowheart sits up again, more than eager to get off of the previous subject.

 

“The Moonshae Isles are on the precipice of Civil War.” Lae’zel cuts straight to the chase. You wait for her to elaborate. 

 

She doesn’t.

 

“What?” Lae’zel asks, not comprehending why you both stare at her.

 

“Would you like to tell her more, or should I?”

 

Shadowheart then speaks to you. “If you couldn’t tell, we found no signs of Jaheira, by the way.”

 

“We already told the story once to Gale - much of it ‘fluff’,” Lae’zel complains.

 

“Cut it down if you like… but I would appreciate it if you could give me a little more information than that.”  you say, still stunned. “You can’t drop a bomb like that and then refuse to elaborate.”

 

“Bomb? There’s no war yet, I said nothing about a- oh. One of your expressions,” she brings a hand to her forehead. “Foolish - it isn’t the first I’ve heard it…” 

 

She starts over. “The Lady Daressin that hosts us illegally rules over occupied land. A resistance to her regime builds on a separate isle, but something is holding them up.”

 

The occupation isn’t news to anyone, but beyond that, the current state of the Moonshae Isles has been a topic of great mystery. Amn works hard to keep an iron grip on what information gets in and out of the ports. It’s safe to assume anything you remember from Baldur’s Gate has gone through a filter of propaganda. There are books available on the history of the Isles before the occupation… but the last fifteen years or so are a blind spot. Current Events are hard to come by.

 

“Where did you hear this?” You interrupt. The source is important.

 

“We were asking around after Jaheira. We described her to anyone who would listen. Most ignored us,” Shadowheart says. “Until someone didn’t.”

 

“A beggar. The only one we’ve seen in all of Westphal,” Lae’zel takes over. “He insisted that he had no name, and didn’t wish to be addressed by anything. There were guards harassing him, warning us that his mind is deteriorating. Everyone in Westphal has a home - no one is left on the streets. But this man chooses to live that way, evidence of an ill mind according to the guards.”

“I personally find the refusal to acknowledge that he has a name a bit more crazy than not having a home, but what do I know?” Shadowheart interjects.

 

“He had not seen Jaheira, but he told us that others have gone missing. His daughter among them. They lived here before the occupation, near the docks - they were a wealthy fishing family. His wife died the same year the occupation began, his son immediately fled to join the resistance efforts underneath the banner of the old King, and he began his drunken gambling pursuits-” Lae’zel sighs. “This is cumbersome. Must I tell the story? This doesn’t feel important…”

 

“He drunkenly gambled his property and everything in it to an Amnian soldier, and you can imagine how that ended for him. He lost his home and his business - but the soldier also insisted on his daughter, given the language of the bet. She married him to try and retain some piece of the home, and the soldier even let him stay there for a time. Unfortunately the alcohol ultimately put an end to his fishing business, and when he couldn’t make money, he was kicked out by the soldier, even as his pregnant daughter begged her husband to let him stay. She went missing before the child was born, leaving both her father and husband distraught.”

 

Lae’zel gets up and goes back to polishing her sword. “Tch. Too many details.We were speaking of war. The future is more important than the past of a stranger.”

 

“No, it’s important. It helps me better understand this place.” You envy the day they’ve had - it beats out yours a hundred times over. “But… his sobriety does concern me a little. Are you sure he’s a reliable source?”

 

“He swore up and down he hasn’t had a drink in years - he spoke clearly enough.”

 

“His son is the important part. The boy left to join a resistance plotting to overtake Erliza. A resistance that’s been building for over a decade with no major moves.”

 

You suddenly don’t think that Lae’zel understands what the word precipice means, and you deflate. “A story of a young man running off to join a resistance over a decade ago isn’t inspiring the same urgency in me that I thought it would when you first said that the Isles are on the brink of a civil war .”

 

“The beggar also claimed he helps others who wish to join the resistance flee unnoticed.”

 

“The same man that claims that others are going missing… helps others go missing…” you say skeptically. “I’m not so sure. “He might be helping others flee, but if he is helping people flee, I’m not sure they’re running off to join the resistance. If they were, why haven’t they acted by now? Worst case scenario you’ve just listened to the tragic backstory of a delusional serial killer.”

 

Shadowheart lowers her head. “I can’t explain it… I just… I trusted him. I believe him to be a good man.”

 

You keep a straight face despite seething underneath the surface. She’ll take the word of a beggar with a questionable past who she just met today, but suddenly can’t trust those she’s known for over a year?

 

“Lae’zel…?” You ask. Her opinion is worth her weight in gold. Although her empathy has grown, she’s no bleeding heart. If she returns the same feelings for Shadowheart that you believe, she won’t let it cloud her convictions.

 

“Tch,” she looks away from both of you, gripping her sword. “Do not hold me responsible for what you choose to do with this information - but I believe him at his word. If you were there, you might understand.”

 

For someone who didn’t want to share all of the “unimportant details” five minutes ago, she’s certainly getting choked up now.

 

“I wonder…” you say aloud, as you reflect on what information to give them in return. “Gale and I ran into a bit of trouble today at a tavern - we were kicked out. But I wonder… was that the resistance?” The striped pieces of cloth they wear originally made you believe they were a gang or a guild of some kind… but maybe it’s something bigger.

 

“This isn’t our battle,” Lae’zel says. “It’s unlikely that we’ll be here to see what comes of it, if it’s been at a stalemate for this long. We should put our minds back to Jaheira.”

 

“You’re right,” you agree. “But this is valuable. We might find allies, if Erliza proves to be difficult.”

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Shadowheart asks. Her aggression is so sudden that you jump. “We can’t get involved with this. This isn’t just a tiny little island - Erliza is connected to Amn . And you aren’t just a random nobody from Baldur’s Gate - you’re a fucking Grand Duke.”

 

“ By proxy ,” you emphasize. For now. You haven’t thought about the Council for at least two days now - it’s been freeing. “And I’m not stupid enough to directly attach us to any… interference schemes,” you say, keeping your voice low. You never know who might be listening on the other side of the door. Servants are nosy - even if they aren’t always direct spies for their masters and mistresses. “If it came to that, and I’m not saying it will, we’d pull strings. Like Lae’zel said, it isn’t our battle. Play it right, and there’s deniability. This tension has been brewing for years - there would be no reason to believe that I did anything to set it off.”

 

“I don’t know what Erliza wants yet, or if she’ll cause us trouble - but I don’t believe for a second that she brought me here for mutual friendship and tea parties. When she finally shows her hand I’m not going to be caught with my pants around my ankles.”

 

Daressin hasn’t proven herself an enemy yet, but she’s no ally either. 

 

Shadowheart’s face is a full shade paler, while Lae’zel holds her chin up with what you can best describe as reverence.

 

Maybe you will be showing your face again in that tavern. 

 

There’s a knock at the door, and a hush instantly stifles the air, three heads whipping in tandem. You calmly open it.

 

“Riven.” You try to wipe any expression from your face lest he’s somehow able to tell that you were just plotting against his mistress.

 

“Duke Ravengard,” he bows.

 

Calling you that is like a slap to the face. It chews you with guilt and dread from the inside out. “Please. I might be standing in for my fiance’s duties, but I am just his fiance. I must insist that you don’t call me that. It feels disrespectful to walk around wearing his name before we are wed.”

 

“Then what should I call you? I must insist on maintaining proper etiquette on behalf of My Lady.”

 

You consider that. Although you’re fine without him referring to you with an honor at all, you suddenly don’t want Erliza to forget the power you wield either. “ Grand Duke is fine.”

 

Perfect. A title that needs no name. One that suggests that not just anyone is worthy to speak your given name.

 

This is practice. For when you go back to Baldur’s Gate, and eventually have to stand up to the Council again. Here in Westphal they don’t know that you’ve spent a year as a puppet. 

 

Riven gives a smaller bow of acknowledgement. “Yes, Grand Duke.” He then produces a small, rosy pink envelope from his jacket and extends it to you. “From Lady Daressin.”

 

You raise an eyebrow, gingerly plucking it from his gloved hand. “Why would she send me a letter while I’m a guest in her own home?”

 

Duke Ravengard glitters in metallic gold calligraphy on the front.

 

“It’s an invitation.” He must catch sight of Lae’zel and Shadowheart behind you, because he clears his throat and lowers his voice. “This invitation is strictly for you . Only. To be explicitly clear.”

 

Wonderful. How are you supposed to survive whatever it is she’s inviting you to without anyone else. “Not even a plus one? How cheap.”

 

You don’t mean it, but it’s satisfying to see Riven squirm - part of you intends for the comment to make it back to her ears. With nothing else to share, he dismisses himself and you shut the door, waving the envelope in your hand as you walk to the desk.

 

“It’s an invitation.”

 

Lae’zel moves to allow you to access the drawer, but there’s no letter opener. You seem to have the worst luck with those. Does anyone even bother with them? You grab your dagger from the bag at your feet and slice open the top. 

 

You read it, crushing the pink envelope into a ball in your hand. “Fuck. What is it with nobility and their stupid fucking balls?”

 

“A ball? Here? What’s the occasion?” Shadowheart asks.

 

You read it over again, taking in the looming date only three nights from now. “It’s an engagement ball, apparently. It’s weird she didn’t think to mention it in person, there’s no way she’s only just announcing it now.” More likely that she’s only just decided to invite you now.

 

If she is concerned about political turmoil or potential uprisings, it’s no surprise that she’s trying to strengthen her power. “It doesn’t say who she’s getting engaged to - Astarion mentioned that there are other vampires staying in his wing. They might be early wedding guests. Maybe one of them is even the groom himself.”

 

It would explain why someone so opposed to guests currently has so many of them.

                                                               

---

 

 

Astarion will come by - you’re sure of it. You made your wishes explicitly clear, and if he doesn’t want you wandering down his hallway, then he’ll come to you.

 

But it’s starting to get late, your eyes are starting to droop, and you’re growing less confident that he’ll come. You pace the edges of the room just to try to keep yourself awake - a whole castle full of treasures and things worth exploring, and yet there’s almost nothing to entertain yourself with in here.

 

The longer you wait, the more angry you become. Doesn’t he understand the urgency? 

 

Damn it all. You aren’t going to sit around on your ass and twiddle your thumbs waiting for the bastard. You do a quick once-over in the mirror, make sure your clothes and hair are tidy, and stalk towards the door.

 

Your hand freezes on the knob. 

 

What if Erliza is there again?

 

You turn the knob. If she’s there, you’ll knock anyway. Forget decorum. If she wants to ask questions about why you’re showing up to his room so late, you’ll turn it right back on her. You’re sure her fiance would find it interesting to know that she’s turning up in the bedrooms of her male guests while she’s promised to him.

 

There isn’t a soul in sight anywhere you look. Not a single servant around any turn you make - strange.

 

You’re about to make your way down his hallway when you catch the sound of a gathering floating up from the ground floor. You hear lilting voices, tinkling glasses, and the melodic rising and falling of a piano sonata. It’s a familiar one that many children learn, but the musician embellishes it, fleshes out the chords and adds tiny turns of the keys, showing off their dexterity as it races to the end. At the end, you hear a discordant smash of the keys to punctuate the ending, followed by a burst of high-brow laughter and reserved clapping.

 

Burdened with the curse of curiosity, you pad softly down the stairs, holding tight to the railing. The sounds are louder now, another piano tune starting up that is infinitely more complex than the first. A waltz of sorts in triple time, but not one fit for dancing. It’s quick, yearning, frantic - like the wailing box of a carnival barker. Bright light spills through an open arch down the hall. A servant walks across and disappears into the room and you duck behind the banister, knowing that if they look in your direction it won’t hide you.

 

Examining the route before you, there aren’t many other places to hide. A door that might lead to a closet, a silvery rolling serving cart, a potted plant with large fronds… 

 

Even though you haven’t been ordered to stay confined to your room, you know in your gut that you aren’t supposed to be here. You take a few steps down the hall towards the first door, and turn the knob as slowly as you can, even though it’s unlikely anyone would hear it over the sounds of the party and the urgent accelerando of the music. Whoever is commanding the keyboard has unrivaled dexterity and skill, but even though you’re unfamiliar with the piece you get the feeling the composer intended for it to be slower. Played as you hear it now… it sounds frustrated.

 

The door you open isn’t a closet at all - it’s much better. It takes you into a small room, dimly lit by an ancient looking chandelier of candles, around half of which have already burnt out. It’s not lit through magical means - some poor servant climbed up there earlier and lit all of the tiny candles (at least ninety, if you had to guess) by hand. The wall across from the door is lined with arching floor to ceiling windows that leave no space for the wall between them. The curtains are pulled open all the way to the sides of the room, two giant columns of folded cream brocade that can pull across a rod spanning the entire length of the wall to cover all the windows at once. The open windows offer a breathtaking night view of a rose garden that you don’t get a closer look at for now.

 

To the left, there’s another door on a sliding mechanism. If it were fully open, this room and the room beside it, where the party takes place, would be joined as one large space. As it is now, it offers some privacy, a quiet place for guests to escape to in a more intimate setting. You’re lucky it was empty.

 

Hugging the wall and keeping close to the floor, you peek out into the main room.

 

A huge, white piano sits at the center of the room, perfectly polished underneath a more modern chandelier dripping with thousands of radiant crystals. The top of the piano has a swirling inlay of abalone, ethereal and iridescent and color matched so well that it’s hard to tell where the ivory ends and the shell begins. Much like this room, there are floor to ceiling windows that follow the same wall, and continue onto the farthest one where the outer corner of the castle is. But that room lacks heavy curtains. Instead, gauzy, glittering pastel panels cover each window, offering no protection to a vampire during the daytime. The room is so glaring different from the rest of the castle, like it’s been pulled from another realm entirely.

 

You catch a glimpse of a striking man at the piano as he moves with the music, head mostly obscured by the colossal instrument at your angle. When you see him your heart nearly stops in your chest - he looks damn near identical to Wyll. Scrambling for another glance, you soon realize it’s not - but their facial features and warm skin tone are so similar that anyone would mistake them on first glance. Of course this man lacks horns, and a scar, and his hair is pulled back into a much longer ponytail… and there’s a subtle silvery tint to his skin that marks him a vampire.

 

It’s hard to pry your eyes from him, and you only manage to when the music jerks to a stop and the crowd breaks into polite clapping again.

 

A set of matching lounges has been circled up around the piano, holding Erliza’s modest group of guests. You have to stand up straighter, moving up from your crouch, to get a better look at them.

 

You immediately wish you hadn’t - greeted by the sight of several of her guests openly feeding from half-naked victims. The poor woman you lay eyes on first is a corpse now, her skin already grey and her eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, the shine extinguished. Erliza sits proudly on a couch with her legs tucked underneath her, gently petting the hair of a delirious but still alive man on her lap. Even from here you spy twin pairs of red marks on more places on his disrobed body than you thought possible or practical. All he wears to protect himself is a silky pair of briefs. 

 

“Owaren, dear - why don’t you take a turn on the piano?” she sings cheerfully, voice sailing over the room. “Give Lord Arthur a break.” She walks her fingers idly down the chest of the man on her lap.

 

A young man stands up and walks over to the keyboard while the first musician, Lord Arthur, drapes himself on one of the couches and throws one leg up over the other.

 

As the next pianist begins his tune - more hesitantly and reserved than the first, you continue to search the guests until your eyes land on the back of the unmistakable, silvery head of Astarion. He sits on a couch with his back turned from your position, but you’d recognize that wavy hair anywhere. Hells, of course he’s here. Apparently this fucked up little vampire party was more important than coming upstairs for a quick conversation.

 

True vampires are usually very solitary creatures… but of course they can’t resist the occasional opportunity to show off for one another and size each other up. What better way to keep tabs on one another than a little soiree under the guise of friendliness? 

 

Can they tell that Astarion is different? More powerful? If so, no one keeps their distance or leers at him.

 

Every minute you linger is a risk. With so much blood being recklessly thrown around, it’s unlikely that they’ll catch your scent, but it’s only a matter of time before someone steps away for a moment of solitude. You aren’t going to be able to speak to Astarion tonight at this rate.

 

But you also aren’t going to let him get away with avoiding your questions. 

 

With the vampires all safely in one spot, you decide to head back to his room and wait for him.

                                                                           

---

 

 

You sit just inside the door of his suite, leaving no question that you’re here and you’re angry . The party brings a whole new host of questions. The back of the couch prevented you from seeing, but had he also taken a victim? Was he drinking from a live host? Did he contribute to unnecessarily killing someone? A terrible waste of life.

 

You lose track of time, suspecting that you nod off a few times in the armchair you’ve claimed. Has it been minutes, or hours? It could be either - but if it’s been hours then it’s been the longest night in history, and perhaps the sun will never rise again. The sound of the door open jerks you awake, and you jump to your feet, holding yourself strong. But catching a wink of sleep in that chair definitely left a crick in your neck -

 

“Astarion, I-” you begin your practiced speech, but it’s dead on arrival.

 

You pat your thigh to make sure your dagger is still there as Lord Arthur walks through the door.

 

“Well hello . Who do we have here?” He purrs, eyes narrowing. Even his accent carries echoes of Wyll.

 

He swaggers towards you with hands tucked behind his back. You back up, but there isn’t anywhere to go from here. Your only options are to break past him and run for the hall, or try and get into another room in the suite.

 

“This isn’t your room,” you accuse. What else can you say, when you have a predator looking up and down the length of you like his next meal. Up close, Lord Arthur looks even more like Wyll, before his cursed contract - from the soft curve of his nose to his gentle lips… but the coldness in his eyes is where the resemblance dies. Wyll never looked at you like…that.

 

“It isn’t yours either,” he says in amusement. The gap between you is getting smaller and smaller. Your hand wraps around the hilt of your dagger. Killing one of Erliza’s guests would ruin everything. “Are you a little thing that Lord Ancunin keeps to himself then? I thought I smelled a tantalizing little morsel earlier.”

 

His hand reaches out towards your face and you slap it away, only for his other hand to grab it midair and yank it downward. Now you reach for the dagger and whip it towards him. A threat.

 

Fuck. You’re threatening one of Erliza’s guests. This will end well .

 

He steps back, observing the dagger, still smiling. “Fair play, fair play,” he nods. “If I were you I would have already lodged it in my chest.” He steps right up to the pointy end of it, lining it up exactly in the spot he means. He takes the blade between two fingers and encourages you to press the tip of it into his shirt.

 

“But, I’m not you, and I’m stronger.” You’re not even done processing what he’s said as he yanks it away from you as easily as if he were taking a rattle from a baby and throws it over his shoulder where it lodges itself in the upholstery of the armchair.

 

You try to dodge to the side, but he corners you, putting an arm on either side of you.

 

“Looks like you’re… experienced with this, so just be a good girl, hm?” He’s eyeing the mostly faded scars on your neck.

 

The door swings open and Astarion bursts in. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Lord Arthur.”

 

“What’s wrong Ancunin, don’t like to share your toys?” Mercifully, he turns away from you, allowing you to slide against the wall and run towards the door.

 

Astarion laughs. “She’s not a toy, Arthur,” he sneers. “She’s the fucking Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate. Tell me, can your land handle our forces? I hear that some of the outermost towns in your territory have already fallen to your neighbor, and the vultures are circling.”

 

Lord Arthur sways only a moment before he recovers. “Oh, I see . You’re playing chess, Ancunin. How long have you held your position as lord? A year? Ambitious and overconfident, hot off the heels of killing Szarr. You’re new to this world, and what you don’t realize is that Cazador was a stray dog . All bark… no bite . Thought he was bigger than he was, but none of us feared him. None of us took that stupid, sniveling man seriously. He always reminded me of someone who walked right off the stage from some performing troupe of historical actors.”

 

Astarion flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but not enough to escape your notice. Or Lord Arthur’s.

 

“Keep playing your games, Ancunin.” Arthur walks towards the door. “But if Cazador was a stray dog… well. You’re a puppy .”

 

The door slams behind him.

 

You both stand in silence for several unbearable minutes, unable to look at one another, the echo of the door still ringing in your ears.

 

"Astarion..." The anger you feel for him is temporarily muted - he's visibly shaken from the interaction with Arthur. Arthur spoke about Cazador like he was of little consequence. Harmless. As if he hadn't upended Astarion's entire life.

 

"Don't." He snaps. He walks over to the chair and rips your dagger from it. "What were you doing here? I warned you it was dangerous."

 

"I told you we needed to talk, and you never came."

 

His eyes narrow. "We're 'business partners', aren't we? I'm not on your payroll. I'm not at your every beck and call. Erliza's little gathering was more pressing. I needed to know who we're dealing with. And now, thanks to you, I've made a quick enemy of Garett Arthur." He pinches his nose.

 

"He was wrong, you know. About you."

 

" Wrong ab- I -tch. I know that. Obviously," he stutters and crosses his arms, your dagger tight in his hand. "I don't need to be told. Let them underestimate me - they'll later regret it."

 

Confronting him now feels tactless, maybe even cruel. Nothing good will come from an exhausted confrontation, tempers on edge from the unexpected wrench that Lord Arthur threw into the mix. Astarion won't crumble. He won't admit that the other vampire got under his skin, but it's obvious. You take back the dagger from him and slide it back in its sheath.

 

"Tomorrow," you say sternly. "We need to speak. Don't make me wait for you." 

 

You're about to open the door.

 

"Wait."

 

You pause and look back at him.

 

"Just tell me he didn't hurt you."

Chapter 23: Confrontation

Notes:

Happy Sunday! Surprise!

Astarion Ancunin has dropped his guard. His typically sharp features have softened around a set of gentle, sad eyes. He isn’t set like a snake ready to strike with a scathing witty remark, nor is he looking for a way to crawl under your skin and poke at your weak spots. You’re safe.

 

“No. He… didn’t hurt me. He was going to, but he didn’t get the chance.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “You got here in time. Thank you.”

 

“You can’t thank me for dumb luck. Why didn’t you tell him who you were?” He’s angry… but not at you.

 

“I wasn’t thinking -”

 

“No. Never mind. It doesn’t matter, it isn’t your fault.” He paces in small circles, rubbing his neck. “I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you.”

 

Your cheeks are turning pink - you can feel it. Thank the gods the room is dark. “You’d be free to do whatever I want, I guess - you could let go of this elaborate plan to help me, right?”

 

“I should go. It’s been a really long day.” A long, terrible day. You thought you were fine, but all at once it starts to sink in, weights tied to your ankles that pull you to the floor. Twice today you’ve felt weak. Violated. Tossed around helplessly and unable to fight back. Not because you can’t fight, but because of the consequences that would follow. You aren’t just yourself anymore - you have an entire city at the mercy of your actions.

 

“Stay.”

 

“What?” You aren’t sure you heard him right.

 

“Come in. Stay a bit longer. Erliza’s little party isn’t over yet and I don’t want you to run into any of the others on your way back. Garett Arthur isn’t the worst of them, if you can believe it.” Your mind flashes back to the image of the gaunt woman drained dry on the lap of one of her other guests. You don’t even remember the vampire’s face - didn’t even look at them long enough to know whether it was a man or a woman. It’s the eyes of the corpse that will never blink again that are seared into your brain. Did she know she was going to die? Did she give her blood willingly, as so many do?

 

They could have only taken what they needed, to let her recover and donate again. They could have made her a spawn, so she might at least continue to live. Her death was a choice .

 

You look at the door. You no longer want to go out of it. Can’t face one of those monsters that you’re forced to play nice with for now. 

 

You don’t want to be alone. Would Garett seek you out?

 

“Okay.” You walk further back into the suite, Astarion gesturing to one of the plush couches. He makes sure you’re seated before he checks the lock on the door. Twice.

 

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Wine? Candy?” There’s a serving cart by his door that has much more to offer than your mysteriously old water. There’s an irony in stocking full carts of luxuries that most of her guests can’t even enjoy. “Would you like me to light the fireplace?”

 

“No thank you,” you give him a weak smile. “You don’t have to play host or hover over me, I’ll be fine. Go about your night, pretend I’m not here. I’ll be gone as soon as I’m able.”

 

“Would you prefer me to leave you alone? Well, I wouldn’t leave the suite of course - but I have several rooms to make myself scarce in.”

 

No . Your brain screams the word. No. No. No.

 

You give him a blank stare, your mouth hanging open - gods, you must look so stupid . Why can’t you just say a single word?

 

“Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings - it’s never stopped you before,” he offers a tiny smile.

 

You’re stuck in place. A statue. Your thoughts race but you can’t seem to make yourself say anything. Afraid if you do, that you’ll say everything . Where would you even begin?

 

His smile falls. “You’re shaking. I’ll get the fire going. Take your time.”

 

There’s something about watching someone do something that they clearly have never done before in a time of crisis. It is abundantly clear that Astarion has never lit a fire in a fireplace in his entire life - or if he has it’s been so infrequently that he’s entirely lost track of the steps. You try to remember if you ever actually saw him make a campfire… sometimes he might have helped collect wood. You silently watch him pick up the logs from the small rack as if he doesn’t want to touch them, throwing them unceremoniously into the pit like they’re already hot and burning his skin. He takes a long time trying to get it going, and you can see the frustration in his unnatural, jerking motions - but he doesn’t complain. 

 

Not even when a cloud of soot and smoke comes right back into his face.

 

Any other night you would be mercifully tormenting him for his incompetence right now. 

 

But it’s such an honest, compassionate little gesture…

 

A tear slips down your cheek. You slap it away. You won’t let him see you cry, not when you don’t even have a proper reason . You’re overtired. Cracking from the events of the day. 

 

The fire finally takes, kindling catching the bark of the first log, licking it away and spreading light across the room. A tiny blaze ignites - strong enough that the rest will be able to take care of itself.

 

“What? Nothing to say? I know that was terribly amusing for you,” he shakes some soot from his clothes.

“Thank you.”

 

 “Is that the third time you’ve thanked me tonight? You’re frightening me. Are you feeling well? If you don’t go back to vexing me this very instant I’m going to have to take drastic measures.”

 

He kneels down on the floor in front of you, his eyebrows knitted together, studying every line of your face. Even though there’s plenty of space between you, his presence is overwhelming. He’s as intense as the fire that’s growing behind you, stealing all of the oxygen in the room. You squeeze your eyes shut until the heat behind them goes away, stopping more tears in their tracks.

 

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?” He asks, a little more aggressively. 

 

There’s so much.

 

“If he did hurt you, then-”

 

“Why was Erliza here?” You blurt out. He wants you to ‘vex’ him? Fine. 

 

“Talking about this tonight then, I see. Let’s get it over with then.” He’s relieved, to a point - happy you’ve said anything at all. “Well I certainly didn’t invite her, I can tell you that much.”

 

“Please don’t beat around the bush, Astarion. I noticed you weren’t so forthcoming with telling me about your meeting with her despite the fact that I later gave you my blood - and then when I went to ask you about it, she was in your room. In the middle of the night. And I honestly don’t know what’s worse - the thought of you scheming with her or the thought of you sleeping with her.”

 

“ Eugh !” He exclaims, his face contorting. “Do you really think my standards are so low? She invited herself in that night. The woman is absolutely mad. She’s obsessing over something , won’t tell me what, but subjects me to every single one of her loose end theories. At first I thought she wanted his staff or information about the Ascension. Then I thought she knew something I didn’t - but when I played along with her I realized she doesn’t know a damned thing.”

 

“She knew about Wyll.”

 

“He’s been gone over a year now. It isn’t a secret anymore - I suppose someone could have fed her the information from inside Avernus, but from what I’ve seen? I think she’s just started throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks. She’s getting desperate. Sloppy. Our official meeting - she spent that one grilling me about my vampirism. I was honest about that when Shadowheart asked, to be clear - I know neither of you believed me. To Erliza I was less honest. She got some truths, some white lies, some absolutely batshit lies. Her questions grew stranger as we progressed, and she grew more frustrated until eventually, she kicked me out.”

 

“She kicked you out?”

 

“Yes. A relief, to be honest. When she came to my room that night, her questions shifted to our time on the road - she wanted the entire story of the tadpoles and the Netherbrain recounted. Next thing I knew she was asking about our companions, and took a particular interest in Halsin. She started offering me all kinds of things to get him here to meet her after I told her it wouldn’t be possible. First she tried seduction, then offered to help cover up murdering you and staging a coup of Baldur’s Gate…”

 

“That one didn’t go over well, as you might imagine. Words were exchanged, I told her to get out… and then on her way out she finally seemed to remember the blackmail she had on you from the beginning, laughed in my face and said that she was ‘generous for offering me anything at all,’ and that I ‘lost my chance.’ She wants Halsin in exchange for keeping your secret.”

 

“You’re joking. You have to be joking.”

 

“If only. The truth is far more ridiculous than whatever lie I could have come up with.”

 

“We can’t bring Halsin into this mess. What does she even want with him?” There’s no way you’re getting him on a boat to the island and sticking him in a city with polluted waterways. 

 

“On the bright side, I’d say there’s a fifty fifty chance she has an entirely new plan by tomorrow and Halsin is forgotten entirely.” Astarion stands up and dusts off his knees, walking over to the serving cart. He fumbles with some sort of metal contraption and a kettle.

 

“We’re never going to be able to reason with someone like that. What happens if we do everything she asks, and then she asks for more?”

 

Even as you speak it, something still isn’t fitting . It doesn’t feel right. With you she’s come across as poised and collected. Nothing comes close to the behaviors he’s reporting.

 

He sets up the kettle so it hangs over the fire - you catch him burn his hand in the process and immediately fight to pretend as if he hasn’t.

 

What if her “madness” is a distraction for something else? 

 

“I think that we can’t rule out that she’s manipulating us all in different ways. Remember what you said earlier? ‘Let them underestimate you.’ She could be pulling the same trick to keep you uncomfortable. Paranoid. Distracted. If you aren’t taking her seriously and if she exhausts us with fool’s errands-“

 

“We’ll be too tired to bother looking for anything else, and even if we aren’t she’ll have us convinced it isn’t worth it.” he finishes. He puts a hand on his chin, and you momentarily lose him in his thoughts. “She’s feeding me her every waking errant thought to throw me off of a scent.”

 

“You know,” he breaks the silence that follows while you both digest the information. “You’re more well-suited for this than you realize.”

 

“Well-suited for what?”

 

He makes a sweeping gesture around the room. “Navigating all of this . Recognizing the little tricks that they play.”

 

His praise makes you self-conscious - he usually deals fluently in backhanded compliments. “It’s just a theory - we shouldn’t assume it’s true yet. And it isn’t going to get me far if I keep finding myself in danger. I could have fought back, I just-”

 

“I know you could have. I’ve seen you fight - when we fought the Absolute you could have handed me my ass. I’m confident you could send Lord Arthur home in pieces if you didn’t have to worry about the consequences. Your decision not to is part of what makes you good at this.”

 

“So what? I’m supposed to just… take it?” Your voice wobbles.

 

“Of course not!” His eyes flash, just as the kettle whistles, snapping him back before he follows a darker path in his mind. “I won’t let anyone touch you. If he even tries it again…” he doesn’t finish the thought. “He won’t. He knows who you are now, and as a guest of status you’re off limits to him.”

 

He pulls off the kettle, setting it on the edge of the fireplace, and then you’re watching him attempt to make tea with a concerning number of steps involved. 

“What? You’re staring.” He hesitates as he carries the two cups over, suddenly reassessing them.

 

“You made tea.” Obviously.

 

“Warm drinks are supposed to be comforting or whatever, aren’t they?” He pulls the steaming cups closer to his chest defensively, tiny enamel purple flowers peeking out from between his fingers. “Suit yourself if you don’t want it, more for me.”

 

“I didn’t say that.” You extend a hand, and he slowly passes you one of the cups in the same way he would hand over a weapon he doesn’t quite trust you with. “I’m just surprised.”

 

You must look down at the tiny cup in your hands for too long, because he scoffs. “I didn’t poison it.”

 

“I didn’t think you did.”

 

Your eyes meet as he tensely waits for you to take a sip, his own cup untouched in his hand. “Then what’s wrong? Is there something wrong with it?”

 

“What? No.”

 

“You aren’t yourself,” the pitch of his voice is a little higher. “You’re looking at me funny, and I haven’t been subjected to a single lash from your scathing tongue.”

 

“A new record, probably - but I haven’t tried the tea yet,” you give him a weak smile and take a sip, before feigning doubling over in disgust. “Oh, gods! What did you put in here, owlbear dung?”

 

“Bugbear, actually.”

 

You take another sip. It’s the opposite of awful - quite good, actually. “Oh yes… I taste it now. Silly me, I always mix up the two.”

 

He relaxes enough to sit down on the other end of the couch, leaving a respectable gap. He finally sips from his own cup before placing it down. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Ugh. Don’t - it doesn’t deserve it. Not my best work by any means - the leaves in that canister must be as old as I am. Maybe I have inadvertently poisoned you.”

 

You shrug. “I never did have the highest standards.”

 

“You might want to consider raising them - you are a Grand Duke now.”

 

“I know what I like. Even if it is a little bitter.”

 

“Nothing a little sugar can’t fix,” he holds your gaze. “I’m not sure there is any, but we can look.”

 

“It’s fine the way it is.” You take a longer sip, still holding his eyes over the rim.

 

“Are we still talking about tea?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow.

 

“No,” you whisper, putting the cup on the floor as he leans towards you. 

 

You turn as you sit up straight again, only to lean back along the length of the couch as he starts to loom over you.

 

“Is this what you want?” He whispers. Your body answers to him, now entirely beneath him, prone as he suspends himself above you. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“If we do this, I won’t hear ‘ this can’t happen again ’ uttered from those pretty lips.Try to take it back again and you’ll drive me to do unforgivable things. Is this what you want ?” 

 

“ Yes .”

 

A growl rips from his throat and he lunges forward, a ravenous kiss that pulls the breath from your lungs. His hand tangles into your hair, freeing it from the ties and pins that hold it together. You throw your arms over his shoulders, clawing at the back of his neck. Urgent. Yearning. You pull at the silk of his shirt, rolling it up towards his head, and he allows the kiss to be broken only long enough for it to be pulled over his face and thrown on the floor.

 

His hands slip behind the small of your back and he starts to sit up, pulling you into his lap, a leg on either side of his waist. You can feel him getting larger beneath you, a hardness digging into your pelvis. He leans forward to reposition himself with a forearm beneath your bottom, another around your shoulders. As he starts to lift you, you wrap your legs around him and hold tight, getting a second of fresh air while he carries you through the arch and to the bed. He sits you on the edge and pulls up your shirt by the lower hem, his hands pressing into your body as he slides it up and over.

 

Lips dive to your bare neck as he works the second arm out, a forbidden kiss as he sucks the soft flesh between his teeth the way any mortal would.

 

The sound of your own shocked moan embarrasses you. “You can’t-”

 

Not here - the other vampires -

 

“I know. It is unfortunate though, you taste so sweet . I wonder if I’ll be able to control myself.”

 

His lips follow your collarbone and down your breast, where he sucks at your nipple while his free hand explores, fingertips dancing lightly across your prickling skin. It slips just into your waistband, holding your hip bone, his thumb pressing into the crease of it.

 

“Let’s hope they don’t have a nose for other bodily fluids, hm?”

 

You gasp in horror, body locking. Is that a real concern? You wonder who is on the other side of the wall…

 

He pulls himself upward and strokes your hair. “A joke, darling.”

 

But suddenly your skin feels too tight for your body. Lord Arthur essentially confirmed that he could smell you earlier - someone will know that you’ve been here, and you don’t doubt that their keen senses might pick up on your… arousal.

 

“This is dangerous,” you breathe, sliding out from under him. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

 

He frowns, but doesn’t fight you, sitting up straight. The air feels colder now, and you want nothing more than to crawl back into his arms and forget the rest of the world. The feeling between your legs suggests that it might already be too late to take back anyway. Someone might already know.

 

“You’re right,” he agrees, the ball of this throat bobbing.

 

Your trembling legs barely hold you upright anymore. You don’t want to leave. Don’t want to go back to your own bed. “We’ll have to find somewhere else next time.”

 

“Next time,” he repeats the words like a prayer. He’s waiting on your rejection - for you to say the words that it can’t happen again.

 

“Next time.” You give him a lingering kiss goodnight after plucking your shirt up from the floor. More than a kiss, it's an unspoken promise that you won't take it back again or subject him to the whims of a flip-flopping heart. That you won't regret it in the morning.

 

A weight has been lifted from your shoulders, only to be replaced by another. A new burden to carry. 

 

The secret was easy to keep when you denied the truth from yourself. It was easy to keep when you knew the truth but denied yourself from acting on it.

 

...But now?

 

Chapter 24: Spark

Blinded with pain, your leg is twisted entirely in the wrong direction. It happened too quickly to stop, and everyone was too distracted, too spent to heal it right away. In that last moment of the fight, your adrenaline was the only thing ensuring that you could drag yourself to the finish line. Now back on solid ground, the city burns around you - but the tides of the battle have turned. Without the Netherbrain, and without the Absolute… the people of Baldur’s Gate are taking back the city, laying waste to the final dregs of the mindflayer army.

 

Wyll and Shadowheart hold you upright, an arm draped over each of them.

 

“Shh… it’s going to be alright,” Wyll soothes in your ear, hand reaching up to stroke your hair. “We made it. We’re alive. We did it.”

 

Oh. His voice is a grounding presence. A presence that makes you realize that the horrible, agonizing sound you hear is coming from you. You quickly regain your composure, though the pain still tramples every neuron in your brain, filling the relieving cavity where the tadpole used to be. You did it. 

 

Partially delirious, you glance up at Wyll. He has a bit of blood on his face and dried around his ear, but he’s okay. You managed to keep him safe from the worst of it. It’s over.

 

Swallowing, you glance around to take a quick inventory of your companions. 

 

One short. 

 

“Where’s Asta- Karlach!” Your first thought is forgotten as you watch your friend fall to her knees just ahead of you, chest heaving. Has she been hurt? You don’t think so - last you saw of her she was fine. You fail to even take so much as a step towards her, forgetting that you’re firmly anchored in place by the two supporting your weight. “Karlach!” Your broken voice repeats as you wriggle against them. You need to go to her.

 

Wyll lets you go to do what you can’t, leaving you to nearly collapse into Shadowheart. She helps you hobble over to them, every hop of your good leg sending a jolt into the bad one. “Easy. Easy,” she warns, only able to help you so fast on her own. In a moment, Lae’zel is at your other side, her arm slipping under your arms and impatient heaving you upward off the ground entirely as she hoists you the rest of the way.

 

 Wyll kneels to the ground beside Karlach, a hand on her shoulder. “You’re burning. What happened?” His soft, fractured voice cuts over every other sound in the world. In this moment, you’re all in a bubble - the sounds of victory fade away, the lapping current of the Chionthar a whisper.

 

You all know what’s happened. What’s happening.

 

She flinches. “My engine… I think…it’s burned up.  I must have run it down a little extra in that fight. I think… I think this is it.” Her unrecognizable eyes look around at all of you, glistening with the terror of a little girl.

 

“No!” Wyll protests, taking one of her hands in both of his. “You can’t - I won’t - we won’t let you die. We can fix this, there’s still time. Go back with me. To Avernus.”

 

“I…” she’s fading quickly, taking shallow, struggling breaths. “Zariel…” She looks up at the sun on the horizon, squeezing her eyes shut. She pulls her hand away from Wyll and slams it on the ground, uttering a curse.

 

“I know you don’t want to die here, Karlach. Live on. Return to Avernus, please. I’ll go with you. I won’t let Zariel lay a finger on you, I swear it.” He stands up and extends a hand to her just as a layer of flickering flames begins to form on her flesh. “Fight now, so that you can someday return. This will not be your end. It cannot be.” His voice falters.

 

“Karlach, please,” you beg, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. You can’t stand to watch her go like this. You’ve just defeated the Absolute. You should all be preparing to celebrate. This isn’t fair -

 

“Fine,” she grunts out finally, taking his hand and letting him hoist her up. If it burns him,  he gives no indication. “But we have to go now. I don’t- I don’t have much time.”

 

The fearless, strong, boisterous Karlach is barely a smolder of herself.

 

Wait… now? Right now? They can’t go now… This isn’t right. The three of you were meant to do this together. Except now, with your leg, you’re dead weight. You could never hope to traipse through Avernus like this. 

 

“But… I can’t come with you,” you utter the realization out loud.

 

Wyll turns to you, temporarily relieving the other women from your care, embracing you in a hug that doesn’t last as long as you want it to. He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a ring, pressing it into your palm with both hands. “A promise,” he explains. “I need you to look after the Gate for me. I’m naming you my proxy - the person to take my place temporarily on the Council.”

 

“What? I can’t…” the tears start to come, choking your words. “Wyll, I can’t - you can’t-” 

 

You can’t even begin to form the argument. There’s too much to say, and not enough time to say it. He wants you to look after Baldur’s Gate? But how? What does that even mean? You’re wildly unqualified!

 

You see Karlach over his shoulder, struggling to remain upright, and every desire to protest is gone. She can’t go alone… and she has to go now. It isn’t the time to argue while her life hangs in the balance. Every minute matters.

 

Wyll cups your face in his hands, wiping your tears with his thumbs. “Please listen. There is no one I trust more in the world with this than you. As soon as I return, I’ll replace that ring with a proper one - something perfect.” He gives you a fleeting peck of a kiss. “We’ll fix Karlach up and be back before you know it. A few months, at the most. I’ll write every chance I’m able.”

 

You nod through your tears. All you want to do is cling to him as you watch the promise of normalcy slip through your fingers. He’s a good man. Good enough to follow your good friend to the hells to save her life without hesitating, in a moment that you’re all ready to crumble from exhaustion from a life-altering battle.

 

Karlach hobbles forward to give you a hug. She’s almost too hot to stand, her flickering skin turning to bigger flames that hurt her more than you. She lets go before your skin burns. “I’ll make sure he gets home safe,” she smiles. “Promise.”

 

Her smile is shortly interrupted with a gasp of pain. “We have to go.”

 

Wyll nods.

 

“Take care of eachother.” You don’t know if they hear your tiny prayer of a goodbye.

 

                                                                      ****** 

 

It’s not Wyll in front of you, but every time you catch him in your peripheral you second guess it. It’s unlikely that Lord Arthur even knew him, but tonight it looks like he’s shown a picture of Wyll to a barber and freshly cut and groomed his hair to match, the long ponytail of neat locs wrapped with gold you saw last night now shorn. It feels intentional . He waltzes towards the table with a confident, graceful prowess. That explains one of the extra settings at the table. Of course it had to be him of all people. You swear he’s been summoned here for no other reason than to torture you.

 

Erliza invited you and Astarion to dinner tonight, excluding your companions to no surprise. Either she considers them your staff rather than your equals, or is determined to keep them far away from her nocturnal guests. There’s still no sign of Jaheira, and Erliza has yet to make good on her promise to interrogate the inn staff. Engagement planning must be at the top of her priority list.

 

The Lady herself is now fifteen minutes late, and there’s still the question of the mysterious fifth setting…

 

“Good evening, Lord Ancunin,” Garett purrs. “Duke Ravengard.”

 

He takes a seat across from you. A grand array of food separates the gap between you, but he might as well be breathing down your neck. A servant immediately comes over and pours liquid into his metal goblet. No need to guess what it is.

 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you. How are recovery efforts going in Baldur’s Gate these days? I heard it was left quite devastated.” There’s a threat to his tone.

 

You sit up a little straighter. So this is how it’s going to be - he’s going to pretend like last night didn’t happen. You wonder if Erliza knows - they’re clearly close enough to have an intimate dinner away from the other vampires. “Baldur’s Gate is resilient. It’s only grown back stronger.” A warning. 

 

“A great deal of it owed to the Duke,” Astarion adds.

 

“How nice that you two seem to have such a… close relationship, Astarion.” 

 

You feel beads of sweat prickling along your neck. It isn’t good that Lord Arthur caught you in Astarion’s room last night. You can’t tell anyone what he tried to do without implicating yourself… but neither can he.

 

“Yes, very,” Astarion says curtly. “It affords me all sorts of delightful opportunities like this riveting dinner party.” He takes a sip from his clear glass - it’s only wine.

 

He’s tired again, and you’re impressed he made it back. When you woke up this morning, you found a note on your pillow informing you that he was flying back to Baldur’s Gate.

 

To make a journey back and forth like that in only a day… 

 

Astarion has tried his best to pull himself together, his hair and clothes are perfectly manicured - the picturesque dinner guest. But he’s slouching ever so slightly, the purple bags under his eyes are enhanced, and his movements are a little less refined.

 

“Is something the matter ?” Lord Arthur tilts his head. “Did something keep you from your rest?” His gaze flickers knowingly between you. Taunting.

 

Astarion’s shoulders go rigid. “No. Just feeling a little hungry, and resentful of our host’s poor manners.”

 

“Terribly sorry,” her lyrical voice sings from the doorway, right on cue. “Wardrobe malfunctions.”

 

She’s followed by someone else - a young man around twenty - or at least he was when he was turned. He’s a gaunt, pallid thing - undoubtedly Erliza’s spawn. They both sit down at the table, the young man’s large eyes lingering on you underneath a mop of somewhat unruly black hair. His fine clothes match the same color scheme as Erliza’s - black with bright, summery pink accents and gold stitching. A matching set.

 

Is this… her consort then? Her betrothed? He seems anything but happy to be here… an empty husk of a person trapped far beneath the surface. Erliza’s unfortunate accessory. More boy than man.

 

“I see you’ve already met Garett - hopefully he’s been minding his manners.” The expression she gives Lord Arthur is peculiar, but you gain nothing from it.

 

“This is my ward, Owaren.” She grasps the man’s shoulders. He doesn’t blink. “He’s a bit shy - but you really should hear him play the piano. I’ve raised him since he was a boy.”

 

That begs the question… where did he come from?

 

Settling back in her chair, she picks up a tiny silver bell at her seat, shaking it with a sparkling ring. Immediately servants flood the room to serve the food, cutting and scooping portions for everyone. It’s odd that they would eat in front of you, with real food tasting spoiled and unpleasant to them. She’s too smart to think that you’re somehow unaware - so why bother with the charade?

 

“I had one of my chef’s study up on some traditional Baldurian cuisine - so I do hope it’s to your liking,” Erliza gushes. 

 

“How thoughtful.” Whatever the servant slops on your plate next to the most unappetizing, nearly-raw cut of meat you’ve ever seen… you don’t recognize. 

 

Erliza wastes no time digging into the meat, before the rest is even served. You watch her daintily handle her silverware and neatly cut through it, but then chew it with animalistic vigor. Like two different creatures inhabiting the same body.

 

Owaren is out of place next to her, a strange creature with a dazed, empty expression. He drinks, but he doesn’t seem to know what to make of the food.

 

“So, Astarion, have you heard back from your druid friend?” Erliza asks after an extended silence. “Go on, Owaren, eat your meal,” she says softly with a sharp nudge.

 

“No. I’m afraid he won’t be making the journey over. He has too many responsibilities to pull himself away from.”

 

Owaren is eating now, mechanically. He hasn’t mastered hiding his disgust of it the same way Erliza and Garett have. Maybe turned more recently…

 

“Hm. A shame,” she shakes her head. “I was just dying to meet him - it looks like we’ll have to come to some other agreement .”

 

So much for seeking an alliance. ‘Just two weeks. Nothing else.’  Liar . She’s toying with you. Keeping you here and increasing the pressure for an unknown end goal. 

“If it’s money you want, I’m happy to give it to you,” Astarion says. He’s anything but happy about it. “Consider it a congratulatory gift for your… engagement.”

 

“No, I have no need for money - I’m drowning in the stuff. Snowdown is quite rich in resources. I’ll have to think it over again.”

 

“Interesting that you would try and spark a deal with Astarion, instead of me , Lady Daressin. I thought we had reached an understanding already.” You have to work to relax your jaw and unclench your teeth.

 

“Your end of the deal is one thing, his is another,” she bats her eyelashes towards Astarion as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Blackmailing you both for the same thing? Hardly fair. Unless she also has something else on him…

 

You grip your leg under the table, losing the patience for her games. You’re done with this. Forget her blackmail. If you can bolster or speed up the rebellion to act against her, you can be done with her and keep your hands clean of it. Maybe you can even get the other vampires on your side - power is an irresistible draw. You force yourself to steal a glance at Garett again - what are his motives? Where are his loyalties?

 

For most vampires, their only loyalties are to themselves, unless they feel they can gain something greater from an alliance. If you can make her hold here seem unstable, someone might even make a move without any further intervention. 

 

“I hear that the real Duke Ravengard is currently roaming Avernus.” Lord Arthur’s comment pulls you back from your thoughts. 

 

Here it goes again. People certainly hear a lot of things. Everyone wants to know about Wyll . “He’s doing some very important work,” you agree.

 

You haven’t managed to start on the food yet. Everything looks offensive, the ‘Baldurian delicacy’ the most so. You’re willing to give everything a try once though… you scoop some up in a spoon, nose assaulted by what is decidedly overspiced. Bits of nearly every color of the rainbow are suspended in an orange-brown base the consistency of mashed potatoes. Maybe a delicacy several hundred years ago.

 

You trepidatiously allow the tiniest test of morsel on your tongue before committing to the rest of the spoonful - it isn’t as bad as expected. It’s salty and flavorful, definitely overspiced, with a pleasant, almost sweet, aftertaste.You think you can force it down for the sake of appearance - unlike the imposing slab of meat that’s certain to make you sick.

 

“You must miss him terribly,” Garett continues. There’s a mocking pout on his lips. Wyll’s lips…

 

“I’ve come to accept it and I eagerly await his return. In the meantime, I’m doing my best to live up to his name.” 

 

How many times have you said that over the course of the year?

 

It feels ridiculous to keep up the charade when everyone at the table seems to somehow know that it’s a lie.

 

“How noble. But don’t you ever worry for him? Avernus is a dangerous place.”

 

You stab your spoon into the orange mush again, looking Garett in the eyes. “Wyll Ravengard is a capable man. I have more important things to do than sit and worry about him. I have Baldur’s Gate to look after.” 

 

Underneath the table, Astarion’s foot jams into your calf, and you just manage to hang onto the spoon as the rest of the goop slides back onto the plate. You glare at him, his upper body giving no indication of what he’s just done. A little aggressive for footsies…

 

The temperature in the room is rising, and you roll up your sleeves.

 

“Of course. I didn’t mean to offend. I just can’t imagine not seeing someone you care deeply about for an entire year .” Staring Garett down becomes more difficult.

 

“It’s no different than a couple separated by war.” You want this conversation to be over. It’s starting to make you nauseous. You anxiously take another spoonful in an effort to distract yourself.

 

Ow - What in the hells?

 

Again Astarion kicks you under the table, this time so hard that you barely suppress a grunt of pain. You look at him again, ready to kick back, when you see his eyes give the tiniest flicker down to your spoon and back. His own hand gripping his empty spoon on the table beside you, knuckles blanching. A message he can’t say out loud. Looking closely, you notice there’s something strange about the metal of yours - a slightly sticky looking substance coating the silver beneath the food, as if it’s been dipped in something. It’s present on all of your utensils, actually - most apparent on the fork that sits unused. You slowly set the spoon down alongside it, aware of Erliza’s eyes on your lowering hand. 

 

So. Her game is more dangerous than you thought. The saccharine aftertaste was no mistake. The temperature of the room. Your nausea… you need to get out of here. 

 

“Is something wrong with the food?” She asks sweetly. Bitch .

 

“Not at all. I’m so sorry to be impolite, Lady Daressin, but I must excuse myself.” Lies. You stand up suddenly, banging against the edge of the table as you do. Your depth perception is already failing.

 

Several voices overlap and protest, but you don’t stop to listen to them. You can't. You have to get out of this room. Unintelligible yelling breaks out from behind you, something shatters.

 

You bolt up to your quarters, slamming and locking the door behind you for whatever good it will do.          

 

                                                     

---

 

Erliza tried to poison you. Will probably try again . It isn’t safe here. But it’s strange - why would she do it after bothering to invite you to her engagement party? You dying on this island while under her care would only cause a host of political problems for her.

 

To calm your spiking heart rate, you take careful, methodical breaths. 

 

In. Out. In. Out.

 

It’s going to be okay - you haven’t ingested enough. It might make you sick, but a single coated spoon won’t kill you. Or was it just a spoon? Was it also on the cup that you sipped from while you waited for your host to arrive?

 

A persistent knocking begins at your door. Probably Riven - you passed and ignored him on the way. You continue to ignore him now. There isn't a chance in all of the hells that you're going to open that door for one of Erliza's staff.

 

Your eyelids feel heavy. Coming to your room was a mistake, you should have gone to the others and warned them. Maybe one of them had the foresight to bring an anti-poison along. You hobble over to your bag, searching for something of your own. You don’t remember bringing anything, but maybe you did… you’re feeling a little foggy, now. 

 

Your hand wraps around a vial. It’s the one Gale gave to you, when you lied about feeling ill. You never used it, stowing it away. It might do nothing.

 

But you aren’t even sure you’re going to be able to stand up again and make it back to the bed. The room rocks back and forth, dragging you to sleep. It calls you back to your earlier years when you first discovered your limits with alcohol, teetering on the precipice of total stupor as your body no longer feels like your own. 

 

Is someone calling your name? It’s hard to tell over the muffled roar in your ears, like someone has shoved bits of cotton inside.

 

You’re sprawled out on the floor now, barely able to support yourself with your elbow. Your clammy hands uncork the vial, clenching it between two fists as you beg your muscles to cooperate long enough to hang onto the damned thing. Your vision blurs and your body relaxes against your fighting consciousness, your hands dropping to the floor. The vial is so far away… you can’t see anymore. Did it make it to your lips? You don't think so. 

 

It’s just a sleep potion. You’ll be okay.

 

Is that an internal thought coming from your own brain to help calm you? It doesn't seem like your own, sounding distorted and loud. Real. You don’t feel like you're dying, that much is certain. You’ve been marked by poison weapons before, and this doesn’t feel the same. That poison burned, sending searing pain to every corner of your body. That poison left no question of death, with a high enough dose. Maybe the voice is right. You’re just going to sleep.  

 

Arguing voices - tumbling around one another. Familiar and unfamiliar. Man. Woman. Neither? Both?

 

Astarion... You left him behind with them… is he okay? Would she really have poisoned you so brazenly with him at the table?

 

Your head is lifted, and cool hands press against your face - maybe. Everything around you is fading into hallucinations at this point, colors dancing across your closed eyes. You imagine fingers lacing between yours, and you squeeze the phantom hand, the last sensation you feel before everything is gone.

 

Erliza Daressin will regret this.

Chapter 25: Topple

Tonight, Wyll could easily be mistaken for a seasoned rogue as his hands seek out a familiar pattern in the flat stone wall. Some of the stones barely protrude at all, and as you run your own hands along them, you wonder how many times he’s practiced this. You look up at him crouching on the top of the wall, grinning ear to ear, and then around to make sure that no one is watching.

 

“Come on!” He whispers, offering you a hand up. You hesitantly put your foot on one of the stones, wishing you paid closer attention to the route he took up. It’s slippery, and the toe of your boot barely fits, but you’re going to have to make it up a little higher to reach his waiting hand.

 

It takes more than one try, but eventually you get up just far enough to succeed, his hand gripping yours and pulling you up to the top of the wall. On the other side, he grips a trellis crowded with ivy, lowering himself into the garden. It creaks slightly and you catch your breath. “Woah there,” he chuckles. “Guess I’m a little heavier now than I used to be sneaking in and out of here.” 

 

You follow him down without issue.

 

Dusting yourself off, you look around at the small courtyard garden that you’ve just broken into with Wyll. Attached to such a large manor, you suddenly wonder what in the hells has gotten into him. If anyone were to peer out of one of the lit windows, they’d easily see you.

 

“Where are we?” You whisper, sticking close to him.

 

His smile wavers as he looks up longingly at the house. “Ravengard Manor. It was home. Before my father banished me, anyway.”

 

Apparently the danger of the Absolute isn’t exciting enough for him. “We’re breaking into your own home in the middle of the night? Wyll, have you lost your mind?” 

 

“We aren’t breaking in - and we wouldn’t need to. With my father…missing, I’m sure if I walked up to the door the staff would welcome me with open arms. They didn’t care for his decision to banish me. I didn’t want to take you here to show you the house - I wanted to take you here to show you… right here.” He makes a sweeping gesture around the garden allowing you to soak it in.

 

“Although…” he frowns, approaching a rose bush and inspecting it closely. “It seems my father’s absence is taking a quick toll on it.” He plucks a browning rose that practically crumbles in his palm. “I haven’t seen it this neglected in ages…”

 

“It’s still lovely,” you reassure him, reaching out and giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

 

“My father would be devastated…” His resentment of his father is matched only by his adoration. Wyll cups his hands into a bubbling stone fountain  and sprinkles the water onto a parched looking flower bed. 

 

It’s hard to imagine Duke Ulder Ravengard caring so deeply about a garden of all things, but you silently watch as Wyll splashes another bit of water  elsewhere, and pulls several ugly weeds.

 

“I apologize,” he mutters, tossing them to the side and wiping his hands. “I thought this place would be romantic.”

 

You approach him and take his hands. “It still can be, if you stop doing yard work.”

 

“It’s our first time alone - properly alone, with no chance of interruption. I should have taken you somewhere else.” He scratches the back of his head, deflecting his gaze.

 

“This place is important to you.” You find a bench obscured from the manor by a hedge, coaxing him to sit down beside you. “It’s perfect.”

 

You rest your head on his shoulder, enjoying the peace of the garden. “We have to find my father… I don’t think it will survive much longer without him.”

 

“Won’t the staff take care of it?” 

 

“He doesn’t allow anyone to touch it but himself. I think he’d prefer it to wither and die.”

 

“I’m surprised a Grand Duke has the time or the interest for gardening. Or is it… ravengardening?”

 

Wyll laughs a little too loudly, stopping to listen and make sure no one comes rushing to catch you here before he continues. “He doesn’t. He can’t stand it, actually.”

 

“You’re wondering why - right. Well. We didn’t always live here, in this house. When I was born, and my mother died, my father was  just an ordinary man. We lived in an ordinary house in a different part of the city, where my mother had started her garden. He didn’t keep it alive out of a love for gardening, but out of a love for her. When he started climbing the ranks and we moved here… he had every single plant carefully transplanted.”

 

“That’s incredible.”

 

“I never used to understand why he would put himself through that and refuse any offer of help - there were seasons where this place gave him nothing but stress, and seasons where it felt like he gave the plants more attention than me. But now… I understand what it’s like to care about someone like that. I understand why he wants to honor her creations even beyond death.” He faces you. “I hope that when all of this is over, we can make our home together, with a happier ending.”

 

“We will.” You want to be optimistic, but there’s still so much danger to come. The tadpoles. The Absolute. Orin. The walls of Cazador’s Palace stretch up in the distance - visible from almost every point in the city. 

 

The truth is, you haven’t been allowing yourself to think of the future - it may never come.

 

For now, you lean into him and try to savor the moment… but you’re unable to pry your eyes away from that damned palace, and Wyll notices.

 

“What do you think Astarion’s going to do?”

 

“Hm?” You pretend like you weren’t caught red handed. 

 

“Cazador…” he nods towards the colossal shadow against the skyline. “What do you think Astarion’s going to do about the ritual?”

 

“Whatever he decides is best, I’ll support him. Why do you ask?”

 

“You two haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately. And I ask because I’m concerned about the consequences.”

 

“I don’t have to see eye to eye with him. Cazador made him suffer for two hundred years. The bastard deserves to die.”

 

“No question there - he’d pose a serious threat to the safety of the city. But I’ve been thinking more about the spawn. What happens to them?”

 

“We free them, I assume. They’re no different from Astarion.” 

 

“I thought that too, at first.” Wyll leans back on the bench and stares up at the cloudy night sky. “I thought it was obvious. But then I thought about it more, and the havoc setting them free would cause. I can’t imagine Cazador has been keeping them well-fed.”

 

“You think he won’t go through with the ritual?”

 

“To be honest, no.” Wyll shakes his head. “Astarion might talk a big game, but I don’t see him sacrificing that many lives - though secretly, a part of me almost wishes he would. I’m not ready to be responsible for what happens after. I feel a sense of duty to protect the people of Baldur’s Gate.”

 

The spawn are also people of Baldur’s Gate, but it feels inappropriate to point it out.

 

“It’s Astarion’s decision to make. But whatever happens next… we’ll figure it out. We’ll look after the city.”

 

                                                                   

---

 

 

“I think she’s waking up.”

 

Your eyes snap open to a rustle of footsteps and shifting fabric to see Shadowheart peering down at you. You squint as your vision fights to adjust, even the dim light feels harsh and unforgiving. Underneath the duvet of the bed a film of sweat sticks to your skin that now makes you shiver. Your sleep had been anything but dreamless, but now that you’re awake, you can’t remember a single one. 

 

Shadowheart takes a step back, and you see Lae’zel, perched on your desk much like before. You’ll have to think to ask her what’s wrong with the perfectly good chairs in the room. The scene is so similar that you almost think you fell unconscious in that same moment and everything else between was a dream.

 

“What happened?” You  groggily scoot out from under the blanket, setting your back up against the headboard. Your stomach twists, empty, reminding you of the last meal you ate. Barely ate. Almost ate. Damn it all, can’t you just manage one normal meal here? If the end goal is to keep you weakened and sick, it’s working.

 

“Riven said you were poisoned at dinner. Do you remember that?” Shadowheart asks. “It set off a bit of a reaction .” She exchanges a nervous glance back towards Lae’zel.

 

“Where’s Astarion? Gale?” It’s relieving to see half of your group here. You’re coming to terms with the fact that this incident could have been the end of everything . 

 

“They’re fine.” Shadowheart holds up a sending stone. “They’re together.”

 

Together? Not willingly, you presume, unless you’ve woken up in an alternate reality.

 

Lae’zel sighs. “You waste too much time.”

 

Shadowheart whips around. “She needs to acclimate, give her a minute.” 

 

Lae’zel tilts her head, lip curling. “Why do you treat her like a fragile thing? She is asking .”

 

“She just woke-”

 

“Erliza has put the castle on lockdown until she finds the culprit responsible for the poison. She has forbidden any of her guests from leaving their rooms without an escort, as well as most of her own staff. We refused to leave you alone after hearing what happened.” You appreciate that Lae’zel tells it to you straight. For what she lacks in tact, she makes up for in honesty. 

 

“So she’s denying her involvement then,” you frown. “I’m sure she has the resources to kill us all outright while we sit here - why would she bother trying to cover it up when it failed?”

 

It’s a strange turn of events. 

 

“It wasn’t meant to kill you. Astarion had a closer look at the poison, it was all over your cup and silverware. He said he recognized it from all of his years in seedy taverns. Whoever placed it must not have intended for it to kick in right away,” Shadowheart says. 

 

“So when she couldn’t be subtle, she rushed to cover her tracks.” You warily eye your serving cart, now better stocked, trusting none of it.

 

Shadowheart chews her lip. “I’m not saying I trust Erliza, of course I don’t. Don’t get the wrong impression. But you weren’t…awake… to see the aftermath . She looked frazzled. She postponed her engagement party.”

 

All easily explained by a guilty conscience. 

 

“Well I’m not waiting around until she tries again .” You throw yourself out of bed. “I’ve had enough of her.”

 

You’re going back to that tavern and seek out the rebels. If you approach it from the right angle, perhaps they’ll listen to what you have to say. You can help each other. 

 

“You can’t go anywhere,” Shadowheart protests as you throw on shoes. “Didn’t you hear? The castle is on lockdown . No one leaves.”

 

“It’s the middle of the day. Erliza and her spawn can’t exactly stop me.” You don’t fear her human servants - Riven was all but powerless to let you slip away.

 

“Someone has been standing directly outside of that door at all hours.”

 

“Let her try,” Lae’zel mutters.

 

The door isn’t locked, but it opens up to a void of darkness that prevents you from seeing more than a few feet down the hall. Every curtain has been pulled tightly shut, effective enough that not even a hair’s width of a sliver of daylight squeaks through. The light that escapes from your own room into the darkened hall is unnaturally and immediately swallowed at the door frame. A magical darkness.

 

“Do you need something?” The voice of a servant makes you jump. You see her now, standing right beside the door, menacing red eyes fixed on you.

 

You immediately shut the door.

 

“They’ve been patrolling. Safe to say that Erliza can only trust her spawn, since they can’t defy her orders.”

 

Until now, you aren’t sure you’ve seen any of her spawn around aside from the man you met at dinner, and maybe her wizard. Only able to prowl in darkness, you wonder what hole she keeps them in the rest of the time.

 

“So we just wait then?” You ask, annoyed. None of you are exactly the sit down and wait type.

 

“It hasn’t been a full day yet,” Shadowheart says. “We weren’t eager to plan anything until you woke up. Astarion and Gale are on the other side of the castle, and as useful as the sending stones are… they’re limited.”

 

Limited words, limited uses. 

 

“You mentioned we could move with an escort,” you remember. A glimmer of hope quickly crushed.

 

“Not far, don’t get excited -” Lae’zel grunts. “Just the washroom.”

 

The conversation goes no further. You remind yourself that if absolutely necessary, Astarion has the means to make it here without being detected.

 

                                                                           

---

 

 

You’re no stranger to patience, but it’s different when you feel powerless. 

 

Trapped in the prison of a room, you’re forced to watch the sun set behind the window, the space around you slowly darkening until the sconces on the wall spring to life with no apparent trigger. It might be automated, but there’s the darker, unignorable possibility that you’re being watched. Another day wasted. Leaving Baldur’s Gate was a mistake - you should have taken your chances with Erliza’s proof. She’s just a foreign diplomat - maybe no one would have even believed it. Whether you would have been skilled enough to navigate and discredit it is another issue, but it’s beginning to look like the more attractive option. 

 

The only thing that has broken up the day at all have been several meals brought up to you - a human servant along with them who hand washed your silverware in a basin of water and then sampled every different food before the three of you could. It’s thorough, but it’s theater to make you feel more at ease.

 

Fortunately, fate doesn’t see fit to let the three of you rot in this room indefinitely, and the end of your confinement comes faster than expected.

 

A few hours before midnight, Riven appears in the doorway without knocking. “Great news!” He says cheerfully, before instantly deflating underneath three angry glares. “Lady Daressin found the traitor.”

 

“Did she now?” Shadowheart makes no effort to hide her sarcasm. “So soon?”

 

You wonder what poor person she’s pinned it on, she’s wasted no time in doing so.

 

“Yes. They’ve confessed.”

 

Meaningless - probably a spawn with no choice. Vampires aren’t hesitant to sacrifice their own for a greater benefit. “What’s going to happen to them?”

 

Nothing good. Riven ignores the question.

 

“Lady Daressin invites you all down to face the accused.” 

 

“Face down?” You press, hoping for clarification. 

 

“Given the gravity of the situation, she’ll pass judgment on him.” Riven shifts from side to side, suddenly uncomfortable. “Determine a suitable consequence.”

 

The courts of Westphal are more archaic than those of Baldur’s Gate.

 

You could refuse the invitation, but like everything else, you fear you aren’t into a position to. It’s an excuse to get out of the room… and you are more than a little curious who is allegedly responsible for poisoning you and setting off this scandal. She’s at least permitting your allies to come along, for once.

                                                                       

---

As soon as you enter the chamber, a new room of the castle you’ve never seen before, you regret the decision to come. This is no ordinary hosting space, at the bottom of a spiral staircase that leads you to what’s unmistakably a dungeon. This room has been fancied up with hanging tapestries and a comfortable “viewing” area, burning vanilla and citrus scented incense barely covering the musty smell of iron and mildew that travels from halls beyond. 

 

At the center of the room is a shallow hole in the floor about as deep as the man’s knees that stands shackled inside of it. You don’t miss the grooved channels running from the center of the hole out to the edges, which are lined with grates. Drains.

 

Around the edge of the room there’s a raised balcony, which Riven ushers you up. Already seated are Astarion and Gale. You file in, where you end up on the opposite end from Astarion, who gives you a wild, obvious look up and down and only settles when he decides that you’re alright. On the balcony across the room you see Lord Arthur and Owaren, nestled between several empty chairs. Erliza stands up, a wide smile on her face, wearing a dress that feels too formal for the occasion. She bounces as she takes a few steps towards the accused. From this angle, with his head lowered into his chest, it’s impossible to tell whether he’s a spawn.

 

“Braethr Underwood has been in my service since childhood,” she pouts, her voice booming across the room. “He served faithfully alongside his mother, gods rest her soul, when I graciously took both of them into my care so she could avoid the whorehouse.” 

 

Braethr whimpers.

 

“He played, studied, and ate alongside my ward, offering him rare companionship in a place with few children.”

 

You sneak a glance across at Owaren. The husk of a man is no longer that - he looks ready to vomit on the floor, his nails clawing at the arms of his chair.

 

“So imagine my surprise. My hurt. My betrayal . When I found out that Braethr attempted to murder the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate by coating the items at her setting in poison.”

 

Down on his level, she leans over him and forces him to look up in your direction. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, his face wet with tears - he isn’t a spawn. So she’s dragging the lies from his lips through compulsion alone. She jerks his face away with a force that hurts your neck to look at, and circles him, addressing the spectators on the balconies.

 

“Braethr has admitted to such a heinous thing. But now I ask him, before all of you… why? Give a good answer, and your punishment might be a merciful one.”

 

This is a farce. He’s innocent . You don’t believe for a moment that the sniveling man she’s presenting to you attempted to hurt you. What reason would he have?

 

The chamber is silent as you watch him tremble. “Because…I was trying to kill you … My Lady.”

 

She lets out a haunting cackle that feels like sandpaper on your bones. Her eyes house a fragile sanity, and cold bloodlust. It echoes and echoes in the chamber, preventing you from processing his answer. 

 

“Why?” She drawls, cruel and mocking. She wears the smug face of someone who already knows.

 

Braethr looks up at Owaren, the contents of his expression hidden from your position.

 

“For Owaren Kendrick.” 

 

Kendrick. Something about that name is familiar. Important.

 

With his words, your certainty flickers. Although you still don’t believe that Erliza didn’t have a bigger hand in all of this, there is something to believe there, too. Owaren suffers under Erliza’s hand, and there is a recognizable kinship between the two young men. Is it really possible this was all a mistake? That you were just unlucky?

 

Erliza laughs again and clicks her tongue. “How cute . What could you possibly be doing that for?”

 

She curls the crook of her finger, beckoning towards her ward. “Owaren… come here boy.”

 

Owaren jerks to a stand, his legs not quite his own, limbs stiff. He’s trying to resist her. Useless. Gods, you know where this is going, and you want to leave. This boy can’t be at fault - he can’t be. If he had truly intended to harm her, the poison would have been lethal. A sleeping poison on a human would be worth about as much as a muscle relaxant on a vampire, if that.

 

Owaren’s descent down the balcony and towards Erliza is painfully slow as he fights every step. Unable to defy the order, he drags out every last motion until it hurts him, forcing him forward. When he arrives at her side, she pinches his cheek between her fingers. “Oh-wa-ren,” she says his name like someone disappointed in their dog. “Wouldn’t you agree that Braethr here is your problem to handle?”

 

Her ward is speechless, his mouth forming the beginnings of words he never speaks.

 

“Braethr almost killed one of my special guests. Handle him .”

 

“No, Erliza, please -” Owaren chokes. “I know him - he wouldn’t-”

 

“ Handle him !” She barks, pointing a finger at the prisoner. “You know you’ll be more gentle than I will .”

 

You squeeze your eyes shut as Owaren descends on his friend, powerless to stop himself under her command. You can’t open them again until the gurgling stops. You lean back in your chair as far and as low as you can, averting your eyes from the scene that’s unfolded below. Your friends have similar disgusted reactions, only Astarion is able to look down at the carnage.

 

“That’s better, dear. Thank you. Now our guests can feel safe again. Aren’t you happy?” Next thing you know, Erliza is holding a sobbing Owaren, gently rubbing his back and whispering things you can’t hear.

 

                                                                           

---

 

 

As if the night couldn’t get worse, Erliza informs you that you’re all welcome (subjected) to enjoy a spread of late night refreshments upstairs. After witnessing the servant meet a gruesome end, the idea of eating anything makes your skin crawl. Because the exact thing that the servant’s execution needs is an after party.

 

It is an opportunity to reconvene as a full group again though, and an excuse not to go back to the cramped room you’ve just spent the entire day in. The vampires excuse themselves from joining, a small relief. You won’t have to look Erliza in the face and lie about how grateful you are for her swift handling of justice.

 

The food might as well not be set out at all. Given the circumstances, it’s unsurprising that no one is in a rush to eat it. The only one who briefly considers it is Lae’zel, who takes a bite of a fluffy, sugar coated pastry, makes a face, and drops the rest into a potted plant before anyone else can see.

 

The vampires might not be here, but there are lingering servants to mind the refreshments and provide for you as necessary. Extra sets of eyes and ears for their mistress. It’s unlikely that they worship her blindly, but you don’t underestimate her ability to extract information one way or another. You’ll have to speak carefully here.

 

“I’m glad to see that you’re okay.” Gale approaches you. He’s holding a glass in his hand but not drinking from it - a prop to make him look more natural. Bless his heart, it isn’t him you want to be speaking with. “And you hardly look any worse for wear. Dare I say, you look better than when we last saw one another.”

 

You want to be speaking with Astarion. To find out what happened in the dining room after you fled. 

 

“Thank you. I’m just glad all of this is over .” You side-eye the servants that feel too close, drifting to the far corner  where they have no reason to stand.

 

When you’re safely out of earshot, Gale puts an arm around your shoulder, suddenly yanking you towards him, his mouth at your ear. “We need to get out of here .” He whispers with uncharacteristic aggression, leading you through an open archway into an alcove of the room that offers slightly more privacy, although there’s no door to close.

 During events, this space could be sectioned off with curtains that are currently bound up against several pillars. It lacks windows and is flush with an array of exotic and unusual seating arrangements. Not hard to imagine what this space is used for. Tonight, they haven’t bothered to light it, most of it cloaked in shadows that the light from the main room doesn’t breach. 

 

He immediately releases you when he’s confident you’re both out of sight. “Lady Daressin spoke with me. After our swim.”

 

“Spoke with you?” Strange when she’d shown no interest in them before. First Halsin, and now Gale?

 

“Oh don’t sound so surprised!” He rolls his eyes. “It was only a matter of time before she realized she had a powerful wizard in her midst.”

 

She’s been doing her research then. “Well… what did she want?”

 

“My help. With research, of some kind. She won’t give me the details unless I agree, but says it is essential work for protecting the island. Her wizard is talented, but green behind the ears. He’s skilled at using the weave, but lacks understanding. She thinks that together, we could find a solution. She’s offered quite a large sum of money, and no shortage of valuable resources and artifacts.”

 

“Then what else? I’ve never known you to run from a plea for help.”

 

“I’m no fool!” He scoffs. “I told her I’d think about it - but of course I’m not really entertaining the possibility. After what I witnessed today? I’m concerned she won’t take no for an answer.”

 

Her web is getting progressively more complicated, tangling each of you up in it further.

 

“Don’t worry about her. Agree for your own safety if you feel you need to get her off of your back for now - I have a plan.”

 

A weak ghost of a plan, but a plan nonetheless.

 

“What are you going to do?” He asks suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. “I have to tell you, I don’t much like that look on your face.”

 

“Erliza’s position here is more fragile than she’d have us believe. I think if we can give the right people a little push …”

 

“Secret meetings are no fun . Aren’t we all friends here?”

 

You both turn to face Astarion leaning against the archway, unsure how long he’s been standing there. You’re lucky that it’s only him, but you scold yourself for your inattentiveness. If an enemy got the same opportunity, you wouldn’t be so lucky.

 

Gale is white as a sheet, his sudden pallor rivaling the vampire’s. He clears his throat. “Astarion.”

 

“Perhaps I’ve interrupted a little lover’s rendezvous? I don’t blame you darling, Wyll has been gone quite a while now. Few of us would blame you for moving on.” He smirks, inspecting his nails. “But if you don’t want to be giving the wrong impression, you really shouldn’t be sneaking off in private.”

 

Astarion knows better - although he addresses the words to you, you know they’re meant to unnerve Gale.

 

“Or perhaps you’re finally taking your chance, Gale? I haven’t forgotten the night she turned you down.” He laughs. “Who wouldn’t? Leaving a projection behind. ‘ a matter most urgent ,’ indeed.’”

 

Astarion saw that?

 

Gale shrinks back a step. “ That ? That’s long forgotten. Water under the bridge. I would never push myself on someone attached. My intentions-”

 

“It certainly didn’t seem that way as you pulled her across the room.” He says it loudly - enough that the others might hear. 

 

“Astarion,” you warn. “I assure you nothing untoward was occurring. You can’t really believe that Gale of all people possesses the strength to drag me anywhere unwillingly.”

 

What does he hope to accomplish here? Is he trying to throw them off his own scent by accusing Gale of the same thing? Or is there actually a hint of honest jealousy?

 

“Gale was only expressing some concerns about our host,” you whisper.

 

“It would have been too risky to have a conversation with everyone at once.” Gale sighs, still glaring at Astarion. “Too many ears. You’re already well aware of the situation, Astarion.”

 

“Oh yes of course. Erliza’s warm invitation. How could I forget?” He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “Welcome to our little club of bribes and blackmail. Your card will arrive in the mail.”

 

“Delightful.”

 

“Now if you don’t mind, it’s my turn for a chat. Shoo.”

 

“You are truly insufferable, Astarion.” Gale walks out, cloak billowing behind him.

 

“What was that ?” You hiss, crossing your arms. “You don’t get to decide when my conversation is over.”

 

“My deepest apologies, I thought you were in need of rescue. I know how he can go on and on. That man loves to listen to the sound of his own voice.”

 

“We need to work together. All of us. At least until we can get out of whatever trap Erliza is setting.”

 

His shoulders dip, and the firm line of his mouth softens. “It’s good to see that you’re alright. I think. Are you alright?”

 

“Yes. It was only a sleeping brew.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. It could have just as easily not been. I failed to catch it in your cup.”

 

“There was no reason to believe I’d be so openly poisoned. You aren’t responsible for me. I should have been more careful. I got too comfortable.”

 

“In any case. I brought you something.” He produces something from inside of his jacket, and thrusts it towards you. A small, black velvet pouch.

 

It catches you off guard, and you hesitantly pluck it from his fingers, his eyes refusing to meet yours. Something inside of it softly clinks. You pull open the drawstrings and inspect what is curled up inside. At first, horrifying glance it looks like the finger from a suit of armor - and you think he’s brought you someone’s severed finger. 

 

Pulling it out, you realize you aren’t terribly far off - but fortunately there’s no flesh inside. It’s meant to be worn on the finger, with several metal bands on the underside to hold it in place. The top is armor-like, made of several engraved iron plates that flex at the joints. The fingertip is long and pointed, sharp as a dagger. A menacing piece of jewelry.

 

“For your protection,” he explains. “It isn’t beautiful, but it’s subtle. The tip is sharp enough to take out someone’s eye, but it’s also enchanted. If it comes into contact with poison, the color of the metal will darken.”

 

“Where did you get this?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to. Better you don’t know.”

 

Stolen then. “No more secrets.”

 

“If you must know. I went home for it.”

 

“Again?” That makes two days in a row. Even in another form, crossing that distance-

 

“It’s not as challenging as you’d think - being able to travel as a ghostly cloud of smoke does have its perks. Now that I have the hang of it, it’s incredibly efficient.”

 

It still takes him hours. It still exhausts him, though he’s putting up a good front tonight.

 

“I think it’s best if you stop doing it. With all of the danger here- we need you. If something were to happen while you were hours away-”

 

“It will be fine .” He plucks the armored ring that you turn in your hands and slides it on your finger. It hugs closely to your skin, a perfect fit. “I feel stronger and more capable than ever.”

 

A dark determination flashes in his eyes as he grasps your hand and lifts it up like a coveted prize. 

 

“Public opinion of you back at the Gate is swelling, darling. All we have to do is deal with Lady Daressin a little longer, and I think you’ll return to find yourself in a much more advantageous position.”

 

You take back your hand and settle the ring on your finger. Baldur’s Gate admittedly hasn’t been at the forefront of your mind. “I suppose this means you don’t really believe that the servant was to blame for the poison, then.”

 

“Only in the sense that she doesn’t strike me as the type to get her own hands dirty. No amount of poison would kill a vampire, and something as pitiful as a sleep potion? No. She’s warning us. Letting us know that it could have been real, if she’d wished it to be.”

 

He reaches out a finger and tilts your chin up with his finger. “You have nothing to fear, darling. I’m not playing nicely any longer. How do you feel about ruling an island?”

Chapter 26: Treason

 

Two fresh tankards of ale are placed before you and Karlach, their frothy heads sloshing over the side. Just the sight of it makes you queasy.

 

“Oh, no, we didn’t ask for-” 

 

You try to reject them politely, but the bartender shrugs. “Someone bought you ladies a round.”

 

Karlach grins, scooping up the handle. “Shit, really? Well in that case, cheers!”

 

You look down at yours a little less enthusiastically. Until now, you’ve been keeping pace with Karlach, and suffice it to say that a woman of her stature is much better off. “Who?” The bartender is gone before you can ask.

“If you don’t want it, I’m more than game,” Karlach laughs. “Leave it be and let me finish this one first.”

 

You look around the Elfsong, but don’t see anyone looking back. No mysterious benefactor to give a quick wave. “Strange…”

 

“Some kind patron must just have impeccable taste in beautiful, strong women. Don’t act surprised - look at you! Gods know that our boys have been lining up for you.”

 

You take an urgent gulp from the tankard to hide your face. “That’s different. When you’re around someone twenty-four seven and cursed with a terminal condition… some of them would take any chance to get laid.”

 

“Not Wyll, of course,” you add quickly. 

 

“Not Wyll,” she agrees. “Man is a perfect fucking gentleman.”

 

“Just the perfect gentleman,” an unconscious giggle bubbles out of you. “No ‘fucking’ involved.”

 

She rolls her eyes and playfully swats you with the back of her hand. “But I bet his kisses are hotter than the seven hells. It’s the sweet ones you have to look out for.”

 

“They might be.” Your elbow clunks onto the table, supporting the weight of your head with your hand. “Have you ever been kissed, Karlach?” 

 

She ponders that longer than expected, remembering another place. Another time. A private moment that isn’t meant for you.

 

“I hope that - I didn’t mean to bring up anything. I’m sorry. Was that insensitive? That was insensitive.” Your body warms as the several drinks begin to catch up in your bloodstream. The words are spilling.

 

“Don’t sweat it.” Her smile cracks through again. She clutches the metal tankard between her hands, droplets of water condensing on its outer walls. “To answer your question - sure I have, back before the engine. I was just a kid, though. Nothing worth telling about. More like morbid pre-pubescent curiosity than fiery passion. I was more interested in fighting than kissing. Don’t think I could remember their names now if I tried.”

 

“Oh!” You excitedly lower your voice, getting a glance of someone over her shoulder. “Behind you, there. I think he’s the one who ordered the drinks.”

 

Her eyes flicker back momentarily to the tiefling in the corner shooting nervous glances in your direction. He’s cute enough - and battle-worn. 

 

“He’s probably looking at you,” she mutters, suddenly embarrassed. You’ve never seen her shrink so quickly.

 

“No - it’s you he’s taking an interest in, I’m sure of it. Go on, talk to him.” 

 

“Flirt with him? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

 

“Only a little.” You swirl the ale around in your cup. “And who said anything about flirting? Just thank him.”

 

“I…”

 

You’ve never known her to be the speechless type. “Or don’t, if you don’t want to. You don’t owe him anything.”

 

She looks again, and this time their eyes meet through the crowd. He gives the smallest wiggle of his fingers in acknowledgement. The tavern is filling up, more patrons appearing as the evening hours trickle by.

 

“Fine,” she says. As reserved as she’s pretending to be, there’s an excitement she can’t push under the rug. “I won’t be long. You swear you’re fine?”

 

“Our room is right upstairs if I’m not.” 

 

She studies your face for a minute longer, assessing the state of your drunkenness. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, but you outwardly hold yourself together well enough to relax her.

 

“Promise to come get me if you need me?”

 

“I promise. And I promise to keep an eye on you - give me a signal if you need an out,” you say.

 

“You’re the best.” She gives your hand a firm squeeze before slipping out of the chair and starting through the crowd. From your vantage point, you mostly lose sight of her, catching only glimpses through shifting bodies that reassure you she’s there.

 

When did it get so crowded in here?

 

With nothing else to do you sit and wring your hands, occasionally stopping to nurse small sips of the ale. It goes down so smoothly that you barely taste it anymore. As the time ticks by, you grow increasingly uncomfortable, dying to return upstairs. 

 

When you look towards Karlach again, she’s disappeared. Damn it. The room is suddenly much warmer. Picking up the cup, you relinquish your spot at the bar and meander towards where you last saw her - only to find the table occupied by two other people entirely. You’ve started to stumble a bit, your gait uneven.

 

A stranger touches your arm and asks if you’re alright, but you push her off. Time to go back upstairs. Karlach will understand. You have to think about your safety. As you make your way to the staircase, your eyes meet with Wyll’s across the room, and then he’s pushing towards you. 

 

“There you are! Thank the gods.” He reaches forward and wraps his hands around your forearms, giving a gentle squeeze. “It’s getting late.”

 

“Wyll.” You breathe a sigh of relief at his touch. “Did Karlach go back upstairs?”

 

“No, I haven’t seen her. Just how much have you had to drink?” He looks at you suspiciously. “You’re hardly standing upright.”

 

“What? I’m fine. But Karlach - she was talking with a man - a tiefling. She said she’d be right back, but that was… well, I’m not sure how long ago. Maybe an hour?”

 

“An hour?” He’s alarmed. “You’ve waited that long?”

 

Your head is swirling, and your tongue becomes sharper. “I don’t know. I can’t say. It may have been less. It wasn’t more. I didn’t want to interrupt, he bought us drinks. I was keeping an eye on her, but then she was gone.”

 

“Was she sober?” He takes the tankard from your hand and sniffs it.

 

“Have you ever known her to be anything else? I doubt it was drugged, relax. I’ve had… a bit, before this one.” From Wyll’s expression, you suspect that it’s less coherent than you think.

 

You’re becoming keenly aware of how tired you feel now. Sleep will be a welcome friend.

 

He sighs. “Go upstairs and rest. I’ll look for her.”

 

“But-”

 

“Go.” His lips brush against your forehead. He doesn’t look away from you until you’ve reached the bottom step.

 

The stairs might as well be a mountain. You cling to the banister and take one careful step after the next.

 

“Gods, this is painful to watch.”

You glance up to see Astarion at the top of the stairs, his arms crossed.

 

All he gets in response from you is a groan as you focus on your task. Stairs. So many stairs.

 

Your toe catches the lip of one and you fall forward. Then his hand is tugging you upwards, and your pride takes a heavy hit as you lean into him.

 

“Ugh, be careful or you’ll take us both out. I’ll let you fall before I go down with you, for the record.”

 

“I expect nothing less,” you mutter as he starts guiding you. Only a few left to go. “Why are you here?”

 

“I was on my way to have a drink.”

 

You stop.

 

“Not a person - wine. And certainly not you - I wouldn’t lay a finger on Wyll’s princess.”

 

“You’re laying a finger on me now.” His grip loosens at your words.

 

“Why do you bother with wine anyway, if it tastes awful to you?”

 

“The same reason I choke down pitiful rations only to have my body reject them later. Normalcy. I’d give anything to find enjoyment in it again.”

 

Now off of the staircase, you nearly fall over again, and he has to use all of his strength to keep you upright.

 

“Gods, you’re such a dead weight. Do try harder to walk? One foot in front of the other, come on. I can’t carry you.”

 

You’re overcome with the urge to throw up, but you swallow it back.

 

“Wasn’t Karlach with you? I can’t believe she’d leave you like this.”

 

“Mhm.” Speaking is taking most of your energy. “Wyll’slookingforher. Ran into him.” 

 

“Wyll saw you like this and he saw fit to let you see yourself upstairs? I find that rather hard to believe.” He taps his hand against your cheek lightly. “Come on now, stay awake . Just a little farther.”

 

“Whyareyouhelpin me?” It’s no secret that you’ve been on rocky terms lately.

 

He stiffens. There’s a long pause before he answers. “Cazador.  I need all of the help I can get. However hungover the help might be.”

 

---

 

“I have a terrible feeling about this.”

 

It must be at least the twelfth time that Gale’s said it on the walk back to the very tavern that kicked the both of you out.

 

“By all means, turn around and go home then,” Astarion retorts. For someone who insisted on coming along, he’s been mostly silent, wilting more by the minute. His cheeks are sunken, his skin the same hue as the bones that it covers. He’s pushed too hard, and has been unwilling to rely on the special kindnesses that Erliza offers her undead guests.

 

“I think we can win them over this time.” That might be a tad too optimistic. “Well, let me rephrase - I think we can at least get them to hear us out this time.”

 

This time, you have knowledge. You aren’t going in blind.

 

“ We can win them over ,” Astarion says, without elaborating. He doesn’t need to.

 

 You think back to when you were certain that you felt Erliza trying to exert mental force on you - a compulsion. If that is within the normal repertoire of a full vampire, it stands to reason that Astarion possesses an evolved form of it. Perhaps he can charm multiple individuals at once.

 

Perhaps he can charm someone without them even being aware of it. 

 

You shake away that thought for a later time.

 

“Well, at least one of us is confident,” Gale mutters. 

 

Confident, and yet despite the unpleasant perfumes of this part of Westphal, no one moves any closer to the tavern that stands across the road. The streets are busy this afternoon, so the three of you press your backs up against a building, trying to escape notice.

 

“What are the odds that we’ll even be recognized?” You ask, fully knowing the answer.

 

Gale gives you a disapproving frown.

 

On the island, everyone knows everyone in their tight-knit communities. Outsiders are few and far between, most driven off by the stories of Westphal’s inhospitality. New faces are mostly seen around the docks, where those that dare to trade keep to one small section of the city. Foreign merchants and roguish pirates don’t seem to venture this far, where most of Amn’s influence has faded. With fresh eyes you notice that even the guards don’t bother patrolling the streets, leaving Snowdown’s native residents to fend for themselves.

 

You break formation. “Let’s go. No use in standing around waiting for our pockets to get picked.”

 

“As if I’d let that happen to me.” You imagine that Astarion is giving Gale a haughty look after the wizard admitted to losing some coin the last time.

 

You hold your breath as the bell above the door jingles upon entry.  At this hour, more people are in the streets than the tavern, but no one’s attention lingers on you. It’s easier this time, with Astarion at your side. He confidently strolls up to the bar and takes a seat as if he’s been doing this his entire life - a call back to his darker days as a spawn. Gale is the last one to join, unwilling to sit completely. You notice how he sits half on the stool, one leg lifted, the other firmly on the ground ready to flee.

 

The patrons are unfamiliar, but the bartender, Felix, is there again, his back presently turned. A sign, maybe. Fate giving you a second chance to run.

 

You don’t take it.

 

He eventually turns and notices your group, picking you apart under his gaze. He immediately knows you aren’t locals, but it takes an extra moment for the recognition to set in. Astarion earns a warier expression.

 

“Afternoon,” he says, wiping out the inside of a glass. “What can I get you?”

 

His eyes don’t break from yours, daring you to ask for water again. 

 

“Wine. Whatever you’ve got. I’m not picky.” Astarion answers first.

 

After gauging that the answer satisfies Felix, you add yourself on to the request - followed by Gale.

 

“Three wines,” the man repeats. He keeps checking over his shoulder while he grasps for a heavy brown bottle and pours into three cups that don’t quite make a matching set.

 

“That’s a bit of a light pour,” Astarion accuses when the glass is placed in front of him less than halfway full. 

 

“Not much left in the stores.” The bartender’s eyes narrow.

 

“Didn’t stop you from topping them up,” Astarion jerks his chin in the direction of a table across the room. A pair of humans wearing dirt-encrusted cloaks enjoy a much more generous serving, with a hunk of bread between them.

 

“I have more to spare for my own kind.”

 

“Is that because I’m an elf? I daresay I haven’t faced such discrimination since-” You want to elbow him. He’s stupid to cause drama here, especially after Gale begrudgingly filled him in on the full events of your last visit.

 

“It’s because you’re an outsider,” Felix snaps. The word outsider drips from his tongue like a slur. He reaches for the hinged section of the bar that lifts up to let him out from behind it.

 

Astarion leans towards him, stretching out and placing his hand on top of his exit before it can be opened. “These outsiders are here in your best interests.”

 

It’s enough to make Felix pause, sizing each of you up once again. “As if you lot had any idea what my best interests are. You’re an interesting choice for those two to bring along for a threat. I ain’t scared of you. Finish your drinks and get out. You’ll be sorry if you’re still here when they come round.”

 

“ They are exactly who we’re here to talk to,” you interrupt, keeping your voice low. “Despite our rather unpleasant first impression.”

 

Felix laughs and yanks up the gate, throwing off Astarion’s hand with some effort. “Then you’re more stupid than I thought. They won’t speak with you longer than it takes for them to throw you out on your asses again.”

 

You slide off of your stool and walk around Astarion to face the man, who is at least two heads taller than you and twice as wide. “It’s the Amnians they’re against, right? That you hate so much? We aren’t them, and we have some valuable information.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t matter if you’re not Amnian - you’re mainlanders. Your type is all the same.”

 

“We also happen to be in a very unique position to help, if your boys are willing to listen,” Astarion chimes in. “I assure you it will be worth your while.” He takes a small pouch from his pocket and tosses it towards Felix, who snatches it out of the air.

 

It’s a weighty thing - full of silver coins when he opens it up. He quickly shoves it in his pants and looks around to ensure no one saw it. “Who the fuck are you?” He hisses. “Carrying that much coin in these parts is asking for trouble.”

 

Astarion raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I have more - who’s to say?”

 

Felix suddenly appears much older than before, the wrinkles around his eyes dragging down his entire face. “They come in every afternoon after they finish their shifts. Shouldn’t be more than an hour, now. Go through that door and wait. I’ll tell them you’re here, but make no promises of your personal safety.”

 

                                                                 

---

 

 

The room that Felix has directed you to wait in is a windowless storage room, dark and damp and reeking of years of spilled ale and wine. Barrels are everywhere, lining the walls and shelves - there’s plenty of alcohol, but considerably less food. The door you came through is your only escape - hopefully it won’t form your tomb. There isn’t much to talk about while the three of you wait.

 

When the door eventually opens, your hand instinctively grips the handle of your weapon at your side. This time, you’ve come more prepared if things take a turn for the worst. If they don’t hear you out…

 

Three men step in, sucking up all of the oxygen in the crowded room. You recognize the one at the head - the one responsible for instigating your torture. A menacing smirk creeps across his face. 

 

“Brave of you to come back here.” 

 

They spread out, forming a barrier between you and the door.

 

“I think we can help one another.” You take a step towards him though you don’t want to. “You don’t seem to care for the Amnians much.”

 

He spits on the floor in response.

 

“Don’t care for you much neither, mainlander,” one of the ones at his side adds.

 

“I want to figure out why,” you say as steadily as you can muster. “Tell us what’s going on here, and we might find a common goal between us.”

 

The leader snorts. “None of your business. What could I ever have in common with a scrawny, perfumed little mainlander?”

 

“An enemy.”

 

“I ain’t about to fight any of your battles.”

 

You’re going to have to take a risk if you want them to trust you. “We have access to the Lady of this island. Access to Caer Westphal. It turns out we don’t like her very much either.”

 

That catches him off guard - you have his interest now. “‘Access?’” He grunts. “Be plain in your speech.”

“Do you or do you not want to see her deposed?” 

 

You realize he doesn’t understand the word.

 

 “ Removed ,” you clarify.

 

He exchanges glances with his companions. “Who wants to know?” His gruff voice is much more careful than you’ve heard yet. 

 

“We come from Baldur’s Gate. We are three of a larger group that defeated the threat of the Absolute - assuming the stories have made it over here by now.”

 

“ You? ” He asks incredulously. “You expect me to believe that?”

 

At least he’s heard of it - it’s something to work with.

 

You clear your throat. “It was… some time ago now, I admit. But I assure you that we’re tougher than we appear.”

 

Booming laughter. “You weren’t so tough when we tossed your asses into the sewage.”

 

“We could have fought. Be glad we chose not to.”

 

Whether you could have won while drastically outnumbered is another matter entirely.

 

“Have we come to the right place, or no? Are you loyal to Lady Daressin, or against her?”

 

The leader turns to the men behind him, rolling his neck with an audible crack. “These mainlanders sound like they’re accusing us of treason, boys. I’m sure our great Lady would pay us well to turn them in.”

 

“It’s understandable that you don’t trust us, gentlemen,” Astarion says. “However, we are currently guests of Lady Daressin. Who do you think she’ll be more inclined to believe? Her noble foreign dignitaries, or a handful of muddy street rats?”

 

For the first time, there’s doubt on the leader’s face, his smugness erased. “Who are you?”

 

Astarion smiles. “You first.”

 

The man’s eyes glaze over. “Rorrick - don’t got a family name.”

 

“What do you do, Rorrick?” 

 

Astarion’s eyes are unusually bright for the light level - almost twinkling. Swirling . 

 

“I work the lumber yards on the outskirts of town,” he answers automatically. 

 

Of course. Astarion’s compulsion has made him much more amenable. You look away from Rorrick and his men to conceal the guilt on your face as you realize.

 

“But that’s not all, right?” Astarion presses. “You do something else. That striped piece of cloth.”

 

“Ror-” one of the other men puts his hand on Rorrick’s shoulder, but it’s too late, he’s already answering.

 

“The Lunar Anchors.” Even under compulsion, he won’t elaborate without being explicitly asked.

“Rorrick, what the fuck?” The man on the left shouts. “Just a minute ago you were-”

 

“What are the Lunar Anchors?” Astarion continues his interrogation as if the other two don’t exist.

 

“We’re against the Amnian occupation. Snowdown should be reunited with her sisters.”

 

“And? Do you have any plans to do anything about it? Something meaningful , aside from harassing strangers?”

 

“That’s enough!” One of the other men grabs Rorrick by the shoulders and pulls him backwards towards the door. “What are you thinking , telling outsiders?”

 

The other draws the axe that hangs at his side. “I reckon they’re using magic on him, Doryan. Look at that one.” He gestures to Gale.

 

“Who, me ?” Gale asks, finally a part of the conversation. He keeps to the back of the room. “I haven’t done anything!”

 

You start to lose hope that they can be reasoned with. If they find out that Astarion is compelling Rorrick, it won’t ease negotiations. “We aren’t your enemy,” you insist. “We have valuable information, if you’ll only listen to us.”

 

Rorrick pulls himself from Doryan’s grasp. “Doryan. Merrick. Stand down.”

 

Unless Astarion can control Rorrick through his mind  (a terrifying prospect), the command is of his own will.

 

“Are you sure ?” Merrick, the one carrying an axe asks.

 

“They know. There’s no point in not hearing them out. Either way, we hold the exit.” Coming out from underneath the vampire’s control, Rorrick is dazed. It’s not clear whether he’s realized or not.

 

“Excellent. I’m glad we can proceed in a civil manner,” Astarion says.

 

How quickly ‘civil’ can devolve to steel.

 

“Now let’s start over, shall we? We’re from Baldur’s Gate. Specifically, I’m Lord Astarion Ancunin. My companions are the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate, and Gale.”

 

“ Of Waterdeep ,” an offended Gale finishes.

 

“Your titles mean nothing to us here,” Merrick sneers.

 

“As I said before, we’re guests of Lady Daressin. Unwilling guests - although your island is… charming.” Astarion coughs.

 

Rorrick scowls. “It was, once. Before Amn started squeezing every penny out of the place. They’re bleeding it dry, because they know they can all fuck right off back to the continent afterwards.”

 

“We’d like to see her fall. How much support do you have?” You ask.

 

“Not much, but we’re growing these days. It’s getting harder and harder for folks to see the truth in front of their eyes, no matter how she fights to pull the wool down. She makes pretty promises, and hells, even fulfills some of them - every person in Westphal has a roof over their heads at night. Every family with a babe is provided extra rations in its first year. But the forests are shrinking. The water in this part of Westphal is no longer safe to drink. She scoops up the mages who would purify it or pull it from the air and offers them every comfort in life, until they forget all about the outer reaches of the city. She’s been bragging about the construction of modern sewers for half a decade now, but I haven’t spoken to a single soul involved in the construction, or who knows someone involved.”

 

“It’s only a matter of time before those rich pricks can’t ignore it either,” Doryan spits. 

 

“Let me rephrase. How many men could you gather?”

 

“From Westphal? Maybe twenty. Can’t be more. Plenty support the cause, but few are willing to stand up to her, if it came to it. Those that have tried have met fates more cruel than death. Entire families have suffered the punishment of having a traitor to the regent in their bloodline.”

 

“I’ve heard that some have fled to another Isle.”

 

Rorrick’s lips press into a thin line. “Rumors, at best - rumors that have existed since Amn invaded. Suspect they’ve found a better life and don’t see a reason to come back now. With the amount of stories I’ve heard of brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, and cousins seeking the ‘resistance’? Suspect they’d have a big enough army to take back Snowdown in an hour, if they were true.”

 

“We can get you into Caer Westphal - but we can’t help you kill her. It has to look like she was overtaken by her own, disgruntled people. If our involvement is discovered, Amn will happily attack Baldur’s Gate.”

 

“How?” He’s understandably skeptical. 

 

“Erliza’s engagement party has been postponed until the end of this week. She has several guests who have already arrived, but some of the servants have mentioned that there’s also a considerable amount of nobility arriving from Snowdown, Amn, and even some of the Isles. She rarely opens her doors to guests - it’s the perfect cover.”

 

Astarion produces a small stack of envelopes that he prepared on extremely short notice, at your request. Counterfeit invitations, the handwriting indistinguishable from the original.

 

Rorrick laughs again, his chapped lips peeling away to reveal his rotting teeth. “Invitation or no, there ain’t a fool alive who’d mistake us for nobility.”

 

“I’m not done,” Astarion chides, pulling out another pouch of coins. “There’s plenty in here to procure adequate disguises. There must be a fine clothier in the wealthier part of the city, yes?”

 

“We’d be dead men. There’s no way we’d be able to kill her in front of a crowd - she’ll never be left alone.”

 

It’s your turn to smile. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll be able to do it without laying a finger on her.”

 

---

 

Chapter 27: Pact

The gentle sound of a door clicking shut is enough to wake you from a sleep not quite deep enough. You sit upright in your bed, looking around the shadowy room, not a candle left lit at anyone’s bedside. Somewhere in the suite someone snores - Lae’zel, or maybe Karlach. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you inspect the beds around you, each one with a distinctive lump beneath the sheets. The door to your room at the Elfsong is shut - there’s no sign of an intruder. Bare feet cold on the wooden floor, you softly creep across the room, still in a dreamy haze, accounting for each of your companions. 

 

It’s Astarion who is missing. 

It shouldn’t surprise you. It isn’t the first time he’s snuck off alone at night, in search of a snack. The disappearances have been more frequent lately. But tonight it unnerves you. After running into his siblings across town yesterday, you find yourself worrying for his safety. He might have once had nothing to fear in the streets of Baldur’s Gate, but now Cazador waits. Cazador likely knows that his wayward spawn has returned to the city by now, and every hour is borrowed time.

 

You look to Wyll’s bed as you slip on your shoes, wondering if you should wake him. But no - in the end you decide against it. He needs all of the rest he can get. With luck, you’ll be descending to the Iron Throne first thing tomorrow to rescue Duke Ravengard. It had taken everything to convince him not to go tonight.

 

In the end, you decide to wake no one else and hurry out of the room, hoping to find Astarion before he vanishes entirely.

 

You catch him downstairs, just before he can leave. The tavern area is quiet at this time of night, clean and orderly, with only a few silent souls keeping vigil. He glances over his shoulder at the sound of your approaching footsteps, but hurries outside without stopping, trying to lose you.

 

“Astarion!” You protest. Your voice carries over several blocks, rousing a dog somewhere who barks in response.

 

“Go away,” he calls back, striding away faster.

 

“Where are you going?” You demand, breaking into a light jog to catch up to him.

 

He starts to run - determined to get away. “Go back to the Inn.” He turns a corner.

 

“Astarion-” 

 

As you turn the corner he just disappeared around, he slams you into the wall and covers your mouth. “For fuck’s sake,” he hisses. “Do you want the whole damned world to know where I am?” 

 

His gaze flickers up towards the Crimson Palace - a tiny turret visible against the skyline, peeking out above the closer, surrounding buildings. He relaxes his hold on you.

 

“This isn’t safe,” you whisper. “You shouldn’t be out here alone-”

 

“I can’t wait any longer.” He shakes his head. “I can’t rest, I can’t eat- I can’t lose the feeling of his eyes on me, everywhere I go.”

 

“You’d go back now?” You ask incredulously. “Alone? At night? Are you out of your gods’ damned mind?”

 

He grimaces. “The rest of you certainly aren’t acting with any sense of urgency - it’s all Duke Ravengard this, Duke Ravengard that. If I have to face Cazador alone, then so be it.”

 

Suddenly your mouth feels dry. Astarion’s face is sunken. Defeated. You suspect that he’s been without blood for days now - there hasn’t been a good opportunity in the city.

 

“You aren’t going to face him alone - that’s suicide. Duke Ravengard needs to be the priority right now, surely you understand that. Who knows how much longer Gortash will keep him alive for-”

 

“Yes, I more than understand why the safety of your lover’s father is more important,” he sneers. “But I’m in danger too.”

 

“We won’t let anything happen to you. You should know that by now.”

“Cazador could begin his ritual at any moment now.”

 

“We’ll deal with him. I swear to you.”

 

“You don’t understand!” He snaps, his voice raising. “If he completes that ritual, my opportunity is lost. I’ll lose everything!”

 

“So you’re going to go through with it then.” A chilly wind blows. “You’ve decided?”

 

“Yes.” His body stiffens. “I’m going to take everything from him.”

 

You reach out and grab his wrist. “Whatever you decide to do, I’ll help you. I promised you that - I intend to keep it. But you aren’t going to accomplish anything by running off on your own. You’ll just end up dead. Do you trust that the tadpole will shield you entirely from his commands? And what of everyone else in there?”

 

He looks down at the ground. “I’m stronger now than I’ve ever been.”

 

“And you’ll be even stronger with backup.”

 

“Then come with me.”

 

The dog you woke is still barking in the distance, the only sound to fill the empty silence of the night. He means now.

 

“Absolutely not - you’re being reckless. You’d walk right into his lair in the dead of night, just the two of us? We don’t even know how many others-”

 

“I can’t wait any longer,” he explodes. “Every time I close my eyes - it’s his face that appears. He knows I’m in the city now, and it’s only a matter of time before he sends others after me.”

 

“We’re safer together. With the group.”

 

“Please. The group doesn’t care what happens to me. I hear them talk. Just today Gale was concerning himself with whether or not Cazador could ‘sense’ where I am. He’d rather give me over to him and be done with it.”

 

“He was determining whether he needed to put magical wards up. For your safety.”

 

“Then he should have spoken with me about it directly.”

 

You sigh. “Forgive me for saying so, but you haven’t always been the most open about these things.”

 

He opens his mouth, but can’t think of a rejection. He knows that you’re right.

 

“You’re tired,” you say to break the silence. “And hungry, by the looks of things. Listen. I can’t let you drink from the source… but if you’re desperate, I can-”

 

“You can what? Find me a small animal? Pay off a whore? Bottle your cycle blood?” He wrinkles his nose and you feel the color drain from your face. 

 

You shake off the uncalled for comment and reach to your side, pulling out your dagger. He steps back as you begin to peel back the bandage on your forearm, covering a wound several days old courtesy of the dwarf Dolor. You raise the blade to the healing flesh - it’s the only place that won’t raise suspicion.

 

“Stop that,” he barks, and slaps the dagger out of your hand, sending it clattering halfway down the street. “I don’t want your pity handouts any longer.”

 

You glare at him, never taking your eyes off of him as you go to pick up the dagger, beginning to re-wrap the cloth as you do. “It’s not out of pity. It’s survival.”

 

“Survival. Of course. That’s why you’d work so hard to hide it from your darling Wyll.”

 

“Excuse me?” Your hand clenches around the handle of the dagger. “I’m trying to help you. You could at least pretend to be grateful.”

 

“Grateful? You want me to be grateful that you offer me dregs of your blood in secret, only to pretend like you’ve committed a vile sin and avoid me come morning?”

 

“You know why-”

 

“So your boyfriend won’t be jealous? Please. He has nothing to worry about. As if I would ever be interested in you.”

 

The words shouldn’t bother you, but the way he says them with such utter vitriol is like a punch to the stomach. You double down and unwind the bandage again instead of tying it off. A quick, fiery kiss of the blade against the skin and the blood springs to the surface.

 

“Just drink the damned blood, Astarion. We’re going to the Iron Throne tomorrow - we need you at your best. Wyll would understand. I’m doing this for him. For his father.”

 

So why do you still feel a little guilty?

 

Astarion’s nostrils flare as you hold out your bleeding wrist.

 

“You won’t let it go to waste, will you?”

 

He hesitates for such a period of time that you think he might refuse it - but in the end, instinct prevails. He closes the gap between you and descends on your forearm, lifting it to his mouth with only a momentary glance around to make sure no one is about this time of night. He sucks at your wrist, pulling you closer to him while pushing you back towards the shadow of the building behind you.

 

“So the rumors are true then,” a male voice says from behind. Where had they come from? Just a moment ago no one had been anywhere in sight.

 

You look over his shoulder to see two figures - a man and a woman with red eyes. The same red eyes that you had seen on Petras and Dalyria. Astarion immediately drops your arm, wipes his mouth with his sleeve (something he’d never done before), and whips around, reaching for the sword at his side.

 

The tiefling woman holds up her hands. “Peace, brother. We’re here to take you home.” She’s speaking to him, but her eyes are on you. 

 

You scramble to cover your wound again, shoddily knotting off the bandage and readying your own weapon.

 

His brother is distracted now, his brow furrowed. “Petras said that you were… different, somehow. But disobeying the master? Drinking from a thinking creature? How have you-”

 

“Never mind that now,” she interrupts. “Come home with us.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Astarion smirks. “I fully intend to show up. That power Cazador seeks? I plan on taking it myself. And you both can help. Who better to stand with me than my adoring siblings? Pretend all you like, but I know what you want more than anything is to see him dead.”

 

She shakes her head. “Even if that were true…we can’t defy him. We’re under strict orders - orders to take you back.” 

 

“Aurelia!” The man cries as she doubles over in pain. Even consideration of Astarion’s offer is enough for the compulsion magic to attack swiftly and with aggression.

 

“Back off,” you warn,  pushing in front of Astarion. Of course it’s useless - there’s no way to prevent this from becoming a fight now. It’s as she said - the orders from her master can’t be willingly broken.

 

“Don’t kill them,” Astarion warns under his breath. “I still need them.”

 

“I’ll do what I have to,” you say coldly. Whatever you have to do to prevent them from taking him.

 

Aurelia lunges for you, scraping her inhuman nails against your shoulder before you can dodge. Unarmored, her claws tear right through the cloth of your shirt and rake deep into your flesh. Even though they’re both spawn like Astarion, they’re more monstrous in nature. Closer to the vampires in bedtime stories that parents tell their children at night to frighten them into good behavior. She appears to be otherwise unarmed - good. You thrust your sword into her belly and she screeches, pulling herself off of it.

 

Astarion’s brother - it must be Leon, if you’re correctly recalling the name he once mentioned - springs forward to help, but Astarion gets in his way, taking the hit for you. It allows you to get another hit on Aurelia while she’s still writhing in pain, frozen and unable to counter you.

 

Just when you think you might have the killing blow on her, they both disappear in a cloud, likely recalled to Cazador. Your blade falls through the empty air, throwing you off balance, and grazes the street.

 

He still needs them, too. But for now at least, you’ve thwarted them. A close call after not getting a full night’s rest.

 

Your knees wobble, and you prop yourself up against a building for support.

 

“Are you alright?” Astarion asks. A delicate question. His tone suggests he’s nervous to prod at you, despite the fact that he’s worse off. Looking at him now, you see that he’s sustained worse injuries than you. His cheek is bleeding, and the lower part of his shirt is hanging off of his torso, exposing the bloodied side of his body.

 

“I’d be better if you’d stayed at the Inn,” you growl. 

 

“You didn’t have to come.”

 

“And if I hadn’t? Do you think you could have taken them alone?” You start to refashion the cloth bandage around your arm. In your haste to jump to battle, you hadn’t applied enough pressure or covered it well. Now it’s soiled through with your blood. You’ll need a new one. “You couldn’t have. We might have never seen you again.”

 

Whatever it is that he’s about to say, he reconsiders. “I’m glad you were here.”

 

                                                             

---

 

 

“You handled that well,” Astarion compliments as the three of you leave the tavern. Walking out is preferable to being carried out.

 

“I do have to wonder what it is that you’re planning, though,” Gale adds.

 

“It’s nothing elaborate,” you shrug. “But for now I’d rather keep the details to myself until I’ve worked it out a little further.”

 

“That doesn’t inspire confidence. It rather sounds to me like you’re winging it,” Gale grumbles.

 

“I’m absolutely not winging it.” It isn’t like you haven’t before . “But I don’t trust her. I don’t want you to have any information sooner than necessary - it might put you in danger.”

 

You are concerned for him, but it isn’t without selfishness either. Lady Daressin had propositioned Gale to help her with something. Giving him any knowledge now sooner than necessary could be a liability. As of now, he hasn’t given her an answer as far as you’re aware. But you can’t rule out the possibility that it’s within her power to compel him, either. 

 

It’s within her power to compel you .

 

You have to brush that thought aside.

 

“I’ll tell you when it becomes relevant - I promise.”

 

Most of the walk back to the castle passes in silence, until you see the familiar silhouettes of Shadowheart and Lae’zel in the distance. They must see you at approximately the same time, because the next moment they’re sprinting towards you, looks of concern on their faces.

 

“What’s happened?” You ask nervously.

 

Shadowheart has to catch her breath, beads of sweat dripping down her brow. Her skin is pinker than usual - they’ve been out under the sun for hours now. “We may have a lead on Jaheira.”

 

“What? How? Is she okay?”

 

“Some men working the docks claim they saw her while they were unloading a ship late at night - they think she took ours back across the sea, but they didn’t watch it long enough to know what direction it headed.”

 

The missing ship. Would she really have stranded all of you here? That doesn’t add up. She might have no qualms about leaving you or Astarion behind, but to say nothing to the others? “She wouldn’t. I mean - you don’t think she would leave us, do you?” Your confidence is quickly waning. “Where would she have gone?”

 

Astarion is looking to a place far beyond this one, the gears turning between his ears. “Back to Baldur’s Gate, perhaps.”

 

“But why would she go back there without telling us?” Shadowheart asks. No one answers her.

 

“Was your source reliable?” Gale asks. “Are you sure they truly saw Jaheira?”

 

“Hard to say,” Lae’zel responds. “They were the crew of a merchant ship. They seemed to retain all of their faculties, at least.”

 

“Then it’s likely they would have a vested interest in keeping track of who is skulking around the docks late at night, beyond the hours of normal men.” You’re sure of it. They would be paying attention to the best of their ability, to protect their cargo from harm. “But she is not the only woman with long white hair in the world. We can’t ignore the coincidence, but we can’t assume it was her either.”

 

“I’ll send back letters to Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion offers. “I have eyes there - perhaps someone has seen her.”

You eye him suspiciously.

 

“Mail travels slowly across the sea,” Gale says, sharing some of your sentiment.

 

“I have my ways.” Astarion’s smirk is cryptic, and you give him a pointed glare. He can’t seriously be planning to travel back by himself, again . Although he pretends to be indestructible, the signs of wear are becoming apparent on his body. He needs to feed again. Soon. You’re the only one aware of it. “I’d better see to it immediately though, unless we want to be stuck here for weeks longer waiting for her to turn up.”

 

Shadowheart is still disconcerted. She’s looking at the ground, chin tucked, fingertips at her lips. “She’d have to know that we can’t leave here without knowing where she is - why wouldn’t she tell us if she’d gone back?”

 

“Jaheira isn’t the sort to betray us,” Gale says reassuringly. “It’s just as possible that the dockhands saw someone else entirely. They may not even be recalling the correct night.” He clasps a hand on her shoulder.

 

“I suppose…” She remains unconvinced.

 

For now your group returns to Caer Westphal - it’s all you can do.

                                                                               

---

 

 

With the sun still safely in the sky, you don’t expect the visitor that waits in your room. The sight of Garett Arthur dominating the small armchair in the corner, sipping from one of Erliza’s familiar tea cups makes you jump out of your skin. Every time you see him, you swear you’re seeing Wyll himself again - as you briefly knew him before the horns. You clutch the doorframe, ready to turn on your heel and bolt. 

 

“Lord Arthur,” you say through gritted teeth. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

 

The fear you’ve held since the first time you set foot in this room is confirmed. The stained glass window filters the sunlight enough to offer a vampire safety in the daytime - it may be magically enchanted. Whatever the reason, you aren’t safe here and you never have been.

 

He pouts. “I don’t recall that it’s your home to dictate where I am and am not invited. And please. Call me Garett.”

 

“Garett. And here I was thinking you maintained some modicum of chivalry.”

 

“I’m glad to see that you’re up and well again after that little incident with the servant. A shame that Lady Daressin had a traitor in her midst this entire time,” he quickly changes the subject.

 

“A shame,” you echo half-heartedly. You don’t give up your position at the door.

 

“Do I make you nervous?” He muses, a lilt to his voice. “Don’t let me keep you out of your own chambers.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

 Is it just to toy with you?

 

“I just want to talk.”

 

Like hells he does. The hair on the back of your neck prickles up. “Get out.”

 

He taps his fingers on the small table at his side. “Is it only wrong for me to be wandering around in rooms I don’t belong, then? That seems a bit hypocritical, no?”

 

You glance back down the hall - there’s no one in sight. Not even a servant. No one to know that you’re alone with him.

 

“You don’t even want to listen to what I have to say?” He doesn’t move from the chair.

 

“No.”

 

“Hm. And here I was thinking we could help one another. Close the door, won’t you? I wouldn’t want one of Erliza’s little birds tattling on me.”

 

That intrigues you more than it should. If he doesn’t want Erliza to know that he’s here… what is he up to? Your curiosity will get you killed one of these days.

 

You shut the door, but keep your hand settled on the knob. “Fine. Make it quick.”

 

“I’ve been looking into you quite a bit, Duke Ravengard .” He says the name like he’s taunting you. “As well as your wayward lover.”

 

Looking into him a lot, apparently, if his own appearance is anything to go off of.

 

“I recall that he’s traveling around Avernus right now, is that correct?”

 

“Yes, yes. Apparently the entire world knows.”

 

“Erliza’s sources seem to suggest that he has no intentions to return.”

 

“Erliza doesn’t know as much as she thinks,” you spit.

 

“Doesn’t she?” He smiles, and pulls out a folded piece of paper from inside of his jacket. He wags it in front of his face.

 

“What’s that?” Your voice is dry and brittle as you watch it wave back and forth.

 

“I pilfered it from Lady Daressin’s study. I might share it. With a friend . I thought you might find it especially interesting. Heartbreaking perhaps - but interesting, nonetheless.”

 

Your blood freezes in your veins. 

 

Is that the proof she holds over you?

 

“What do you want?” You sound more eager than you mean to.

 

“I believe we can be friends - I think we have a lot to offer one another, actually. This business with Lady Daressin - it grows tedious. She plans to wed me, but I must tell you I’ve more than lost interest. I find her madness wholly off-putting. A trait I’d hate to pass on to any future heirs.”

 

Heirs. Can two vampires have children? It isn’t like you don’t know what he is. “I’m not entirely sure where you’re going with this.”

 

Well. You have ideas, but you want to hear him say what he’s thinking explicitly. There can be no question.

 

“I’m hoping you might help me get out of this little predicament I’ve wound up in.”

 

“Are you saying that you want her dead?” The alarm bells are ringing. It could be a test orchestrated by her.  To see how easily you’ll fold and betray her.

 

“Not necessarily ,” he drawls. “I only want our arrangement to end. I’m not so picky about how that comes to be.”

“Then end it yourself.”

 

He sighs. “I can’t, you see. Not without a backup plan. My family back home has cast me aside - I won’t be welcomed back with open arms. The world is a cruel place for a second son.”

 

If what he’s saying is true, dealing with the Erliza problem would be easier with his help…

 

He unfolds the paper dramatically and holds it in front of his face, beginning to read.

 

“Dear… something. I can’t read the name - it’s mostly singed from the paper. It might be an L. Or perhaps a J? Anyway… 

 

“You’re one of the few I can trust in Baldur’s Gate. I need your help. Zariel’s eyes are always on us, and there’s never a proper chance to open a proper portal. The second we try, we have a swarm of her minions on our location. It’s as if they can sense magic from wherever we are in the realm - it’s proving difficult to remain hidden. I need you to seek out Helsik at the Devil’s Fee and see if she can open a portal from your side. I’m including something of Karlach’s, and a small, dead piece of something that looks like a plant in hopes that she’ll be able to lock down our coordinates. I need to get Karlach back through.

 

“I’ll have to stay behind. We’re making good progress. We’ve even fixed her engine! But she needs to come home. I can’t say why, but it is urgent. Here’s hoping this letter finds you, wherever you are. Sincerely, Wyll.”

 

Your hands tremble. “Let me see it,” you demand, finally leaving the door and rushing across the room to grasp for it.

 

He waves you off. “Uh-uh,” he tuts, holding it back out of your reach.

 

“You don’t have to give it to me,” you protest breathlessly. “Just turn it around. Let me see it myself.”

 

Garett obliges, and immediately you study the name at the top, trying to make it out. As he said, it’s singed away beyond recognition - but you’re at least confident it wasn’t addressed to you. The first letter is messy, but given the space it takes up on the page and the general blob of it, you can only deduce that it says Jaheira.

 

It can’t be the proof that Erliza had on you then - not the kind to lure you here. It’s dated when you were crossing on the ship, or maybe even when you’d already arrived on Snowdown. It’s hard to say if time passes the same for them in Avernus as it does here - and you haven’t been closely watching the calendar for several days now.

 

The handwriting appears legitimate, if not more hurried and slanted than usual.

 

Was this the thing that lured Jaheira away?

 

And if so… is it legitimate?

 

Either way, it is a crucial piece of information that Erliza withheld from you.

 

“You look as if you might be sick,” Garett says. “You may wish to sit.” He stands up from the chair and offers it to you, walking towards the window with his cup in one hand, the wrinkled letter in the other.

You reluctantly take the seat. He’s right - your head is spinning.

 

“So, what do you think?” He asks.

 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, resting your head in your hand. “But how can I know that it’s real? How can I know that it isn’t a trap she’s laid?”

 

“If I can assure you of anything - the letter did come from Avernus. It smells of fresh brimstone. There’s no faking that.”

 

Assuming that you believe him.

 

“Well, now that I’ve told you - I’d say that you owe me a favor for this, wouldn’t you agree?” His smile is dangerous. Owing favors is dangerous.

 

“What kind of favor?” 

 

He considers for a moment. “Hmmm.” He’s known all along what it is that he plans to ask for - but he’s clearly enjoying dragging out the reveal for the sake of dramatics.

 

“I’ll give you two options, since I’m feeling generous. Option one - you give me a sip of your blood, fresh from that pretty little neck of yours.”

 

Not happening.

 

“Option two - a small favor to be cashed in whenever I decide. I’m not unreasonable of course - whatever it is, I swear it will not bring harm to you or your companions. But you can’t refuse me when I come to collect.”

 

The thought of him drinking your blood disgusts you, but you wrestle with the choice. On one hand - letting him drink from you is a known thing. You pay the debt now, and he can ask nothing else from you. But on the other hand, giving him that sort of power… can you trust him to stop? Can you trust that he won’t kill you? Or worse - make a spawn out of you? It could be a trap, to drag you into servitude under the guise of an agreement. You subconsciously scratch at the back of your neck.

 

“I’d be a fool to agree to either of these terms,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

 

Now he’s looking over you with a ferocity in his eyes. “We can leave this room as friends or enemies. The choice is yours. 

 

“I won’t make a future deal without knowing the extent of it.”

 

“And I’m afraid that I don’t know what I want yet. But as I stated previously, I will ask nothing of you that would put you or your companions in any kind of danger - nor will I demand your blood if you refuse that now. I'll even help shield you from Lady Daressin, and together we'll bring her to her knees. If you don’t agree… I’ll have no choice but to tell Lady Daressin that you were conspiring against her.”

 

“Lies!” He couldn’t possibly know where you’ve been - could he?

 

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But who do you think she’s more inclined to believe? I am about to be her betrothed, after all.”

 

“Fine. A future deal then.” You cross your arms. It isn’t a good feeling - but for now, putting it off gives you the opportunity to deal with him later - before he comes to collect.

 

He pulls out a small dagger from a sheath at his side that you hadn’t noticed before, and lifts it to his palm, slicing it open, before handing it to you.

 

“You do the same - and then we shake on it.” He smiles. “A blood pact, bound with magic.”

 

You cautiously take the handle of the dagger from him, trying not to let the panic spill over onto your face. “You can’t take my word for it?”

 

He laughs. “I didn’t get where I am today with trust .”

 

It’s fine. You take deep breaths in and out, praying he can’t hear the erratic rhythm of your fluttering heart as you bring the blade to your skin. It’s fine. You’ll deal with this later. You’ll end him before you ever have to make good on this.

 

A quick swipe of the blade and in a flash he grabs your hand in his, giving it a firm shake.

 

When you pull your hand away and he disappears out the door, you look down to see the wound has healed - replaced with a glowing red emblem. As the glow dies away, you make out a tiny red tattoo that looks suspiciously like the head of a laughing demon, no bigger than a copper piece. Suddenly your entire body feels as if it's on fire, as if someone has poured molten metal straight from the forge into your veins.

 

You’ve made a horrible mistake. Just who is Garett Arthur?

Chapter 28: Lies

 

The sound of your name pierces through the veil of your dream, along with a nudge that rattles your shoulder. You immediately startle awake with a grunt of surprise. “Huh?” 

 

“You look exhausted,” Wyll says gently, his voice hushed. In the submersible, there isn’t much room for private conversation. In the metal container of a room, everything echoes. “Are you going to be alright?” His brows knit together.

 

After running into Astarion’s siblings the night before - you came to an agreement not to bring it up to anyone else. There aren’t many explanations for sneaking out alone together in the early hours of the morning without any proof of your encounter with his siblings. 

 

You rub your eyes and sit up straighter. “Yes. Yes. I’m alright. I must have nodded off.”

 

His hand covers yours with a reassuring squeeze. “You look like you haven’t slept in a fortnight.” 

 

“I did have more trouble than usual sleeping last night,” you lie, looking out of the murky window into the greenish-black void. The walls groan and pop around you as the pressure increases on the sinking tin can of a submersible.  “I must have been feeling anxious about today.”

 

It isn’t entirely a lie - you are feeling anxious. There’s something especially terrifying about descending beneath the water  with no easy escape from any trouble you encounter. You want nothing more than to see Wyll’s father out safely. But it isn’t the whole truth, and you know it. 

 

At least Wyll doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he nods sympathetically. “You and I both,” he sighs. “I don’t think I’ll rest properly again until I see my father beneath the sun, free, again.”

 

It’s your turn to squeeze his hand. “We’ll rescue him. We’ll get him out. I promise.”

 

“I only hope that he’s still alive.”

 

“If he’s anything like you - he is. He’s tough.”

 

A crackling buzz calls your attention up to the front of the submersible. “Well. Aren’t you the intrepid little adventurers? Digging and diving where you don’t belong.” 

 

A strange fuzzy blue form of Gortash appears before you, a blend of unfamiliar technology and magic. You jump up and cautiously approach his moving image, inspecting it closer. “Gortash.”

 

“And here I thought we were friends,” he bemoans sarcastically.

 

“You thought wrong.”

 

“This is your last chance to turn around,” Gortash warns. “Set foot in there, and you will die alongside everyone else inside. It’s rigged to self-destruct. I only need to set it in motion. Their blood will be on your hands.”

 

Losing your nerve, you glance over your shoulder at your party, now on alert. Wyll appears at your side, his hand on your shoulder.

 

“Oh look who it is - Baby Ravengard,” Gortash croons, clasping his hands together. “Surely you can see more reason than your lady friend here, can’t you? Turn around, and save your people. I might yet forgive you for your dangerous curiosity.”

Wyll sneers at Gortash. “My father is in there. I won’t abandon him.”

 

“So you know of the Iron Throne already, then. Your father doesn’t have to die, Ravengard. He’s merely in there for… safekeeping. Continue your bold little rescue mission and you’ll leave me no choice. You’ll force my hand.”

 

“He’s just trying to frighten us. The Iron Throne is too useful to him,” Wyll says to you. “He’s bluffing.”

 

“It is a useful tool indeed. But what better use of it than eliminating those that oppose me?”

 

The submersible begins the docking process.

 

“That was a mistake. When the corpses start to wash to the shore - remember. You could have prevented this.”

A violent tremor rattles the submersible, nearly knocking you off of your feet. You reach out to steady Wyll before he can fall.

 

“There, outside!” Karlach yells, pointing out of the window. She doesn’t need to - the bright plumes of smoke and fire illuminate the shadowy metal form of the Iron Throne as several explosions go off in quick succession. Entire portions of the prison, destroyed. The lights snuff out as quickly as they appeared, leaving you again in darkness, oil and grime clouding the water around you.

 

“We don’t have much time,” Wyll dives for the hatch. 

 

“Are you certain about this?” Astarion asks, scratching at the back of his neck. “We just watched-”

 

Not waiting for him to finish, Wyll already has the hatch pulled and is throwing his leg over onto the ladder below. In the distance, you hear the sound of rushing water. How much time do you have before the entire place implodes with it? An hour? Minutes? Karlach is throwing herself down the ladder after Wyll before you can think about following, leaving you to share a fleeting glance with Astarion.

 

You descend into the Iron Throne to a central room that leads to several corridors in every direction. Flashing orange lights illuminate the space. Already, one of the halls is flooding with water.

 

“We’ll have to split up! Rescue who you can, but find Duke Ravengard,” you order, running for a hall. In the distance there’s another explosion followed by another torrent of water rushing in.

 

“Everyone back here in five minutes!”

 

“What the fuck is-” you hear Karlach begin, but her voice is lost to the sounds of the dying Iron Throne. You only stop for a moment to glance back over your shoulder to see a scaly, amphibious creature wading towards her in ankle deep water.

 

It takes everything in you to run from her, and to trust she’ll manage on her own. You can’t all afford to waste time fighting - not when you might only have minutes. Blood rushing in your ears, you don’t hear your name being called until it happens the second time, and one of the creatures is bearing down on you from the room ahead.

 

A bolt whizzes by your head from behind and lodges itself in the creature's chest, stopping it just long enough for you to reach for your weapon. You charge for the enemy as Astarion appears in your peripheral.

 

“We agreed to split up!” You yell, momentarily distracted. The sahuagin catches your arm with the tip of its spear - a lucky hit that you’re too sluggish to avoid. Even your pumping adrenaline can’t entirely overcome the heaviness in your step.

 

“We never agreed to do it alone,” he quips. “There are cells ahead. You hold him off, I’ll get the locks.”

How on brand for him - leaving you with the messy job. You raise your sword to block the next frantic swipe of the spear. The sahuagin is flailing, still suffering from the blow of Astarion’s first shot. After a successful parry, you’re close enough to strike, digging your blade into the creature’s squelching stomach. Its cry scrapes against your ears as it reels backwards, allowing you to lunge for the spear and pry it from its hands, flinging it across the floor.

 

The facility shudders. Astarion’s made it to the door of a cell, inspecting it.

 

“The lever?” You shout, as the suffering sahuagin limps towards you.

 

“It couldn’t be that easy - this is a prison.”  He protests. “There’s something I’m missing, but I don’t see a lock to-”

“Pull it!” You order through gritted teeth. You miss as you attempt to deliver the final blow on the enemy, the creature dodging and finding the strength to dart past you for its weapon. 

 

Had it been clever enough to feign its weakness?

 

You whirl around with an unsteady balance and make full use of the opportunity you’ve been given - the creature has its back to you. You plunge the blade into its back, and it falls forward and doesn’t move again.

 

“Huh - I guess it was that easy,” you hear Astarion say as the door clicks open and several prisoners come running out.

 

“That way!” You point back towards the ladder, hoping that they’ll have safe passage back. Astarion moves for the next cell.

 

“The Duke?” You ask hopefully.

 

He pulls the lever and your question is answered as several more Gondians stumble over themselves to escape. You can’t have much longer now. A thin layer of water has spread across the entire floor, not yet high enough to submerge the toes of your boots.

 

You turn to the connecting hallway, thinking you see more cells in the distance, and break into a run.

 

“We don’t have much time!” Astarion’s feet splash behind you. “Maybe someone’s already found him - we’ll never make it out at this rate.”

 

“We have to try.”

 

Two more sahuagins are waiting to greet you as you clear the end of the hallway, and you narrowly avoid one of their spears. The water covers your feet now. Astarion sends another bolt after you, squarely hitting one of them in the hand, its spear faltering. You take advantage of its momentary stumble and swing forward, cleanly cutting the hand from its arm. It hisses and hunches forward to retrieve its weapon with the other hand, and you drive the sword into the back of its neck. It drops forward with a heavy thud, and you stumble with it, your blade stuck in its neck.

 

You can’t block the second saguahin as it spins around and drives its spear into your back. Your knees drop to the floor, your body tangling with the fallen enemy as the one behind you twists the spear. You gasp and sputter for breath, the taste of blood filling your mouth. You hear a splash, and the one behind you falls to the ground with a thud, a bolt between its eyes. You spit out a mouthful of blood and grasp for the handle of the spear - at least the point of it didn’t break through to the other side.

 

You can’t turn around, but you hear Astarion rushing through the rising water.

 

“No - get the door,” you wheeze. You can see him now - the older face of Ulder Ravengard peering through the small grated window at you.

 

“Fuck the door,” Astarion snaps. You feel the spear wiggle slightly.

 

“The door, Astarion - the Duke -” you cough. “Don’t touch-”

 

“Fuck the Duke.” He breaks off the upper part of the long handle of the spear. Without anyone to heal you, he knows better than to pull it from the wound. He bends down, trying to get you to your feet. “We’re out of time.”

 

“You have time - leave me. Rescue the Duke,” you’re able to get to your knees, but no further.

 

Astarion looks over at the cell, and then back at you. “You’re out of your gods’ damned mind if you think I’m leaving you behind for him.” His arm slides underneath your armpits, lifting you the rest of the way to your feet.

 

“I might not…” the cough burns your lungs. You try to pull away from him, back towards the cell, resisting as he tries to guide you back to the exit. “All three of us will die. You can both make it out without me.”

 

“Down here!” Astarion yells. It’s impossible to say whether anyone can hear over the rushing water, now licking at the middle of your calves.

 

“The Duke,” you protest, wiping more blood from your lips. The spear must have punctured a lung. “Baldur’s Gate-”

“Will survive without him.” Astarion struggles underneath your weight as he drags you through the flooding waters. 

Heavy footsteps hurrying through the water pull your fading attention. Karlach is rushing towards you. You open your mouth to tell her about Duke Ravengard, that he’s just down there - but instead you choke on blood.

 

“We have to get out of here!” Karlach picks you up in her arms effortlessly, ignoring Astarion’s warning to be careful of the spear still halfway inside of you. “There’s no time - if we don’t leave now, we’ll never make it.”

 

Just at the ladder, Wyll waits anxiously.

 

“My father?” He asks anxiously, not yet ready to accept that it’s too late. That he’s about to be gone.

 

Your eyes meet Wyll’s - you want to apologize to him. Need to apologize to him. If you hadn’t been so damned tired - if you hadn’t followed Astarion out last night - maybe today would have turned out differently. Maybe you would have been quicker on your feet. More reactive and aware of your surroundings -

 

“He was already dead,” Astarion lies. 

 

                                                                 

---

 

“Astarion, wait!” You barrel into his room, decorum and danger be damned. “Don’t go back to Baldur’s Gate.”

 

You’re just in time. He’s fully dressed, hand grasping the doorknob leading out to a balcony. His lips part in surprise, but upon seeing you, he immediately releases it. “What are you doing here? You know-”

 

“Dangerous. Yes. It doesn’t matter.” You catch your breath and lock the door behind you before raising the crumpled letter in your hand. 

 

He approaches you and plucks it from your hand, reading it over. “Then Jaheira left us willingly. Assuming, of course, it isn’t forged.”

 

“That’s Wyll’s handwriting - I’m sure of it. No one could-” your thought stops dead in its tracks as your eyes lock onto Astarion’s hand. “Well… who else could make a forgery so convincing?”

 

“There are entire guilds trained in the art, I assure you. Wyll wrote and corresponded quite a lot in the past. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to attain writing samples. Nobility are the easiest targets for forgery for exactly that reason. There’s plenty to study. Though I’m happy you find my talents impressive, that one, unfortunately, is not unique.”

 

“Of course not,” you agree, sheepish at your hastiness. “I shouldn’t have assumed-”

 

“I don’t believe it’s a forgery, though. The writing might not be difficult to copy, but this letter carries with it the very aura of the hells. It reeks of sulfur. That would be significantly more challenging for someone to pull off.”

 

He offers the letter back to you. “I’ll speak with Helsik straight away.”

 

“No - you can’t go back again.”

 

“I must. If anything, this letter is further proof of it. Jaheira meddling where she shouldn’t be is danger enough - but if Karlach were to return it would jeopardize everything.”

 

“I don’t know, Astarion… it sounds urgent. If Karlach needs to return for her safety, as it says - maybe we shouldn’t interfere. I don’t want her to get hurt.” You take back the letter and smooth out some of the wrinkles.

 

“If she returns, you risk your position.”

 

“I know. But-”

 

“You read it, didn’t you? You know why she needs to come back. You can read between the lines.”

 

“And if it’s what we think - that’s all the more reason to not interfere. You broke this news to me once before, did you not? I’ve already started to move on from it.”

 

He looks taken aback. “I. Was. Lying ,” he blurts out. “I was trying to get a rise out of you when I suggested that.”

“You were lying,” you repeat. Somehow that knowledge stings more than the thought of Karlach being with child.

He runs a hand through his hair, slightly ruffling it. You so rarely see it out of place. “Of course I was lying - I thought you knew. You barely trusted anything out of my mouth at that point anyway. The only way to get you to fight for yourself was to make you angry.”

 

You let out a single airy laugh. “You’re right. You taught me a lot.”

 

“You were a hero. I couldn’t suffer to see you waste away in Ravengard Manor any longer, carrying his abandoned burdens You hid behind his name, allowing it to earn credit for your actions. What does it even matter now? I was right.”

 

“You lied to me to manipulate my emotions.”

 

He scoffs. “You’ve always known who I am. You’ve never trusted me, no matter how many times I’ve stuck my neck out for you.”

 

“You want to talk about sticking necks out now? How many times-”

 

“You were right, not to trust me in the beginning. When we first met - I was determined to manipulate you into caring for me so I might keep your protection. For a time, I thought I had you exactly where I wanted you - I could taste your arousal through your blood every time you gave it to me. But you saw right through me - and kept me at arm’s length. Listened to our friends’ whispers as they told you over and over again not to trust me. How long they kept it up for - to the bitter end. Even now they think I’m a monster for what I did.”

 

“But imagine the mess Wyll would have left you with thousands of starving vampire spawn roaming the streets. Who wrote to you dozens of times over the year, only to have letter after letter go unanswered?” 

 

“The invitations to your soirees-” were very likely still sitting in the pile of unopened mail in the study at Ravengard Manor. The mail for the Ravengards never stopped - adding to the agony over the months you waited for word from Wyll.

 

“If you’d bothered to open them, you would have known that they were more than invitations. I had a very lonely year, too.”

 

“The stories of your parties would suggest otherwise.” Despite the bite behind your words, a chill of guilt runs down your spine, and you drop your eyes to the floor.

 

“Oh they were entertaining, to be sure - they even filled a void, for a while. But do you have any idea how vapid and boring the nobility of Baldur’s Gate are? Gods, they’d beg me to share stories of our exploits and then turn green and spew their wine on my shoes the moment I’d get to any of the good parts. Women and men would eagerly throw themselves at me but have nothing to offer beyond empty praise.”

 

“Isn’t that everything you ever wanted?”

 

“It has its benefits, to be sure. But what’s the point of it all when you’re surrounded by sycophants with the emotional depth of a puddle? For most of them, it didn’t matter who held the Crimson Palace - it didn’t matter if it was Cazador, myself, or a random nobody. They don’t care who I am - they care what I am. Don’t misunderstand, I enjoy it far too much to ever give it up, but I do crave smarter company every now and again. It’s dreadfully boring to never be challenged . A year was bad enough - I can’t imagine going an eternity like that. With every day that passed, I missed our little crew more and more.”

 

“I missed you most of all. If anyone was still brave enough to talk back to me, I knew it would be you. You still remember what I was before. Weak. Sniveling. Pathetic. Desperate for your protection.”

“So that’s it then. I’m entertainment for you. A break from the mundane activities of an eternal life.”

 

“Is it so hard to believe that I care for you?”

 

You flex and squeeze your fingers, feeling the cool metal of the armored ring against Garett’s mark on your palm. You can’t deny that Astarion has looked out for you. That he’s run himself ragged crossing the sea several times. You believe him. 

 

“If there are any more lies I should know about, now is the time to share.”

 

He shakes his head. “No more lies.”

 

“I might have…overreacted a little,” you admit after an extended silence. “I never believed it in the first place, I just-”

“Don’t apologize, darling. That letter carries several betrayals inside of it. Wyll, Karlach. Jaheira. It was a rather heartless thing of me to lie about in the first place, I never dreamed it might ring true. You’re processing difficult news.”

“It’s not - I mean… I don’t really care about that . It isn’t about them, and for all I know we’re reading into nothing. Misinterpreting. But either way,  I already know that they’ve betrayed me, and I’ve started moving on from it. It was the thought of you betraying me too - your lie - that hurt.”

 

“For what little it’s worth - things were different, then. It was a petty, angry thing to say.”

 

“And look. You were right,” you wave the letter in the air, a white flag of exasperation. The knowledge does still hurt, even as you try to pretend it doesn’t.

 

“For once, I wish I wasn’t. Wait. Where did you get this?”

 

You’re surprised he didn’t ask sooner. “Garett. He was in my room, waiting for me when I returned.”

 

He knits his brows together, gears spinning in his mind with new context. “Garett was waiting for you. Why would he give this to you? What did he want?” 

 

Suddenly he’s grabbing your wrist, pulling you to him, searching your eyes.

 

“I - he…” you’re fully prepared to tell him the truth of the deal, but your vocal cords freeze in place.

 

“Did he hurt you?”

 

“No. He-” Again you try to explain the situation, but you feel an invisible pressure tightening around your throat. It only worsens with your panic, as you realize what’s happening.

 

“What’s the matter?” Astarion asks, watching as you touch your throat. 

 

Unable to speak, you pull your left hand from his wrist and hold it up, showing him your palm - but the lines on his face only deepen. He takes it as a silent sign to step back.

 

“My hand!” You blurt out, pointing directly at the symbol with your other one. “There.”

 

You have to check it yourself, to make sure it hasn’t miraculously faded. It hasn’t, but you realize that to him, it’s invisible.

 

The contract was charmed into secrecy . You can’t speak of it.

 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, suddenly alarmed, looking down at his own hand, the one that had held you moments ago.

 

“No,” you frantically reassure, before facing your defeat. “Never mind. It’s nothing. I don’t know why he gave it to me.”

 

“For some reason, he must want to earn your trust.” He says it carefully, looking you up and down. You desperately want him to see through your strange outburst- to figure it out on his own. “Be careful of him.”

 

“Believe me - I have no reason to believe this gift doesn’t come with strings.” You swallow, relieved to be free of the magic’s hold. You can breathe again.

 

“This is all the more reason for me to return to Baldur’s Gate. Speaking with Helsik is a priority.”

 

“You can’t.” You grab his wrist. “Please. You don’t look well. I’m worried what will happen if you keep pushing yourself like this.”

 

“A small price to pay. I’ve never felt better - I’m the Vampire Ascendant, after all. A few jaunts back and forth over the sea? Child’s play.”

 

“You said no more lies. I can see you deteriorating. You need to rest, and you don't need to go back again. If this is true, then it means Jaheira isn’t here. We can go back as soon as we deal with Erliza.”

 

“Dealing with Erliza is no small thing, darling,” Astarion lowers his voice. “And you might have a plan to deal with her, but do you have a plan for how to deal with the power vacuum she leaves behind?”

Chapter 29: Maze

Everything has to go perfectly tonight. If it doesn’t, Erliza won’t be stupid enough to give you another chance. You pace the short length of your chambers, burning with the anxiety of knowing that there’s nothing more to do but wait. It’s out of your control now. Will the members of the resistance - the Lunar Anchors - pull through? And will the forged invitations be enough to fool whoever waits at the door? Lae’zel, Gale, and Shadowheart were explicitly excluded from the event - but they’ll be lurking in the halls nearby, ready to convene with the party crashers.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Riven knocks on your door, brandishing a plain, shallow box that requires both of his arms to carry. The poor servant favors you less and less with every meeting. He hardly makes eye contact now.

 

“What is this?”

“For you… my Lady. It was just delivered.” 

 

“From whom?” You stare at the box, hesitant to take it. Prepared for a viper to spring from it the moment that it’s opened.

 

Riven sighs, shrugging back his shoulders. He always leaves a conversation with you looking considerably more exhausted than he began it. You don’t try to make his duties difficult, but as Erliza’s servant, your goals are naturally at odds with one another. “I don’t know. It is not my job to accept the packages, only deliver them. Would you please take it? I have much else to see to today - the party is keeping me on a strict schedule.”

 

The box weighs several pounds when you take it, the contents crinkling. As soon as it’s in your arms, Riven gives a curt bow and glides down the hallway before you can ask anything else of him. It carries no label or card on it, and is wrapped in sandy light brown paper. You drop it on the bed and stick a finger underneath the edge of the wrapping, carefully peeling it away. Peeking inside reveals the structure of the box - burgundy in color, lacking any markings. You tear off the rest of the paper without any delicacy, and face down the lidded box that remains.

 

When you slide the top off, you reveal a layer of shimmery fabric - red and gold that shifts as the light hits it at different angles. You pull the dress out to inspect it - the bodice doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and the back drapes down to the waist. The gift had come at the final hour - literally.

 

Gods, what is Astarion thinking?

 

The color is incredible, but it’s nothing you would have picked for yourself - and your companions at least will know it immediately. The clothes you brought with you were fine enough, but nothing like this . Still, the gift brings a small smile to your face - a gesture of goodwill, or even an apology. A secret to wave under everyone’s nose between the two of you.

 

On your body it flatters you, though suddenly the rest of you is plain in comparison. You didn’t intend to go all-out for the party, and this is the outfit of someone looking to upstand the host. You had planned something more practical, fitting for a potential end of the night getaway. Looking at yourself now in the mirror, you can only hope that something more glitzy will arouse less suspicion. You throw on what little makeup you have, but leave your hair loose - there’s no time to do anything else with it now. If you’re walking into a den of vampires, it’s better that your neck isn’t on full display.

 

Seeing the ballroom that Erliza hosts the party in when you’re supposed to be there puts it into an entirely new perspective. Everything glitters with the ethereal touch of the faewilds. The lighting in the room is lower than it was the night you spied on the vampires, the ceiling swirling with midnight purple and blue, lit with a splatter of magical lights that imitate stars. It looks as if the ceiling itself has been torn from the building, a direct portal into the astral plane. The marble floor beneath your feet reflects a soft, sparkling purple, veins of pearly stone running through the marble.

 

The piano is still the centerpiece of the room, but the music performed by the hired hand is uninspired, though expertly executed. It fades to the background, the melodies an atmospheric lull beneath the chatter of the guests. 

 

There are more guests than you expected - a healthy crowd that spills out through a glass set of double doors onto a patio beyond, illuminated with strands of magic. It relieves you to see that there is other life on the guest list - neither you nor your uninvited guests will stand out amongst the vampires. The only trouble is that it works in the favor of your enemies, as well - the vampires have become less obvious in the strange, otherworldly light.

 

A servant hands you a glass of wine as you enter, and immediately you hunt for Astarion’s familiar face - but half of the guests, at least, wear masquerade masks. You didn’t get that memo. Tonight his silver hair doesn’t draw your eye. Blonde and silver heads are all tinted with purple and pink, the pulsing colors disorienting. Looking down at your glass, you test it with the ring, which comes back with no change in color.

 

Fortunately he finds you first - you almost don’t recognize him underneath a silver masquerade mask, and his hand on your shoulder startles you. He holds a mask in front of your eyes which you grab from him, dropping it to your side.

 

“A masquerade? Really? How corny.”

 

Astarion frowns, grabbing your wrist and holding it back up to your face. “Once you’ve gotten over the cliche of it, you’ll realize it’s rather useful . Put the damned thing on - don’t be so boring.”

 

You offer him your glass to hold so you can tie it around the back of your head, but instead he circles you and ties it on himself. “Clashes with your dress a bit, I’m afraid.”

 

“How unfortunate,” you roll your eyes. “You really should have thought of that.”

 

“I only found out about the theme when I walked in - it’s really something she should have put on the invitations. Unfortunately you’re wearing stolen goods - do try not to look at anyone for too long.”

 

“You stole it-” you immediately reach back to try and pull the knot out, but he catches your hand.

“It’s fine darling - worth a little risk, don’t you think? Almost no one knows us here - we can be perfectly…discreet.” 

 

You’ve started to catch on. “You’re right - I wonder if you could get more of them for our visitors.”

 

From the curve of his mouth, he almost looks disappointed. “I wasn’t speaking about the plan.” He runs his hand down your bare shoulder. “We have hours to kill.”

 

“Oh,” you blurt out, taking a sip of wine to hide your expression. You’re suddenly thankful for the strange lighting - it hides the inevitable color red that your face is turning.

 

“Don’t look too quickly - Erliza is over there. White dress, pink mask. Covers the right half of her face. Feathers ,” he grimaces. “She’s entirely absorbed in her company. Come with me.”

 

You follow him out to the patio, where a trio of stringed instruments serenades the guests underneath the moonlight. The crowd is thinner out here, some waltzing through the gardens that are more extensive than you initially realized. The flowering hedges lead off into a deeper maze, sporadic, giggling voices carrying from somewhere in the expanse of it.

 

“I can’t believe you’d show me up like this,” he laments - probably joking.

 

“What-”

 

“I would have tried a little harder if I had known you were going to look this good. And here I was thinking you were so concerned with the plan .”

 

“I am concerned with the plan-” You cross your arms over your chest in a weak attempt to cover yourself.

 

He laughs. “Then stop thinking about it. Quite frankly, you look like you’re nervously about to commit a heinous atrocity. At least try to relax.”

 

You try to laugh with him, finishing your glass of wine so you can be rid of it.

 

Are you nervous about that, or something else?

 

“Relax? I haven’t been properly relaxed since before I had a tadpole implanted in my brain,” you roll your eyes.

 

He nods. “You’re right, you know - your heart is always drumming away like a gods’ damned hummingbird in your chest. Perhaps you should see a doctor about that. I hear Volo is into experimental surgeries.”

 

It’s only like that when you’re around , you think. An intrusive little thought that you try to shove away. A reminder of the betrayal that’s been lurking in the corners of your heart for longer than you admit. 

 

Astarion has taken your hand, and put his other on your shoulder, and he’s swaying you to the music before you realize what’s happening. Just a gentle bob back and forth - you don’t know the more intricate steps that others have memorized. Maybe you should have taken the servants at Ravengard Manor up on their offers to teach you etiquette more often.

 

“Or…” he leans forward and whispers in your ear. “The offer is always on the table to stop it for good.”

 

You nearly trip over his foot, and glare up at him. 

 

He shakes his head and laughs again. “You are terrible with jokes, aren’t you? I would mourn the loss of your fluttering heart for eternity.”

 

“Astarion-”

 

“Do you want me to stop?” He cocks his head. “I can stop - I’m just so enjoying this opportunity to share a moment with you like this. No one knows who we are. Just a man and a beautiful woman.”

 

You look over your shoulder, a sense of unease creeping down your spine as you realize how empty the patio has gotten. Many couples have returned inside, or are small shadows in the expansive rolling garden. In the safety of a large group, you might have some anonymity, but masquerade masks aren't an infallible disguise. Somewhere, your companions are sneaking around - they would recognize you in less than ten seconds. And Garett - you haven’t yet seen him either…

 

On cue, you catch a familiar shadow standing at one of the windows, looking out.

 

No .

 

You snap your neck back around and press yourself into Astarion’s chest, frozen. Hiding your face.

 

“What is it?” He wraps an arm around your back, and you feel him searching behind you for what you saw.

 

You peek backwards again, searching for what you swore was Wyll, horns and all. But there’s no one standing at the window. You breathe again.

 

“Nothing. You’re right - I do need to relax. And no. I don’t want you to stop.” You wrap your arms around his neck, and he leans down into you, kissing you. You take small steps forward, guiding him towards the entrance of the hedges - privacy. No chance of wandering eyes.

 

You try to draw him further into the maze than just beyond the first corner - you’re sure you heard others in here before. But he can’t wait, and the kiss intensifies, suffocating. You feel his hands at your waist, cupping your butt beneath your dress as you wrap what you can of your leg around his, pushing your pelvis into his thigh.

 

The next thing you know, you’re on the ground, bare back against the dewey grass, skirt slid up almost entirely up your leg - there’s a new slit in it that wasn’t there before. He uses the new entrance to his advantage, caressing your inner thigh, thumb brushing against the scarred bite marks he left before. You moan at the memory, and his lips brush down your jawline and down your neck that you extend intuitively for him. He kisses your collarbone, igniting a spark of tension as he holds back from his carnal desire.

 

“Do it,” you urge breathily. You ache for his fangs almost as much as what’s between his legs.

 

He pulls away suddenly, peering down at you. “Are you insane? There are other vampires here. They would-”

 

Still, his hand inches further up your inner thigh, towards the part of you that begins quivering with anticipation…

 

“Tell me there aren’t others drinking blood here.”

 

“Well, yes - but this is you . I wouldn’t even share the scent of your blood with any of these creatures.”

 

“Let’s go further, then,” you nod deeper into the maze, knowing that the entrance is still visible. If anyone came in right now, they’d see you splayed out on the ground immediately. 

 

His eyes flash, and he helps you to your feet. “I’ll give you a head start,” he smirks, gesturing ahead.

 

Dizzy with pleasure, it takes you a moment to understand what he means until he’s counting down from ten. A chase, then. You turn and run, losing your sense of direction. It shouldn’t matter - the maze is mostly for show. From the outside, it was nothing spectacular. It isn’t big enough to get lost in. You pass by two strangers with a very similar idea, but give them their privacy as they’re locked in the throes of passion. It’s been long enough now that you know Astarion could have caught up - he isn’t really trying.

 

So you slow yourself as you come to a dead end, and listen. A gentle wind rustles the leaves. You start to retrace your steps - but somehow, he appears from behind - from the dead end.

 

“How did you-” you can hardly finish, already breathless.

 

He takes you in his arms more forcefully this time, resting you on your back but never relinquishing his grip. Your skirt slides up again, and his head moves between your legs, suckling at the soft, sensitive flesh there. This time he’s braver - moving higher than he had for the first bite. You can feel the side of his face against the front of your panties. You shudder, the sensation almost ticklish, arching your back and digging your fingers into the grass.

 

A wandering hand pushes aside the crotch of your undergarments, and you feel a finger pressing against your entrance. It slides in as he sucks at your thigh with his teeth, not yet ready to let his fangs pierce the skin. You gasp as he presses further inside, another finger joining and working you slowly. You fight to hold in your sounds of pleasure, knowing that anyone could still be out here. Instead, you settle for whispering his name.

 

At the height of his rhythm, he pushes deeper, finally sinking his teeth into your thigh. You can’t stop the squeak of pain that escapes your lips before it fades to pleasure, his fingers sliding in and out of you in time with the rush of blood leaving your veins. It’s enough to send you careening into bliss, your lungs catching until you the pattern of stars in the sky burns into the back of your eyelids.

 

He pulls away, leaving you writhing, wiping his lips on his sleeve. “Delicious, as always,” he purrs. “Terribly sorry about your dress.”

 

Still recovering, you admire his face as it hangs above you, the moon framing his hair like a halo. Already, the exhaustion that had been apparent on his face for days now has been wiped clean, his skin radiant and bright once more.

 

“My…dress…” you huff with a weak smile. “I should be the one apologizing.”

 

The serene expression on his face drops as he pushes your hair out of your face with a stroke of your forehead. “What do you mean?”

 

“I’m sure it wasn’t cheap - I’m sorry it didn’t last an hour.”

 

He sits up straighter, and speaks slowly. “Darling… where did that dress come from?”

 

You immediately throw yourself upright, regretting it as a wave of dizziness washes over you. “What do you mean- I thought you-”

 

“ I didn’t . So who did? ”

Notes:

oops

Chapter 30: Games

Cazador is dead. The walk back to the Elfsong should feel victorious. 

But the blood of the Gur stains your hands and your clothes - and you can’t shake the feeling you’ve made the wrong choice. Their deaths weigh on your conscience, along with those of the seven thousand souls that you’ve damned. You promised Astarion you would help him, no matter the choice he made. However he chose to seek his retribution. You stayed true to your word, but still you hoped he’d make a different one. It’s hard to look at him the same, now.

 

The newborn Vampire Ascendant walks several paces ahead of you now, radiating an unfamiliar, forced confidence. Not once does he turn back to acknowledge you or the others trudging into the Inn behind him. Covered in blood and dungeon grime, he saunters up to the bartender and dumps a pouch of pilfered gold from the Crimson Palace onto the counter, gleefully announcing his intention to cover the next several hours’ worth of drinks. With no one else to claim it, Cazador’s home would belong to him - one way or another. But it hadn’t stopped him from collecting a large sum of money on the way out.

 

Gale warily looks at Astarion, unable to keep his mouth shut. “I thought that money you’re throwing around was to fund our supplies.”

 

“Don’t be so boring.” Astarion narrows his eyes and pokes Gale squarely in the chest.

 

“Do you have any idea how many spell scrolls that could-”

 

“There’s plenty more where that came from. We can afford a little celebration.”

 

Gale slams his hand on the bar, stopping the bartender from scooping up any more of the gold. “A little celebration? You call this little? We have far more pressing concerns, and I for one don’t feel in a very celebratory mood.”

 

“I’m sure the good patrons of the establishment will be happy to share in my victory,” Astarion smirks, stepping closer to Gale and pushing his arm away. The bartender immediately begins collecting the rest of the loose coins. “Go on then- go upstairs.”

 

“This is madness.” Gale shakes his head and begins stalking away.

 

Lae’zel, unbothered, pulls out a stool and accepts one of the first tankards passed around. Shadowheart glances between the gith and Gale.  At first you think she’s going to stay, but she’s taken the worst of the damage, and she soon limps after Gale.

 

“Suit yourselves,” Astarion shrugs. He looks at you expectantly.

 

The bar of the Elfsong is in high spirits after Astarion’s announcement, celebrating the arrival of the generous stranger. If only you could share in their blissful ignorance of what he did to get that money. Their merriment makes your skin crawl with guilt.

 

“I should check on Wyll.” He had stayed behind. It was for the best. Distracted with grief, he wouldn’t have been much use. Leaving him felt irresponsible - like a betrayal. But with Karlach and Jaheira to stay by his side, he was in capable hands.

 

The corner of his lip twitches downward. “Of course. By all means bring them all down to join us.”

 

Fat chance. Wyll just lost his father. You don’t respond, and head for the stairs, not quite catching up with Gale or Shadowheart on the way.

 

When you get back to the room, you find Wyll in bed, blanket pulled up to his ears, back turned from you to stare at the wall. Those in your immediate vicinity clear to the other side of the suite to give you privacy. Karlach places her hand on your shoulder and looks as if she’s about to say something to you, but ultimately closes her mouth and reconsiders.

 

You sit on the edge of his bed and clear your throat, unsure if he’s awake. “Wyll…?”

 

He shifts a bit beneath the blanket, catching a glimpse of you over his shoulder. You gently put your hand on top of his form beneath the blanket.

“You’re back.” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.” He turns back away from you.

 

“Are you… angry with me?”

 

At first, you’re only met with silence.

 

“Wyll?”

 

He sighs and sits up, pushing himself out from underneath the blanket and swinging his legs over the side - there’s a noticeable gap left between you.

 

“I asked you not to go,” he says quietly.

 

You scramble to take his hand in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze and lifting it to your lips. “I had to - you know I did. Someone had to look out for him. If Astarion had fallen into Cazador’s hands, Cazador-”

 

“Would have completed his ritual? Yes. I know. And what of Astarion?” 

 

You’re suddenly very self-conscious of how filthy you are as you sit on his bed. A tangle of blood, sweat, and dirt. You must smell of the sewers, even though your nose has grown accustomed. “He completed the ritual,” you admit, your eyes falling to the floor.

 

“Of course he did.” Wyll’s voice drips with disapproval. “No better than his former master, in the end. All of those poor souls…”

 

“Those poor souls were starving vampires. Would you have had me unleash them on your people?”

Recognition flashes in his eyes, but he blinks it away. “How can you defend him?”

 

“I’m not defending him-”

 

His shoulders relax. “No. You’re right,” he sighs, putting his head in his hands. “I don’t know what we could have done with thousands of spawn. It’s just- I can’t believe you let him do it.”

 

“It wasn’t my decision to make. I-”

 

He reaches out and suddenly pulls you into a hug, crushing you in his arms. “I’m glad you’re back safely. I’m sorry I let you go alone. I never should have-”

 

“You needed time to grieve,” you hug him back, breathing in the scent of his soap as your nose presses into his shoulder. “And I wasn’t alone. I was well looked after.”

 

You’re frozen in his grasp. “No. I should have put aside my anguish. Every time I don’t keep you in my sights, you suffer some mortal wound or another.”

 

He pulls away and cups your face in his hands. “You almost died in the Iron Throne under Astarion’s watch. My neglect nearly caused your death on top of my father’s.”

 

His words feel as if you’ve been stabbed all over again. “It isn’t your fault. I should have been more careful.”

 

You feel responsible for his father’s death - you can’t deny it. If you hadn’t snuck off after Astarion, you might have had the energy to react. You might have been able to save Ulder Ravengard. You still remember the look of his eyes through the door grate, before Astarion forced you both to abandon him. Maybe it would have led to your death, too - but you could have tried. Should have tried.

 

“No. I should have followed you in the Iron Throne, just as I should have followed you today.”

 

“I’m okay,” you insist. “Hardly a scratch. The blood isn’t mine. I’m okay.”

 

Wyll inspects you. “And mentally?”

 

                                                                         

---

 

 

Disheveled and disoriented, you decide to stagger your exits to avoid rousing suspicion. You have no idea what you look like, but you imagine the evidence is written all over your body anyway. There’s something shameful about limping out of the maze alone, delicate gown torn up the side, your back dusty and damp from the ground. Most of the outside crowd has made their way back inside, gathered around the piano. Familiar cadences trickle out through the open door - you can’t see the player from here, but you don’t need to. You recognize the frustration and urgency of the music underneath their competent technical ability. Garett is showing off again..

 

You comb your fingers through your hair, picking out a twig as you assimilate into the ballroom - no one is paying you any mind. You earn no second glances. A good thing - perhaps your moonlight rendez-vous isn’t as obvious as you think. At least to an outsider.

 

You don’t immediately recognize the servant that gently tugs your arm, and are prepared to ignore another wine glass if they offer it. But when she hisses your name with a little more persistence , you see Shadowheart standing behind her tray, dressed in the clothes of Erliza’s staff. The same small white mask that all of the servants are wearing does little to hide her identity. She gives a wordless nod of her chin to the back room - the place where you once spied from. The sliding panels of the walls are partially closed again. Even with the festivities of a larger party, a place for more private conversations has been provided.

 

Shadowheart disappears and you search back towards the outside door for Astarion, but there’s still no trace of him. He leaves plenty of time for anyone who might have seen you together to cast doubt - an appreciated precaution. With no sign of him, you follow up on Shadowheart’s invitation. In the smaller room, she stands by a serving table, pretending to make herself busy arranging and moving things. The air in the room is inexplicably heavier, immaculately clean and yet somehow suffocating, like walking through a cloud of dust.

 

“The room is enchanted,” Shadowheart says as you get close, not turning to face you. “A sound dampening spell of some kind. No one will hear us unless they’re close.”

 

A useful spell for the venue, and you aren’t the only ones taking advantage of it. Most in this room seem to be using the enchantment for more intimate endeavors - unable to hear the piano from within the spell’s influence, they haven’t been intrigued to take a listen, instead wrapped up in more “important” business.

 

“I thought we agreed you’d lay low,” you murmur. “What if Erliza recognizes you?”

 

Her braid flicks as she snaps her head towards you, giving you a discriminating head to toe glance before engrossing herself in her pretend job again. “And I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t-” she sighs, the thought unfinished. “Never mind that. I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour. Where were you?”

 

“Checking the grounds,” you lie. “For anyone seeking…alternate entry.”

 

“Were you attacked? Or did you wrestle that disguise from some unwitting party guest?”

 

The way her eyes bore through you is accusatory - like she somehow knows exactly what happened, and is waiting to see if you’ll lie about it. A paranoid thought not necessarily born of reality, but you shouldn’t wait too long to answer. She’s always had that uncanny way of knowing.

 

“I had to hide.” You don’t elaborate. The lie is stilted. Too obvious.

 

Her lips tighten as she sizes you up again. “Your friends got in. I suggest you go back to the party now - it won’t do either of us well if anyone sees you standing around in here for too long with me.”

 

There’s a coldness to her voice that really makes you think that she knows something.

 

“I don’t think any of them are paying attention.” You try to ease the tension by weakly laughing at the present company. A pair of guests  is attempting to swallow one another on a chaise in the corner.

She shoves a glass in your hand - champagne, this time. “Go. They’ll be toasting the couple soon.”

 

                                                                         

---

 

Soon is an understatement. Garett’s rendition on the piano is just winding to a close as you enter the grand ballroom again, your ears popping at the shift in pressure. The noble audience offers a polite clap and their heads bob in unanimous approval. As soon as the chatter dies, Erliza steps onto a raised dais near the center of the room, clinking a silver spoon against her own glass to call the room to attention. Nervously, you scan the crowd for Astarion - but can’t pick him out. Instead your eyes meet Garett’s - you’re sure he recognizes you immediately, even with the mask covering part of your face.

 

You position yourself out of his line of sight, using a tall stranger as your shield while you direct your attention back to Erliza. His interest in you is unnerving. 

 

“I must commend my dear friend Lord Arthur, for his fabulous playing - as always.” She beams at him and tinkles her glass again, conducting a chorus of them in response. “It truly warms my heart that you’ve all traveled from near and far - mostly far - to come celebrate a new chapter in my life and my reign.”

 

“My reign, of course, has not been without tribulation. I have so far failed to reunite the Moonshae Isles underneath my house.  It is my hope that through this engagement, I might realize that dream through what can be achieved when two great houses are united.”

 

Something is strange. Wrong. Garett is still in your peripheral vision - seated at the piano like a statue. He doesn’t clap with the others, nor smile; on the contrary, his expression is souring. His hands are folded neatly on his lap, squeezing . The fabric of his trousers bunches up, pulled by his fingernails. You subtly creep forward, weaving through a forest of colorful gowns and suits to get a better look.

 

“This marriage is no small feat, but instead the payoff from over a decade of careful collaboration and planning. The Kendricks have long believed me a false ruler, holding lands that were once theirs.  But underneath my reign, Snowdown has prospered, reaching new heights in resource production and trade. Since he was but a boy, Owaren Kendrick has been my ward - and an heir to the Kendrick house. He has watched Snowdown thrive underneath my careful management, and as a man he has become a close confidant and ally.”

 

Your mouth goes dry. Kendrick. Her ward. Her hostage . Yet again, Erliza has played you. Not only you - but Garett, too.

 

The crowd clears a path for Owaren, who strides up to the dais and stands just beside it, not yet rising to Erliza’s level. Tonight he appears younger than ever, oozing youth and inexperience, turned vampire when he was barely a man. He watches her expectantly, his arms tucked behind his back.

 

“With my marriage to Owaren Kendrick, we make way for a brighter future. The Kendricks will see that there is prosperity in uniting what I’ve built back with their kin, and will proudly lay down their arms and kneel before us.”

 

The audience is just as dumbfounded as you - Erliza lords over a silent room. Owaren silently steps onto the dais and takes Erliza’s hand in his, kissing the top of it. A pronounced ring now sits on her finger - a sapphire the size of your thumbnail set in platinum. She raises her glass for the toast to a less than enthusiastic crowd. Whispers are racing across the ballroom floor. Staggered glances float to Garett - most fail to be subtle.

 

How will your uninvited guests react to the news? Will this affect their resolve? You wouldn’t recognize any of them within the current crowd - though you know they’re out there, mixed in with the others. Waiting for the time to strike - the signal.

 

As soon as the crowd begins to return to normal, if not muted, Garett stands and walks from the piano. His eyes are set on you. You avert your gaze and start to slink away, hoping to lose yourself amongst the lights and bodies - but he’s caught your trail. There’s no hiding, nor opportunity to escape as he brushes past you, grabbing your arm and yanking you alongside him. To an outsider, he appears a perfect gentleman, but his grip is tight and bruising.

 

He plasters a smile on his face to deceive anyone you pass. “When I said I wanted her dealt with, I didn’t mean I wanted to be made a fool of,” he says through his teeth, just loud enough for you to hear.

 

“You think I had something to do with this?” You hiss incredulously, trying to pull out of his grasp. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t let you go - and here isn’t the place to make a scene.

 

Every silver head you pass, you pray to see Astarion - but he still has yet to reappear.

 

“For every minute until five minutes ago, Erliza Daressin was set to marry me. What changed? What have you done?”

 

“I haven't done anything. And even if I had? You said you had no interest anymore. You got your wish.”

 

“I had no interest in her . I wanted the Isle. I didn't intend for this to end so abruptly - I still needed her to believe I was the perfect fiance.”

 

“Is that so?” You finally yank your arm away just as you’ve crossed the threshold to the outside terrace. “Could have fooled me - you were terribly cryptic about the whole damned thing. I recall you specifically asking for your arrangement to end - and that's exactly what's happened. But in any case, I had nothing to do with her change of heart. You should be asking yourself why she’d play a game like this with you. I’m still trying to work out the game she’s playing with me .”

 

You won't admit it to him, but her business with him does concern you. Is her behavior erratic and unpredictable? Or is it calculated? In some ways it's more frightening to believe that Garett is another pawn in her game rather than an accomplice. If she can dupe a man of his caliber and publicly humiliate him in the process...

 

His nostrils flare. “Get out of this place. Take your friends - return to Baldur’s Gate. Erliza wastes your time here on purpose. Think. Whom does she occupy Snowdown in the name of?”

 

Amn.

 

“Think. What could an enemy gain by distracting the champions of a city and an established leader?”

 

Your gut swirls. You chastise Wyll for abandoning his people for other motives. And yet … is it possible that you’ve done the same? You’ve stayed here only in the interest of self-preservation. Blackmail.

 

“You look positively green. Please don’t throw up on my shoes.” He looks down his nose at you. “I don’t believe Amn is looking to take drastic measures against the Gate, although we’ve both learned tonight that I know much less than I thought. But I expect that they’re using the opportunity for intelligence - and from my perspective, Baldur’s Gate has been left ripe for the taking.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” You aren’t gullible enough to believe that Garett has any of your best interests at heart.

 

“Lady Daressin betrayed me. I won’t soon forget it. But don’t worry your pretty little head - I will be collecting on our deal, sooner or later. I’ll come find you wherever you wind up.”

 

You swallow the bile rising in your throat, wondering if you can somehow take him out at the same time as Erliza. For a fleeting moment, you consider telling him your plan - but something in his threatening tone tells you that he’s still no ally to you. Why would Erliza string him along for the ride? Why would she lead him on with a marriage intent, only to betray him at the final hour? It doesn’t add up.

 

“We don’t have a ship,” you say with a shake of your head. “If the letter you showed me is to be believed - Jaheira took it when she returned to Baldur’s Gate.”

 

He reaches into his pocket and presses something from it into your hand in one fluid motion. You look down to see a strange black coin in your hand, a square hole cut into the center of it.

 

“You’ll find passage home on the docks. Go quickly - go tonight. Whatever Erliza’s plan is now, you should no longer trust in her hospitality. Especially if you’re going to give her more ammunition to use against you.”

 

Over Garett’s shoulder, Astarion appears from the maze.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“If you’re trying to keep up this facade of a relationship of yours - you might try harder not to be sneaking around under her nose .” Garett wrinkles his and briefly acknowledges Astarion with a glance. He lowers his voice. “Far be it from me to blame you for moving on - but your relationship with the Duke is a valuable thing.”

 

“I haven’t moved on.”

 

“Of course not.” He rolls his eyes - one of them distinctly blue-gray, the other reddish in color. The resemblance is no accident. Garett is intentional in his appearance. “That’s why you visit Lord Ancunin past your bedtime and take midnight strolls with him, only to return with a shredded dress.” He pouts.

 

You look down at your dress, no explanation coming to mind. When you look up again, his appearance has shifted again - two curling black horns sprouting through his hair. 

 

“Garett, what- ” the words get stuck in your throat as you stare at the man who you know isn't Wyll Ravengard, but has adopted his appearance with disturbing accuracy. 

 

He laughs, reaching forward and patting your cheek. “That was expensive , you know.”

 

You might not know Erliza's plot, but you think you're starting to work out his.

 

---

 

Chapter 31: Sommelier

Garett gives Astarion a polite wave and a knowing smirk as he disappears inside - Erliza’s slight is now shrugged off, at least for the sake of appearances. He’s more than capable of holding himself together in front of an audience, knowing that a tantrum would only further jeopardize his reputation. If he can make others believe that he knew everything from the start, he can build armor for himself against the pointed rumors of the nobility. The new knowledge of your gift leaves you reeling where you stand, made worse by the fact that magic compels you not to share a major part of the puzzle you’ve been burdened with. Even now, you can imagine the symbol on your hand tingling, reminding you of its presence. A warning. Threatening you at the mere thought of trying to disclose the details of the deal. The fabric of the dress itches against your skin now - you’re aware of every seam.

 

“I think Garett is going to try to impersonate Wyll,” you blurt out as Astarion comes up alongside you.

 

Astarion furrows his brow, soaking up the desperate, wild look in your eyes. “I see the similarities, but surely he wouldn’t try something that bold. If he were going to - why wouldn’t he have simply pretended to be him in the first place? He must know we’d never let him get away with something like that now.”

 

“The similarities?” You ask incredulously. The look he gives you is frustrating - like he’s questioning your grip on reality. You dig your nails into your palms. “He’s a clone. A shapechanger.”

 

You watch Astarion consider your hypothesis, his expression undeniably still doubtful. Critical. His clean, crisp clothing is in much better shape than yours - there’s no sign that he’d been rolling around in the dirt earlier. His hair is well-groomed again, and his complexion is glowing. He either keeps a mirror in his pocket, or he’s expertly trained in the art of managing without after two hundred years. In hindsight, you should have bolted for the washroom to salvage some shred of your dignity. Your appearance now welcomes speculation. 

 

“I.. I am sorry, but even with the hair change - he isn’t identical. And he’s missing Wyll’s most… unique features. No one will mistake Garett for him without his stone eye or horns.”

 

The air has been sucked from your lungs. The image of Garett and Wyll are burned into the back of your eyes like two sides of a mirror. Your memory of Wyll feels so far away now that you aren’t even sure that you could tell them apart anymore. “What? But you just saw him - he had horns.” It would have been impossible to miss them, even from behind.

 

Astarion’s lips part, his confusion turning to concern. He clears his throat. “Darling, how can I approach this tactfully? Hm.” He brings a hand thoughtfully to his mouth. “Are you sure that your brain isn’t… filling in the blanks? Seeing what it wants to see?”

 

“What it wants to- I never want to see him again.” You twinge, momentarily doubting even yourself. The mystical lighting of the garden casts long shadows… “I “I’m sure. I know what I saw - you didn’t see him up close like I did. You must have missed them.” You cross your arms across your chest, gently rubbing your bare arms for warmth.

 

“My vision is without fault, darling. Garett had no horns - if he had I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between them from behind. And if I thought for even a moment that Wyll Ravengard was standing in front of you I wouldn’t have been able to restrain myself.”

 

You swallow. The doubt has started to settle within the darkest corners of your mind. Perhaps you are seeing things. You need to see him again. You need to be sure. “Fine then. We should keep an eye out for him.” 

 

“Never mind that. What did he want ?”

 

Your throat tightens, leaving your voice hoarse.  “He said we should go back to Baldur’s Gate immediately. I think I agree.” Whether you trust him or not, it seems more and more likely that Erliza’s motive is simply to hold you here, distracted, for as long as possible. If that is her game - returning home is the priority.

 

Astarion is unsettled. “I wouldn’t do anything that pompous prick says. You can’t trust a word from his mouth.”

 

“Maybe not - but if I’m going to earn my spot in Baldur’s Gate, I can’t disappear. It makes me no better than Wyll. They deserve better than an absent leader. I can’t trust the rest of the Council to find some way to oust me for good.”

 

Walking back into the thick of the party, the guests have started to grow more unruly by this hour. You don’t miss several individuals sneaking out together at different intervals - disappearing into the hallway with intention. There’s no mistaking what’s going on. Vampires, luring unwitting victims away from the general crowd. You have to pull your eyes away - you can’t think of the consequences of it. Interrupting it would only sow chaos - and it’s too early now for that. A glance up at the timepiece on the wall tells you there are still a few hours to go before your plan is set in motion. Still so much time for something to go wrong.

 

Surely no one will suspect anything beforehand… 

 

As long as they don’t do anything to give themselves away in the meantime.

 

Astarion abruptly stops you as you wander through the guests. Single-minded and tasked with a mission, you don’t see any sign of Garett. He nods his head across the room, but it isn’t Lord Arthur that you see. Instead it’s Gale - openly speaking with Erliza’s mage, Zane. You didn’t think that Gale had been properly invited, but he’s making no attempt to be discreet.  

 

“Is that… Gale?” You have to ask, given how uncertain you now feel about what you saw with Garett.

 

You remember his comment that Erliza had tried to make a deal with him. He claimed he denied her, but now he is looking far too comfortable in present company.

 

“I do believe it is.”

 

Gale is outfitted in robes much finer than the ones you last saw him wearing - midnight blue with a metallic shimmer. His hair is neatly tied up, half of it in a small bun at the back of his skull, the rest loosely dusting his shoulders. His conversation with the other mage is relaxed and friendly, his gestures large and animated. You can see his wide smile beneath his recently-groomed facial hair.

 

“Strange he wouldn’t mention the invitation,” you murmur. A paranoid whisper at the back of your mind questions if he’s betrayed you. If he’s betrayed the plan.

 

Astarion keeps close to you, his arm brushing yours. It takes everything in you not to grab his hand - the masks would do little good to shield you from the discerning eyes of your companions. “There are considerably more fanged guests here than I originally thought,” he says under his breath. He appears to be paying little attention to Gale, instead looking towards the door where a woman leads a lovestruck looking man in a playful chase down the hall. “She’s either brave or stupid to invite this many into her home.”

 

The crowd shifts, and you’ve lost sight of the wizard. Damn it. For you, it’s more difficult to tell the living from the death-touched.

 

The vampires can certainly identify you as one of the living, though. Curious gazes drift towards you as you pass - a few lingering ones interrupted when they take note of the man beside you. The night is heating up, and her guests are becoming expectant. Hungry. And in mixed company, you don’t think the servants are passing out glasses of blood to just anyone. Why would they need to, when they are more than comfortable taking it from the source?

 

“How many?”

 

Astarion surveys the room again. “Close to half.”

 

“ Half ?” You express your alarm a little too loudly. 

 

He nods. “More than before. Stay close to me.”

 

“Are there more than before, or-”

 

“Yes. Probably.” He stops you. The mortal guests are expendable. Refreshments for those inclined to blood.

 

Even so, save for the servants, almost everyone here holds a title, though you can only identify a few of them. The living have social status. People that will be noticed if they-

 

“Oh no.” You whisper, frozen. You have a sneaking suspicion you know why she’s invited so many vampires. And another for why they’ve all agreed to come. Not only for entertainment - but for power. These vampires aren’t spawn - but full vampires, from far and wide across the realms of Faerun. Had your invitation been of no special consequence, other than to serve as an hors-d'oeuvre? 

 

“We need to find our party crashers. Now.”

 

Your original plan had been a simple one: hold up Erliza in her opulent ballroom until just before sunrise. The room’s magnificent floor to ceiling windows have no protective curtains - so the doors would be barricaded before she could retreat to the safety of darkness. Such a public death would expose her for what she was, and allow your reputation to remain unsullied by attempting to assassinate her in a more obvious way. 

 

But now there are lives on the line. Lives that can’t wait until sunrise.

 

“Wait,” Astarion hisses. His cold hand is clamped around your wrist. When you turn to him, he grabs the other. “You’re going to draw attention to yourself like that. Your heart is louder than the gods’ damned music.” He pulls you into a fake dance, side-stepping back and forth. “Be subtle, and keep a lookout.”

 

Your shoulders relax as you catch onto the game. He’s right. There’s still time. Hours, even. But it’s hard to relax. As he turns you around to view the other side of the room over his shoulder, you don’t see anyone of consequence. Not Shadowheart, not Gale, not Garett - and not the rebels. “I don’t see them,” you lament.

 

“That’s good. That means they’re blending in. Shocking, really - I didn’t think those filthy pigs had it in them. Well, now that I think about it… it’s more likely that they’re hiding.”

 

Your mind goes blank as you see Erliza floating through the crowd towards you, her eyes locked on yours as she glides across the dancefloor with purpose. If the masks offered you any protection from recognition before, they don’t anymore. There’s a knowing smile dancing across her lips, elegant and powerful. A reminder that this is her domain, and that she’s in control. Her new fiance is nowhere in sight.  Astarion turns you just before she reaches you, without any time left to share private words.

 

“Lord Ancunin,” she drawls in a fairy-like voice that you’re unaccustomed to. The pitch is higher than normal, reminding you of the show that she’s putting on.

 

“Lady Daressin,” he replies flatly, lacking all enthusiasm. “How lovely to receive your attention. I’m surprised you have the time to honor me with it this evening. Congratulations on your…engagement. Though I must say that your choice was certainly… unexpected.”

 

She bats her eyelashes. “Oh? It wasn’t obvious?”

 

“I was under the distinct impression that Lord Arthur was your betrothed - a belief I would say that he himself shared. Why else would he have shared dinner with us?”

 

Erliza laughs. “No, of course not. Lord Arthur is too unpredictable.” Her eyes sparkle as she looks you over. “A handsome man and a catch - but our visions were never quite the same.”

 

So instead she’s primed to marry the boy she’s held as a political hostage since he was a child. Her spawn, who can refuse his mistress nothing. Your stomach turns. “Owaren is a much better arrangement. Through him, we have a chance to unite the Isles once again.”

 

A better arrangement . A vile one. An arrangement she can control . She would never have that with Garett. You wonder if the boy knows whatever family he has left will likely be slaughtered in the name of achieving that goal. 

Of course he does. If he didn’t know what she was capable of before, he would have figured it out the moment that Erliza made him kill his friend by his hands.

 

“In any case, Lord Ancunin. Please feel free to show the Duke down the hall to the lounge. They’re serving the most marvelous drinks from every corner of Faerun. I’d encourage you not to miss it.” Her melodic laugh darkens as her eyes settle on you. It’s a fight to keep your chin up - you know what she’s implying. 

 

You can feel Astarion in your peripheral vision, but you don’t look at him. Your poker face is fragile, and you somehow feel that the aloof Erliza can sense everything, always remaining several steps ahead.

 

“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Daressin,” Astarion replies. “Perhaps we’ll take a look.”

 

“See that you do. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity - you won’t want to miss it. Even if you’ve already indulged once tonight.” Something ominous lives beneath her smile - it’s more of a smirk. She pats Astarion’s shoulder as she continues past him, holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long time. As if she’s passing a secret to him that you aren’t in on.

 

Once she’s moved safely out of earshot, you finally allow yourself to look at him. “What was that about?” You accuse nervously. You’re clenching your legs together now, paranoid that the wounds have reopened, and that every vampire in this room is aware of what Astarion has done to you.

He clears his throat. “She’s trying to throw you off. Don’t let it get to you.” His tone doesn’t inspire confidence. You can see that his eyes are still fixed on Erliza as she’s moved on to her next guests.

 

“Something is wrong here.” The skin prickles on the back of your neck. “Maybe Garett was right - we should go.”

 

“Go?” Astarion asks incredulously, pulling you into a farce of a dance to keep you both from standing with your jaws on the floor. “If we go, the resistance-”

 

“We need to find them,” your heart skips as you glance desperately around the room for any sign. They can’t all be hiding. They came in under the pretense of forged invitations. They can’t exactly congregate-”

 

“Keep your voice down,” he hisses, holding a finger to your lips. He leans forward until his own lips brush the top of your ear. “Assume we’re surrounded by enemies. Enemies with superior senses. Superior hearing .”

 

You feel the weight of several surrounding eyes on you. Erliza’s acknowledgment of you had drummed up a curiosity, and although you don’t think they heard what was said, Astarion is right. Speaking is a risk.

 

“The lounge,” you sigh. “We should go see the lounge that Lady Daressin spoke of,” you say loudly. If anyone was happening to listen in, it might throw them off.

 

Astarion grimaces and something in your eyes tells you he disagrees, but in a public venue he chooses not to argue. “Of course,” he chokes through a cloud of hesitation. “Let’s go see the lounge.”

 

                               

---

 

 

Just down the dark hallway, the crowd thins out. A luxurious set of double doors wait at the end, a cleanly dressed guard with no visible weapons standing just in front of them. When he sees Astarion, he offers a polite bow.

 

“Lord Ancunin,” he welcomes, standing aside and gesturing at the door. “Good evening. Accompanied by a lovely guest, I see.”

 

The interaction immediately sets off the warning bells in your mind. Why does the guard know Astarion well enough to address him by name, even masked, but not you? You were the one Erliza invited.

 

Astarion pauses, his eyes narrowing. He too recognizes that something is amiss. “It’s my guest you should be addressing. She is the Duke of Baldur’s Gate.”

 

The guard opens his mouth and cocks his head slightly, the corner of his mouth flitting upwards as if he might laugh. But whatever confusion catches him, he shakes it off and clears his throat. “Right. Of course. My apologies, My Lady.” The curt bow he offers you is much less convincing.

 

He opens one of the doors for you, while Astarion still looks at him with some suspicion. There’s something very, very odd about the lounge - and the inkling of conspiracy that had begun to take root in your mind is seeming more and more likely. The door clicks shut behind you, and you swear you hear the turning of a lock.

 

The lounge is not immediately behind the door - instead, it’s a small vestibule with dim, purple lighting; sconces lit with magic lining the walls. A single person sits behind a heavy mahogany desk, writing something with a quill in a thick book. He looks up as you both enter, pushing his glasses up his nose. There’s another door waiting just to the right of him.

 

“Astarion…” coming here was a mistake. The room is filled with an invisible magic, the air suddenly heavy. There’s a ward in this room forbidding the use of any magic.

 

His look is apologetic, but it’s too late to turn back.

 

“Good evening,” the man at the desk says. He pulls his quill away and runs his finger down several pages that he flutters through. “Lord Ancunin,” he settles. “Forgive the hesitation. There are so many names.”

 

“It’s quite alright,” Astarion says cooly, the tone of it unrecognizably deep. “There are so many people here tonight - you can’t be expected to know all of them.”

 

The man tilts his head and lifts his quill again to make a small mark on the page. “It’s my job to properly address all of Lady Daressin’s guests.”

 

Not you, apparently. 

 

Just like the doorman. Her staff is catering to the vampires.

 

“Is this the way to the lounge ?” Astarion asks, pointing at the door behind the staff member.

  

The man nods. “Go on.”

 

But as the two of you approach, he abruptly stretches out from his chair and holds his palm against the door at his side to prevent it from opening.

“Is there a problem?” Astarion asks with a scoff.

The man clears his throat and raises his eyebrows, tilting his chin in your direction. An unspoken etiquette is in breach - something that Astarion isn’t privy to. Something that has to do with you.

You stiffen, one foot sliding back towards the main entrance. On the floor, you think you see a smear of blood, smaller than your hand, that hasn’t been entirely wiped away. It could be anything else, of course. It probably isn’t.

“I’m afraid I’m still not sure what the problem is. Are we free to enter, or not? This is the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate that you’re refusing to address.”

 

“There are rules here, Ancunin,” his voice is low and gruff.

 

“Your Lady wasn’t kind enough to inform me of them.”

 

The man sighs, and holds up a hand to his temple. His eyes bore holes into Astarion - and when his face falls, you realize that they’re sharing a telepathic conversation of some kind. His chin tucks in slightly, and his eyes avoid yours as disgust spreads across his expression. Whatever secret they're keeping from you, you start to doubt everything. In the lair of vampires, can you trust Astarion? Does he have any loyalty to his own kind?

The lounge is where vampires take their victims to feed on - and Erliza's earlier comments weigh heavily on your mind. They're serving the most marvelous drinks from every corner of Faerun. The mortal guests. It comes as no surprise - you had put it together. But it didn't occur to you until you stand here now that your presence would be under close scrutiny. They wouldn't want one of their pigs squealing, after all. Your status offers you no protection. Here, Astarion holds all of the power.

 

“Of course,” Astarion says finally out loud, shrugging off the abhorrence that he'd worn on his face only seconds prior. “Please forgive my ignorance. I have never attended an event of such status before.”

 

He turns to you, carefully positioning himself so his back is turned towards the watchman. Trust me , he mouths slowly, without even the faintest click of the tongue. Your heart rate increases regardless, and you step back from him - but it’s too late. His command catches you off guard, laced with an authority you have no choice but to follow. Whatever ward placed on the room can be surpassed by immortal gifts.

 

“Sleep.”

 

You utter a sound of betrayal from your throat, but your body goes limp under the order, and you never feel yourself hit the floor.

Chapter 32: The Lounge

The Elfsong is alight with raucous celebration, the building itself sustaining minor damage in the Battle for Baldur’s Gate. Already the commonfolk are calling it that - you think it’s far too early to give an event of such scale a name while people are still grieving their loved ones. Only a few days out from the final showdown with the Absolute, you’ve felt sullen and empty as you try to fill the gap that Wyll left behind. He’s given you his estate. His servants. His title (at least temporarily). And yet you want to pull away from all of it.

 

You swish around the mysterious alcohol in your cup. Whatever it is, it’s bitter and watered down - a mixture of whatever the bar has left. The supply chain will take time to recover. It seems that many others have been coming here to smother their sorrows of losing friends, family, and homes. In desperation, a shortage of medical disinfectant has also led to the city apprehending any clear spirits. The price has since inflated by several hundred percent, but the barkeep makes an exception for the saviors. 

 

Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and Gale are managing to laugh together like nothing is wrong. Like everything is magically normal again. As relieved as you are to have them all alive, tonight their joy grates on you. At first they try to pull you into their conversation, but you have little to offer them in return. Sensing that you only dampen the mood when you speak, you choose to stay mute.

 

Halsin appears through the crowd, his hulking form dwarfing most of the room. He pushes his way through and slides into the bench next to you, where you have your leg propped up. 

 

“How’s the leg?” Halsin asks as he gazes down on it.

 

“Terrible,” you grimace. You wince at the memory of him holding you down while the bone was reset. “There isn’t enough medicine to go around.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he frowns. “You know, if you’d allow it, several extended sessions of healing might-”

 

“Thank you, but no,” you interrupt. “There are others that are in more dire straits than I.”

Everyone with any affinity for healing has been working around the clock in small, pop up medical centers around the city. You’ll be okay. You aren’t dying. You only feel as if you are.

 

“I’m sure that anyone would make an exception for you - they’d never let Wyll’s intended suffer. I can-”

 

“Thank you, Halsin,” you say more firmly this time. You shuffle yourself up a little bit straighter against the wall that you’ve propped up against. “But no one should be making any exceptions for me right now. Not when there are others staring down death. Magic isn’t without its limits. Look at yourself - you’re exhausted.”

 

Halsin has been tirelessly devoting himself to searching the rubble for trapped survivors, and spending any extra hours helping in the medical tents. He’s eager to return to the Grove, but noble enough that he won’t abandon the city while he can still be of service.

 

He sighs. “As you wish. But the offer remains, should you change your mind. Perhaps in a few days, once the worst of it all has died down. They say that help is on the way.”

 

“Some injuries just take time,” you insist. You shudder as you take a big gulp from your cup. “I’m thankful that we all came out alive. At the very least, it’s forcing me to rest.”

 

Astarion snorts, rolling his eyes from across the table in the most obvious way imaginable. He’s been remarkably quiet tonight, aside from his obnoxious flirtations with the woman serving the table. You’re surprised he even came at all, after disappearing without a word for several days, only to show up in expensive clothes and a fresh haircut. “There’s no need to be so virtuous about it - if help is offered you should take it. You look pathetic like that, hobbling around with those wooden things. A hero should look strong - the city owes you that. No one will revere a cripple.”

 

Shadowheart gives him a swift punch to the arm, but her dazed expression that follows suggests that it hurt her more than him. The ascended vampire doesn’t flinch. “You’re an ass,” she chides.

 

Astarion scowls, unamused. “It’s true. Image is everything. And when you have such a strapping selection of heroes to pick from, who do you think is most palatable to the public? Who will they paint pictures of?”

 

“Battle scars are honorable.” Lae’zel’s metal tankard is set on the table with a thunk.

 

“Scars, perhaps,” Astarion muses. He tilts his head. “But I am curious, Lae’zel - what happens to gith that are no longer able to fight?”

 

She averts her eyes.

 

“Might you tone down your cruelty, Astarion?” Gale asks. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the evening. Who invited you, anyway? You drop off the face of the world for days, only to come back to jeer at us?”

 

“Well, unfortunately you idiots do make the prospect of eternity a little more exciting. You’ve grown on me.”

 

“Idiots?” Gale is taken aback. “I’ll have you know that I graduated-”

Shadowheart puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you. Look at him smirk - it’s what he wants.”

 

“I should go back to the manor,” you say awkwardly, gingerly swinging your leg down and reaching for your crutches. “I don’t want to keep Barnabus waiting too late with the carriage.” 

 

Several days ago, you would have yearned to stay with them in the tavern for a dose of normalcy and companionship. But tonight they feel like strangers. You’re more than ready to return to the quiet halls of Ravengard Manor.

 

“Already?” Shadowheart pouts. Somehow, she’s managed to get tipsy on the diluted alcohol. “But Halsin’s only just gotten here.”

 

“I have some early meetings with the Council.” A half truth. The meetings aren’t until the afternoon. “They aren’t thrilled about Wyll naming a proxy when he’s only just been appointed himself. I’ll need to smooth things over.”

 

“Yes, run along home now and sulk over your dear prince,” Astarion says coldly, pantomiming his fingers walking through the air. “Or… maybe hobble is the better word?”

 

Your throat hitches. Why is he being so beastly tonight?

 

“Astarion!” Shadowheart snaps, slamming a hand on the table and inspiring an attentive silence from the nearby tables. “What in the hells has gotten into you?”

 

He sits back against the back of the bench and shrugs - not an ounce of remorse on his smug face.

 

“One taste of power and he’s embraced the folly of every vampire before him.” Halsin shakes his head.

 

“Ha,” Astarion laughs bitterly. “I’m nothing like them.”

 

You use a crutch to right yourself as Halsin moves to let you out. “Do you need any help getting to your carriage?”

 

“No,” you refuse the help, unwilling to look any of them in the eyes as you bobble and attempt to fully right yourself. The crutches are awkward, and the spot where they dig into your underarms burns. “I’m perfectly capable.”

 

“If anyone tries to mug you on the way out, at least you can hit them with one of those big sticks before you fall over.” You ignore his twisted comment. This isn’t the Astarion you’ve come to know - why is he determined to get under your skin? After everything you’ve done for him-

 

You brush off his offensive behavior and wish the table goodnight, before swinging yourself away on the crutches, summoning all of the pride you can muster.

 

You don’t know it yet, but it’s the last time you’ll be seeing them for a while.

 

Curiously, Astarion appears at your side the moment you step out into the cool night air. “Go away,” you snap. “I don’t need any help - and I certainly don’t need it from you.”

 

“Tough words from someone who could be toppled in half of a second.” He keeps your slow pace, taking exaggerated steps with long pauses between them. 

 

“Go to hell,” you mutter, your temper rising.

 

“Maybe I’ll see your boyfriend there.” 

 

You want to slap that stupid smirk off of his face. “Gods, Astarion! Don’t you have anything better to do than torment me?”

 

“I actually canceled my appointment to kick puppies for this - so, no.” You know that he’s joking, but still the words make you seethe. 

 

You pick up the pace, hurling your body forward with the largest motions you can possibly make. But you’re imprecise and distracted, and one of the crutches catches a spot of mud. It sticks as you try to pull it forward again, setting you off balance. Instinctually your body leans on the remaining crutch to save itself, yanking your arm as you topple forwards. Astarion catches you, a blur of motion and newly acquired vampiric speed as he steps around to the front of you and catches you by the arm on the side of your good leg, leaving the bad one to swing wildly to the side. The crutch that got stuck falls to the ground at your side.

 

“See? Aren’t you grateful that I’m here?” He asks, his touch lingering a bit too long. Once you’re steadied, he reaches down and picks up the crutch, handing it to you.

 

You swipe it from him. “You’re the reason I almost fell in the first place.”

 

“That’s not fair,” he tuts. “I didn’t make you move recklessly. I didn’t push you.”

 

“You might as well have.” You snap. Barnabus is snoring on the front of the carriage, hat over his face and arms tucked across his chest. He’s entirely oblivious to the interaction.

 

“You should be grateful I was here to supervise,” Astarion prattles on with inflated self-importance. “Your driver looks old enough to have been a boy when I was turned. The well-being of the Duke of Baldur’s Gate shouldn’t be left to a tired old man.”

 

“I’m not the Duke.”

 

Astarion rolls his eyes again. “Technicalities.” He stands between you and the carriage. “Are you suitably protected at Ravengard Manor?”

 

“Why, are you planning a coup?” You snort. “Barnabus!” You call, trying to get him to stir.

 

“What? No-” Astarion is caught off guard. He abruptly pauses as Barnabus startles awake. 

The servant of the Ravengards fixes his hat and looks around in the darkness, old, cataract encrusted eyes squinting out into the darkness. “My Lady, is that you?” He asks with a cough. “Who is that with you?”

 

“It’s Lord Ancunin,” you reply drily. “An acquaintance. He means no harm.” You think.

 

“Acquaintance?” Astarion huffs in offense - good. He takes it exactly as you intended. “I should think that we’re more than-”

 

You move around him. “What else would I call someone who I’ve only known a few weeks?” You ask.

 

Astarion yanks open the door of your carriage for you. “Well. You call one of them your fiance.” 

 

                                                       

---

 

The world is fuzzy again, your vision blurry as you awaken in a darkened room. It feels eerily similar to when you woke up from the poison. Immediately the unpleasant smell of smoke, wine, and bodily fluids of every variety bombards your nose. Your dry throat begs for water - but you’d settle for any sort of liquid you could swallow right about now. You feel a hand on your hair that presses you down as you try to rise - you’re splayed out on your side, on some sort of couch, your head in a lap that you hope is Astarion’s. The memory of what happened before you lost consciousness slowly returns to you, and the pressure of him holding your weak body down sends you into a panic. Soon he’s scooping you up and pulling you into his lap, outstretching your neck to his mouth with firm hands. 

 

You squirm against him, your parched vocal cords failing you. So this is it then - he’s betrayed you after all of this time. He’s already had a taste of you tonight - if he takes another you’ll be out until the morning, at least. But as he lunges for your neck, and you steel yourself for the incoming pain, his teeth only graze your flesh - they don’t pierce.

 

“Shh,” he whispers into your flesh. “You aren’t safe here. Do not give any indication that you’re lucid. Do you understand?”

 

You utter a faint grunt.

 

“Open your eyes if you need - but I must warn you it’s gruesome here. You need to swallow your horror. There’s nothing we can do for them right now. No one else will touch you as long as they believe that you’re my mark.”

 

His words don’t bode well for what it is that you’re about to see. As he pulls away from you, you allow your head to rest on his chest as your eyes wander. Right away, you have to bite back a horrified gasp. Even after every horror that you’ve seen - this is something else entirely. You’re in the thick of a vampire den, littered with human bodies, many undressed. Several lay lifelessly on the floor, skin pale and blue. One woman looks as if a pack of dogs had a go at her - dozens of bite marks trail her bare thighs, up her ribcage and onto her breasts. The skin is torn - her assailant wasn’t gentle. They bit to hurt, not merely to drink - nonsensical locations that wouldn’t have yielded an easy flow of blood. Her clothes are gone, but a golden circlet on her forehead dangles over her closed eyes - she was important to someone. She’s one of many others - male and female, the vampires don’t discriminate.

 

What’s happening here, that so many mortal nobles are being recklessly slaughtered? This is foolish behavior from Lady Daressin - someone is going to notice. Someone knows that they came here. It won’t take long to put the pieces together.

 

Just across a wooden table littered with half empty wine bottles and a powdery drug that you don’t recognize enough to know by name is another couch roughly the same size, shape, and color as the one that you’re on. You can’t look for more than a second as two vampires share a single victim, in more ways than one. You can’t make out any identifying features of the hunk of naked flesh beneath them - the person’s moans weaken with every minute. 

 

Someone sits down on the couch beside Astarion, making room for himself - and you squeeze your eyes shut.

 

“Who have you got there?” The man has an accent, suggesting that this is not his primary language. He is from somewhere far away enough that you can’t even place it. “You’ve hardly touched her - is she not to your liking? Or would you prefer to trade for a… male variety?”

 

Astarion grips you a little more tightly, which does little to reassure you. You could turn over and throw up on the floor right about now, but you force yourself to remain still.

 

“I prefer to enjoy my meals, thank you. Not all of us take meals so… barbarically.” 

 

“Barbaric?” The vampire laughs. “Oh dear. You’re still young , aren’t you? Give her here, I’ll show you how it’s done. Where they taste the sweetest.” You feel an unfamiliar hand on your leg as the stranger moves closer.

 

You can’t help yourself under his touch, you pull your leg away, clinging to Astarion.

 

“Touch her again, and you’ll lose your hand,” Astarion warns.

“Oh my,” the stranger sighs with a click of his tongue. “I see. You care for this one, then. You’ll grow out of that soon enough.”

 

“I don’t like it when others touch my things,” Astarion growls. You feel the guttural rumble in his chest against your ear.

 

“Why bring to the lounge what you don’t intend to share?” The vampire asks. “It takes the fun out of the game. You might have been better off sneaking away somewhere more private.”

 

Astarion’s silence only eggs on the man further. “Oh, you are a young one, aren’t you? You’ve never done this before. Tell me, have you ever even created a spawn yet?” He laughs. “You haven’t! I can see it on your face. Afraid you’ll kill her, are you? It’s cute that you care for this one. I cared for my first, too, at least in a way - you’ll tire of her soon enough. They become much less interesting when they’re supplicant - at least yours must hold some importance, if she’s here. Tell you what: I’ll walk you through it. Start to finish. I won’t even ask anything of you in return. There’s only a little bit of luck involved the first time.”

 

“You insult me,” Astarion replies. “You’ll make yourself scarce, if you know what’s good for you.”

 

Your hand helplessly clenches the fabric of his shirt. This was so, so stupid. You never should have come here. 

 

“Boy, do you have any idea how old I am? Any idea who I am? I am Lord Alaric Von Morovitch. Likely the oldest vampire in this entire room - nay, this entire castle. You should be kissing my feet. Begging me to share my centuries of knowledge with-”

 

“I don’t care if you're the gods’ damned king of the universe,” Astarion retorts sourly. “I’ll be more than happy to drink your blood next if you don’t get out of my sight.”

 

“Lord Von Morovitch,” a familiar voice interrupts before he can descend into a rage. You can’t see him from this angle, but you know that it’s Garett. He’s standing behind the couch. “I must warn you - this is one guest you don’t want to duel. Not only is Lord Ancunin one of the saviors of Baldur’s Gate from the mindflayer attacks, but he also wields incredible power. He’s the one that completed the Rite of Profane Ascension.”

 

Von Morovitch is quiet. “Lord Ancunin. My apologies. I didn’t know.” He stands from the couch, suddenly eager to slink away, an animal wounded.

 

“There there, Alaric. I’m certain Lord Ancunin can find it in his heart to forgive you for this transgression on account of the occasion. It would be a bad omen to spill blood of another guest at an engagement party of all things.”

 

Ironic that the gallons of mortal blood that have been so far spilled in this room aren’t enough of a ‘bad omen.’ No. You aren’t considered guests at all, but food . Von Morovitch scurries away, but Garett’s hand runs across the top of the couch as he moves to take his place.

 

“We meet again, Astarion,” he says, reaching forward and pouring himself a glass of wine from one of the half dozen bottles on the table. “One could say it’s fate.”

 

“I don’t believe in fate.”

 

“No? Too bad.” Garett shakes his head. “I don’t know how some people walk through life with no faith.”

 

You watch as he swishes a mouthful of the wine around in his mouth, contemplating the taste. Now, sneaking a glimpse at him… it’s true. He doesn’t look like Wyll. No horns. No scar. No stone eye. Just a man with a similar enough face to be a brother to him.

 

“Our little Grand Duke is looking worse for wear,” Garett notes. “I must admit that I am surprised, Astarion - I knew you craved power, but I did get the feeling that you had some care for her well-being. I never thought you’d bring her to this place.”

 

“Erliza insisted.”

 

Garett sighs and drapes one leg over the other, enjoying another sip of wine. “I did try to warn the little Duke to leave.”

 

Astarion doesn’t seem invested in continuing the conversation.

 

But the other vampire is determined not to let it die. He rolls his shoulders back into the couch, making himself comfortable. “You know... you can only pretend to feed from her for so long before others notice. Everyone here is immensely interested in who we're having for dessert."

 

“We’ll be on our way shortly.”

 

Garett laughs. “You might be. But sadly, she won’t be permitted to leave with you.”

 

Your stomach lurches. Is that it then? Every mortal that sets foot in this room is marked for death. Of course - Lady Daressin wouldn't want some of the most important people in the world spreading rumors of her.

 

“What do you mean?” Astarion asks after another extended silence.

 

Garett cocks his head in confusion. “Von Morovitch was right. You’ve never done this before, have you?  She should have taken the out while she had the chance. You brought her here - I'm afraid the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate is part of the game now.”

 

Chapter 33: Host

He knows. He knows. He knowsheknowsheknows-

 

He doesn’t know. Shadowheart and Karlach have kept your secret from the others, at least for now.

 

But his huge puppydog eyes look at you, smoldering like lava in the light of the fire, and you can’t stand it-

 

“Are you okay?” 

 

You’re watching Wyll’s full lips open - you’re sure he’s said something else before that - but it’s lost now. You’re too ashamed to admit that you’ve been lost in the aether of your own guilt. Why do you feel guilty, anyway? You shouldn’t… but there’s something about Wyll that’s starting to get to you. His kindness. The way he looks at you. He’s been such a positive influence on the group, it’s impossible not to like him. You think that deep down, you want him to like you back. Try as you might to swallow back the unwanted desire for him, it’s impossible. 

 

And maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to give into your budding crush - it will keep your mind off of the more insidious feeling that’s been building up towards-

 

 It’s finally a frantic wave of his hand in front of your face that pulls you back.

 

“Yes,” you smile quickly, adjusting your hair.

 

He nudges the edge of your plate closer to you with the rim of his boot. “You should eat before the ants march on it. You fought well today - you’re looking a little pale.”

 

Thank the gods you don’t have any food in your mouth - or you might have just choked on it. Wyll doesn’t know that you’ve ever given Astarion your blood more than once.

 

“Pale?” Karlach asks with a laugh, coming to your rescue. “Wyll, are you blind? She’s going red as a-”

 

Maybe not your rescue, then. 

 

“Thank you, Karlach,” you abruptly cut her off and pick up your plate again. Your hands are trembling as you shove a quick bite of the mixture that Gale’s put together for dinner. You chew it quickly and keep your eyes down. The food looks suspicious, but tastes alright. There’s rough spice to mask vegetables slightly past their prime.

You can feel her watching you as you scarf down the meal in front of you. She was trying to spare you from his suspicion - but she’s only succeeded in embarrassing you. 

 

“Red? She’s not going red, that’s the fire - or maybe your own skin reflecting - “ Bless Wyll. He’s naive. 

 

“Oh no, she’s definitely blushing. I can smell the blood rushing to her cheeks,” Astarion muses. Interjecting himself in conversations he doesn’t belong, as usual.

 

You whip your head to see him standing behind the three of you, recently emerged from the woods. He’s just returned from a successful hunt - you can tell by the ferocity in his eyes and the swagger in his step… but also more obviously from his disheveled clothes and hair. He hasn’t been used to fighting for his meals lately, and there’s evidence on his shirt.

 

“What?” Your heart rate spikes in alarm. “Can you-”

 

Karlach isn’t amused. Her lip turned up in a sneer, she rolls her eyes. “He’s lying to you.”

 

It isn’t comforting - you don’t relax.

 

Astarion shrugs. “Am I? Ah. Yes. It must just be the lingering blood on my shirt then.”

 

But the damage is done - you’ll be left wondering if there’s truth to it for months to come.

 

“You’re welcome to join us, Astarion” Wyll says, gesturing to the empty space beside him. Always a gentleman, trying to diffuse the tension.

 

Astarion gives him a pointed frown. “I’ll pass. I’m afraid I’ve already eaten.” His eyes linger on you just a little too long, and you regret looking up. You tuck back into your food, now almost gone.

 

“Too bad,” Wyll says wistfully, placing his fork down on the plate with a clink.

 

“What’s wrong?” Karlach asks sourly. “Too good for our company even after we saved your ass today?”

 

“It wasn’t much of a fight - don’t be so dramatic.”

 

“Oh. Then maybe we should let you handle the next hunter that comes after you on your own then.”

 

You all know that she doesn’t mean it. Even though Astarion hasn’t been her favorite person - particularly since she learned that he was feeding off of you regularly - she’s too loyal to abandon any of you.

 

Astarion flinches, almost imperceptibly - just long enough to catch the shadow of fear that passes across his face. “Maybe you should,” he says with a tight swallow, before stalking away.

 

Wyll looks bewildered. “That was harsh, don’t you think? What’s gotten into you, Karlach?”

 

Her eyes fall to the ground and she shrinks. “I - you’re right.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean it. He can just be such an ass sometimes - I let my temper get the better of me.”

 

“He only rejected a meal with us - that’s hardly different from normal.”

 

Karlach clenches and unclenches her hands, not meeting Wyll’s gaze. “I know. I know. I just can’t stand how ungrateful he is, after everything that-” she barely catches herself from saying your name - the first letter choked into silence. “We’ve done for him,” she corrects.

 

Wyll’s confusion doesn’t relent - there’s context that he’s lacking. From his perspective, you’ve all only known each other a few days. How much has the group really done for him? “Right then. Well. He certainly can be off-putting, I won’t argue with you there.”

                                 

---

“The game,” Astarion repeats coldly, waiting for Garett to explain the ominous, unknown threat that now hangs in the air. 

 

Garett, with his flair for the theatrics, is not entirely unlike Astarion. Both of them relish any moment where they know something that you don’t - and the pleasure it brings to watch you squirm in anticipation of the knowledge. He glances around, taking note of who is nearby, before he leans closer to Astarion and brings his hand up to his face to hide his lips. You keep your eyelids mostly hooded, only allowing them to remain open a crack - leaving the world greyish and flickering.

 

“The game ,” he repeats with a smirk. “Was outlined in Erliza’s invitation to her guests of a certain… persuasion. “Something entirely of Erliza’s own creation - something entirely brilliant… and entirely batshit. She claims it’s an ancient, albeit rare tradition - though I could find no mention of it in the hundreds of texts I scoured. I’m not convinced she didn’t come up with it on her own accord - gods know it isn’t the first lie she’s told.”

 

“Get on with it,” Astarion bites through gritted teeth. “Your exposition bores me.” His hand grips you tighter - protectively, but lacking restraint.

 

“Vampires and mortal nobility, invited to one soiree to end all others. Mostly minor lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses - rarely does one get someone more important to show up. Over the night, the vampires lure their prey back to the den,” Garett makes a sweeping circling gesture above his head. “And they drink. Not to kill - of course not. That would be suspicious . All of those mortal nobles are expected home after all - someone will miss them.”

 

You almost shoot up straight and curse. Of course. 

 

“They’re turning them.” It dawns on Astarion at the same time, his eyes dancing across the scene of the room again - fully absorbing the cruel debauchery before you.

 

Garett raises his eyebrows and nods, lifting his wine glass in a false toast to Astarion’s perception. “Exactly. But the game… is that the mortals are passed around over the course of the night, over and over again and shared, and in the end, no one is sure who will get the last drop of whom.”

 

Like roulette .

 

“It’s exciting, really - brings an interesting twist to the night. When the new spawn inevitably begin to rise again over the next few days… they’ll play all sorts of further games to figure out who belongs to whom. What new toys they get to bring home - and what new political position it puts them in.”

 

Astarion is silent.

“And it seems that Von Morovitch caught you cheating.”

 

“Cheating? I never agreed- ”

 

“The other vampires won’t like that, Ancunin.” Garett clicks his tongue. “You might have flown under the radar if you’d finished her quickly enough - but now he’ll talk. The room won’t take kindly to a bad sport. And if I had to guess… it appears that the room is running a little short on fresh blood. You’re going to have a lot of attention soon.”

 

“How do I get her out?”

 

Garett lets out a sharp laugh. “Get her out? Oh dear. I might have taken you for a fool - but you’re too late for that. There’s one door and no windows. There is no way out. But I do have to ask, because I’ve been dying to know. Why haven’t you taken her for yourself already? You’ve had every opportunity - you’ve tasted her. And yet she remains unchanged. Why, when you have so much power at your fingers?”

 

“ How do I get her out ?” Astarion repeats with a growl, shaking off Garett’s provocations.

 

“The way I see it now, Ancunin… you have two options. Option one, drink her down, and fast, like a shot of spirits - make her yours before anyone else here picks a fight-”

 

“Let them try!” He snaps, too loudly.

 

Garett holds up his hands. “Woah there. You haven’t even let me give the second option. You’ll want to hear this one. I find myself wanting to help you and the Duke, Astarion. Erliza slighted me, after all - nothing would give me greater joy than undermining her now.”

 

“You should have led with that then.” Astarion narrows his eyes.

 

Garett bites his plump lower lip, glossy enough that you think he might be wearing a spot of makeup. “I didn’t lead with it because you won’t like this one either - but I hope that you recognize the rationality in it.”

 

“Spit it out then.”

 

Garett leaves you both in extended silence, taking a long drink from his wine glass, slurping straight from the bottom with a dramatic exhale at the end.

 

“We can participate in the game, Astarion. Put on airs. Play pretend. We can pass her back and forth to keep the eyes and the questions at bay. No one will pay us any mind. We’ll drink her almost to oblivion… take our time with it. There will be an opportunity to get her out after the vampires go upstairs to rest during the daytime. We’ll have to be quick though, because if she’s unconscious and a spawn comes around-”

 

“I will tear your entrails from your body and hang them from the chandelier before I let you place your grimy hands on her.”

 

“I’d never violate her like some of these pigs. No hands, scout’s honor,” Garret places one hand on his chest, the other in the air. “Just fangs.”

 

“ No . Suggest it again and you won’t walk out of here.”

 

Garett clenches his jaw, then chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m offering you a boon, Astarion. I know how this goes. As strong as you are, you can’t take down an entire room of recently fed vampires on your own. Of course, if you’d like to make an enemy of me… I’m equally happy to start spreading the word that someone isn’t sharing. How do you think that will end?”

“Anyone that tries to touch her will meet a very swift end. Get out of my sight.”

 

“How do you think Erliza will respond to her guests being slaughtered?”

 

“Her guests are being slaughtered.”

 

Another deep laugh from Garett. “Do you truly believe that mortals and vampires exist within the same caste? We are the top of the food chain, dear Astarion - they aren’t being slaughtered. They’re being elevated.”

 

“Ah, elevated. Yes. To the damnation of eternal slavery.”

 

“Then drink her with me if you don’t want that for her. If you worry that I’ll betray you and rip her mortality out from under you, you’re mistaken.”

 

“If you think I would trust you for even a second, you’re mistaken.”

 

“Do this now, if you want to retain her mortality and spare any outbreaks of violence. We’re already getting sidelong glances - have you noticed? We’ll drain her slowly over the next hours, and then place her in one of the coffins along the side of the room to ‘awaken.’ When morning comes and the party has ended… flee with your companions to the docks. There is a ship there waiting to return you to Baldur’s Gate - on my call.”

 

The air in the room shifts, and a new face enters the room.

 

Owaren. Erliza’s ward. Her fiance . The young man looks as if he’s in a haze - as if his mind has wandered somewhere far away while his body goes through the motions of life. His glassy eyes scan the room.

 

Garett straightens and mutters an expletive. “Astarion,” he says with more urgency. “There aren’t many left to drink from. Owaren is one of the hosts - one of the rules of the game is that the host gets whomever they ask for. And nothing is going to look more appetizing to him than the only unbitten apple in the room. Look at him - he’s starving . You can see it on his face. Erliza keeps him deprived.”

 

There’s a clear pathway from the main door to the couch that the three of you are seated on. It wouldn’t take long for him to notice you.

 

Astarion says your name, hardly louder than a whisper. You know what needs to be done, but it’s going to ruin everything . You won’t be conscious enough to help with the plan.

 

You open your eyes fully and look up at Astarion, concentrating only at his face. The horrible, crypt of a room begs for your attention in your peripheral vision. “Do what you have to - but don’t let me die.”

 

He lifts you up, cradling the back of your head with one hand, and your shoulder in the other. His lips don’t linger on the soft flesh of your neck for long - in present company you’re denied all romance. His fangs penetrate your flesh, and you moan as your eyes water from the sting of it - in his haste, it wasn’t gentle. His fangs remain, and you feel the blood leaving your veins - your ears ringing. You’ve already been pushed to the limit from the earlier encounter in the garden - how much do you have left to give?

 

His sips are slower than normal - pitiful swallows as he exercises enormous self-control to just suction the blood away from the open wound.

 

“Ancunin,” Garett’s voice warns. He sounds far away - underwater. “I don’t wish to alarm you, but Owaren is…” you don’t hear the rest. It floats away.

 

A hand touches your forehead, and Astarion yanks you away, only pulling his mouth away for a second. “Don’t!” He snaps, clinging to you.

 

“If you’re smart, Ancunin, you won’t make a scene. It will only draw his attention. Now... Sleep .”

 

No. You panic, unable to react when you realize what's happened. Garett’s command is directed at you, and your psyche falters under the weight of it. Garett is a powerful vampire - and now, feeling the way the command roots itself into your consciousness and begins to drag you down, you realize the fire that you’ve been playing with by provoking him. You try to keep your head above water, but your legs have forgotten how to swim, and your body is suddenly heavy, your pockets filled with rocks. You’re sinking, drowning into an unwilling state of sleep.

 

“What the hells?” Astarion hisses. You feel yourself being yanked to the far side of the couch as he collects all of your limbs and keeps your entire body in a tight ball in his lap.

 

“It’s kinder,” Garett says, and you think there’s a sadness to his voice. But you’re also losing consciousness fast - you can’t fight the pull of his order. If only Astarion hadn’t taken your blood earlier - if only you hadn’t given in to your whims - you might have been strong enough to fight his compulsion now. 

 

You try to whimper Astarion’s name, for the good it would do - but you’re fading too quickly now. Helpless. Left to the mercy of whatever comes next.

 

You feel his lips at your ear, just above where his fangs pierced. “I’ll protect you. I’ll get you out of here - I swear it.”

 

Desperate, you try to move your limbs, but they don’t respond beyond a shudder. 

 

Stay awake. Fight his command. But stay still.

 

The new command, you swear, comes through in your mind - Astarion’s voice clearer and more present than it had been out loud only a moment ago. Like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, you push off the hazy fog of Garett, and take a deep breath as Astarion’s fangs slot back inside of you. You still can’t move - not even your eyelids can flutter open - but you’ve kept your awareness. Ironically, he had compelled you out of the compulsion of another - but with it came another. 

 

Stay still. Did he intend to not give you a choice in the matter? Had it been an accident to add that in context of the spell?

 

“Owaren’s a good boy - but he’s not gentle,” Garett whispers. “I’ll be gentle. Let me-”

 

“What was that, Lord Arthur?” Another voice. Young - hollow. Somewhere nearby. Familiar and not, at the same time.

 

Garett lifts your arm, and brings your wrist to his mouth before Astarion can utter a word. Worse, you can’t yank it away, no matter how hard you try. He bites down. It’s not particularly gentle - but the wrist is a sensitive place to be bitten. Your throat creaks with a choked gasp as Astarion realizes a half second too late what’s happened.

 

The pain is enough to allow you to momentarily overcome the compulsion and tear your eyes open. It’s not Garett that holds your wrist between his teeth - it’s Owaren.

 

And all nine hells break loose.

Chapter 34: Heirarchy

 

The ash grey skin and hollow, reddish eyes of the children stare back at you through the bars. Their arms reach through, clawing for you, fangs gnashing. So many children - more than you remember. Their unintelligible wails pierce your ears, echoing down the endless chasm of crystalline caverns. They might be unable to reach you in their iron prison, and yet you’re still trapped down here with them - forced to look. All of the pathways out have crumbled away. The elevator is stuck somewhere far above you, unreachable. Nestled in the Crimson Palace until someone decides to search for you. But there’s nothing down here - not anymore. No one would have a reason to come to this cursed place. The place where so many suffered.

 

You sold their souls without their consent. Children. Children who never got to grow up.

 

There’s no way out for you. Below you an endless chasm - you could jump. Or you could unlock their prison, and let them devour you. The staff sits right there, the jewel eyes of the crooked bat watching over you. Sometimes they beg you to feed them - they’re so hungry.

 

I don’t have any food, you say. A lie.

You are the food…… you are the food...

You shoot up from bed, drenched in sweat. The room at the Elfsong is mostly dark, save a few magical candles Gale enchanted to keep the room from total darkness. You want to go to Wyll - but his bed is so far - the giant center expanse of the room may as well be an ocean. It’s one thing to wait for a serious partner to be intimate - but the horrors of this journey weigh heavily on you. You wish he’d at least share a bed.

 

After a few minutes of failing to find sleep again, you throw your legs over the side of the bed and survey the suite. It’s quiet tonight - peaceful, even. As you pass the sitting area, you’re surprised to see two forms asleep on one of the couches. On one end, Karlach, her body spread across half of the couch, neck uncomfortably draped over the side - even her shoes are still on. On the other…Wyll. He’s curled up more traditionally on his side, his knees pulled slightly up towards his chest. Someone has draped a blanket over him. On the table in front of them is a disheveled deck of cards and two tankards, and on the floor a small keg.

 

You must have fallen asleep earlier than everyone else…

 

You get yourself a cup of water and start to return to bed, but look up and catch two red eyes staring back at you in the darkness from Astarion’s bed. They’re decidedly more luminous than normal. Startled, you twitch and avert your gaze, sloshing some of the water over the side. You keep moving, pretending you never looked. Two red crescents are burned into the back of your eyelids - echoes of your nightmare.

 

“Did I frighten you?” He asks. He’s far enough away that you don’t know how you hear it.

 

“No,” you reply quickly. It’s a lie. Since the Ascension… everyone else has been commenting on how different he seems. You’ve started to see it too. His very presence sets you on edge now, as if he’s become something entirely new. Whether his soul remains has been speculated to death in hushed whispers. 

 

Whatever has changed within him, he’s different now. Different in ways you can’t entirely describe. Stronger, perhaps. But also more competent. Dangerous. Gale worries his hunger for power won’t stop, and that he’ll turn on the party to try and take charge of the Absolute with the Crown of Karsus. You aren’t sure about that, but there’s definitely something more unsettling and… indescribable. 

 

“You aren’t sleeping well,” he comments before you can escape him.

 

“No. I’m not,” you agree. “Can you blame me? Between dream visitors, and a tadpole in my brain, and-”

 

“Nightmares.”

 

You stiffen, and glance over again at Karlach and Wyll. They haven’t moved an inch, still fast asleep. “Goodnight, Astarion.” You take another step, but freeze at the rustling sound of him getting out of bed. 

 

You try to ignore it, pretend like he isn’t acknowledging you, but he follows you towards your sleep space.

 

“What?” You ask nervously. 

 

“Your lover,” he whispers, eyes flickering to the couch. “Karlach? Does it bother you?”

 

At first you’re confused - wondering what he could possibly mean. Maybe you’re still asleep - this is still a dream. “Oh, that? Why would that bother me?” A yawn interrupts you. “They’re two of my favorite people.”

 

“They’re…awfully close, no?”

 

You take a swig of your water. “Fuck off, Astarion. They’re on opposite ends of the couch after sharing some alcohol in full view of the rest of us. I’m not insecure about it, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

 

Maybe you are, a little. You’d sleep on the stiff couch with Wyll in a heartbeat over your sad, distant, separate beds.

 

His lip twitches, his gaze lingering on your lover and friend. “Of course not. You’re stronger than that.” 

 

The words sound more like a taunt than a compliment. “Or maybe I trust my friends.” You set the cup down on your side table with a heavy clink.

 

“Trust.” He repeats the word no louder than a soft breath, shaking his head. “Well. I do hope that works out for you.”

 

He’s in a prickly mood tonight - but the furrow in his brow is more apparent than usual, and his body language more guarded. “Astarion… is there something else you want to say?”

 

“Tch,” he hasn’t made proper eye contact for most of the conversation now. “No. I just wonder how much you can ever truly trust people you’ve known for little more than a fortnight.”

 

His words leave a sour taste in your mouth as he walks away - and later still as you stare at the ceiling, and then the wall, and then the other wall, unable to find sleep again.

                                                                 

---

 

It’s Karlach who wakes you the next morning with an extremely chipper “Rise and shine!”

 

Your body feels unusually heavy - you don’t remember falling asleep again. This time your sleep was dreamless - the souls you damned did not return to haunt you a second time. You're pulled out of the void of sleep into a room that seems a little too bright this morning. “Urgh. What time is it?” You ask, squinting and rubbing at your eyes. “Where is…everyone?”

 

Their beds are empty and made, the room still.

 

“Almost noon.”

 

“Noon?! Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

 

Her smile fades. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been running on empty almost every day for weeks now. You’re the first one up and the last one asleep - you haven’t taken any days to rest like the rest of us. If you want to take a day and stay behind… no one would blame you.”

 

“Absolutely not.” You can’t think of anything worse than staying behind in this room. “We’re running out of time. And out of all of the places I’m not letting you go without me - hell is one of them. It’s my contract that needs destroying - my responsibility.” You shuffle to sit upright.

 

Karlach chews her lower lip. She’s a terrible liar.

 

“Karlach…” you start, suddenly suspicious. Her eyes drift to the window. Shit. You jump out of bed, but she stands in your way, blocking you. “They’ve already left, haven’t they?”

 

You dance around one another as she prevents you from accessing your things, her hands outstretched delicately. “Now, now- don’t be upset-”

 

“Is that it then? You stayed here to guard me?”

 

“Guard you? Of course not. I’m here to keep you company. We’re friends, aren’t we? I thought we could take the day-”

 

“Who put you up to this?” You know it wasn’t her idea. “I know you aren’t the type to interfere.”

 

She presses her lips together. “Fuck, don’t make me say it,” she sighs. “We all agreed that after yesterday-” she stops herself. “You need a break. Before you get hurt.”

 

“You don’t get to decide that! Where did they go?” You gather up your armor and start slipping it over your clothes. The first time, it’s backwards. “How long ago? Who?”

 

“Shadowheart, Gale, Lae’zel, Astarion, and-”

 

“Wyll.” You stare her down as you finish his name when it gets stuck in her mouth. “This was his idea, wasn’t it?”

 

Her hesitant, slow spreading grimace is enough confirmation.

 

“You’re tired-” she says carefully.

 

“That doesn’t matter,” you fix your armor and straighten it out.

 

“You’re making careless mistakes!” She blurts out, grabbing your shoulder before you can gather your bag. “You’re making careless mistakes, and you’re going to get yourself hurt or killed. One day of proper rest - that’s all we’re asking.”

 

“On the day you’re breaking into Raphael’s house? No. Absolutely not - I’m not letting them clean up my mess.”

 

She throws herself in front of the door, her form easily blocking it. “Let me pass. I’m not letting them go alone.”

 

“They’ll be fine - you have to put your trust in them. I trust them.”

 

Trust. Astarion’s words ring in your head from last night, followed by your own. You take a deep breath to relax yourself.

 

“I trust them too. But I don’t want them going in there on my behalf.”

 

Her hands are warm as they clasp down on your shoulders. “You’ve done so much for all of us - even with that thing swimming in your brain. You’ve somehow managed to deal with all of our fucked up bullshit at the same time,” her smile cracks through and her finger pokes your forehead. “We want to repay the favor.”

 

“Let me by,” you repeat.

 

She deflates. “Don’t make me tie you dow-”

 

“Escort me downstairs for breakfast, then.”

 

She lets out a long exhale. “Okay, deal. But I regret to inform you that they stopped serving breakfast an hour ago.”

 

You position yourself a few paces behind her, allowing her to take the lead. She starts to talk about something, but your brain tunes it out as you look for your opportunity to evade her.  Upstairs, the hallway windows are too small and too high - most don’t open far enough for someone to fit through anyway. The staircase is deserted, and creaks - the moment you break formation it will give you away. You think you’re faster than her, but you also suspect her endurance is higher. You’re going to need a decent headstart when she inevitably goes after you - especially considering she knows exactly where you’ll be headed.

 

At this time of day, the tavern is quiet too. Most people have set out for the day, and it’s too early for drinking, save for a few lost souls who find no other form of peace. There’s no crowd to lose yourself in, no place to hide. You settle down at a table across from her - she’s still babbling on, and hasn’t yet noticed you aren’t engaging in the conversation. You nod, or smile, or make a noise of acknowledgement after certain keywords - but you have no idea where the conversation has led.

 

It can’t last forever. “Hello? Is anybody home?” She asks suddenly, waving a hand in front of your face.

 

“Huh?” You snap back, caught. “I’m sorry. Oversleeping must have me out of sorts.” 

 

She leans back in her chair. “See? You’re in no position to leap into danger today. You need this.”

“And what about you? How’d you get stuck with babysitting duty? Drawing straws? Or were you just the only one big enough to hold me back?”

 

She slaps a hand on the table. “Don’t say that. I wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere near the hells again. And… I don’t think anyone else could have convinced you to stay.”

 

What she doesn’t realize is that she’s giving herself too much credit - she hasn’t convinced you. You clear your throat.

 

“Forced me to stay is more like it.” The waiter places a pitcher of juice between the two of you before disappearing back into the kitchen.

 

“Isn’t this a little nice?” She asks, a touch of sadness in her voice. “A touch of normalcy, for a day. Maybe we can do something that normal women do.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do they do?”

 

She shrugs. “Hells if I know. I never got much of the opportunity to find out. I’m happy to take suggestions. You must know. You’re - normal. What I mean is, you must have been normal, before all of this. Right?”

 

You let out a soft chuckle and pour some of the juice into your glass - suddenly wishing it was spiked. “I mean - I guess this is normal. Sharing a meal. Talking. If you can look past the brain worms and the mechanical heart, and the fact that our friends are descending into the hells without us.”

 

“The normal ship sailed a long time ago.”

 

“Yes - probably.”

 

“Help me out then - please? There must be something we can do to relax. I’m no good at this sort of thing - if I plan the day we’ll end up bar hopping, gambling, ring fighting or at Sharess’. And none of those sound like a restful day - except the brothel, maybe. Oh, don’t be so prude!” She chastises, seeing your expression. “I’d never take you to a brothel - Wyll would murder me.”

 

“I’m not prude - just not interested. But I’m happy to wait outside while you indulge.”

 

She closes her eyes. “Gods - I wonder what it would be like - to be touched. It’s been so long.”

 

“I thought you said the last time you were kissed you were a child,” you say in alarm.

 

“Pff. Kissed - yes. In an innocent, meaningful way. It isn’t kissing when you’re fucking. I got up to plenty of mischief in the hells, when my engine was stable. But you don’t get close to anyone there. The sex is a distraction. You don’t make the mistake of catching feelings for anyone - because they might be gone tomorrow. Zariel tolerated our hedonism, encouraged it even, in some ways to keep up morale.”

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

“Ugh - no. I’m sorry for killing the mood. Everything is so much better here - food. Drink. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about getting to experience all of life’s pleasures before the heart gives out again.” She pounds her chest with a fist.

 

“If it’s what you want-”

 

“Nope. Not letting my eyes off of you.” She quickly pivots back to business.

 

“Well you’re going to have to for a moment - I need to use the washroom.”

 

She gives you her sternest look. “My eyes will be fixed on that door, do you hear me?”

 

“Loud and clear,” you offer her a tiny salute before taking the most direct path across the tavern - the washroom door well within her line of sight. It takes everything in you to walk normally and not speed up your gait - you don’t want to tip her off that you’re planning something. As it is, it won’t take her long to figure out what you’ve done - she’s impatient enough that she’ll be knocking down the door in three minutes.

 

The window in the washroom is small and rectangular, raised near the ceiling to allow light in, the glass stained to prevent anyone from peeping. From the floor, it’s difficult to assess whether or not you’ll be able to successfully squeeze your body through it. You glance in the mirror. The weeks on the road have been harsh, but have left you in decent shape. You’re leaner than usual, your muscles stronger.

 

It’s the only reason you leap and catch the ledge that’s just out of reach of your fingertips. The first time, you pull yourself up to undo the window latch. The second time, you’re going to have to physically pull yourself up. Dusting off your hands, you back up to give yourself a running start - not much in a cramped space - and jump for the ledge again. It’s slippery, but your grip holds, and you hoist yourself up.

 

The window is shorter than you thought - you’ll be able to squeeze through, but there will be no room to reorient yourself. You’ll be falling out headfirst on the other side. When you look down to see what awaits you - it’s nothing but solid ground. You’ll only have a second to try to right yourself midair.

 

“I’m sorry, Karlach,” you whisper to no one, and you push yourself the rest of the way out.

                                                             

---

 

You are absolutely not going to let Owaren violate you - fuck sitting around and playing dead. His bite is wild, feral - new. He hasn’t been doing it for long enough to have the surgical precision of a more experienced vampire. You yank your wrist away, overcome with searing pain as his fangs tear from your flesh. Immediately, you press your other hand to it in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but the wound isn’t clean. Astarion is off of the couch and lunging for Owaren - the boy stumbles backwards. His calves catch the edge of the table, and he falls - spilling what remains of the glasses set on top. He almost doesn’t right himself, but Garett catches his arm, stabilizing him. Still reeling, he hasn’t entirely processed what’s just happened.

 

The commotion has unfortunately caught the attention of everyone in the room. Several guests float towards Owaren, wary eyes trained on you and Astarion. If things came to blows, you wouldn’t last thirty seconds in your present anemic state. Astarion, in contrast, is practically glowing with health, well-fed and vibrant - but he’s woefully outnumbered. Unless his new abilities include miracles, fighting won't be an option.

 

“My apologies, Owaren-” Garett begins. He is another unpredictable piece of the puzzle - you haven't yet figured out where all of his edges fit yet. If it comes to a fight, you believe him to be an opportunist - you suspect he’d take the side of whoever he thought would win.

 

“ Prince Kenderick!” The younger man spits the correction. “That’s Prince Kendrick to you, now.” There’s a new fire in him  - now separated from Erliza, he no longer appears to be her obedient shadow. In an unexpected turn of events, he's now more of a spoiled boy throwing a tantrum.

 

Garett raises an eyebrow. “My apologies, Prince Kendrick-” He carefully re-emphasizes the title without a trace of sarcasm, but it doesn't calm him.

 

“I don’t want to hear your apologies!” He wipes the blood off of his chin with a sleeve before pointing at you. “Give me the Duke.”

 

“No.” Astarion blocks you from his sight. 

 

“I’m the host, Lord Ancunin. You have no right to deny me.”

 

“ Ow- Prince Kendrick, if I may-” Garett places a hand tentatively on Owaren's shoulder. “Lord Ancunin is uninitiated with Publicae Sanguinis. He doesn't mean to offend you. ”

 

Garett’s hand is swiftly slapped away. “He appeared perfectly well initiated to me.”

 

"Speak for yourself, Arthur. I do mean to offend him," Astarion says curtly. "I dare say the boy has no manners. A charitable host spares nothing for his guests. He gives them his finest food and drink and goes without it himself if he must."

 

At least half a dozen of the other guests circle nearby, itching for a fight. You don’t want to look over your shoulder to find out how many more there are, or if any are hovering over your shoulder, a shark drawn to the scent of blood.

 

"I'm not a host. I'm a prince - and I'll soon be a king. A king doesn't eat like a pauper - he's earned the best."

 

"But you're not a king." Astarion asks, crossing his arms. "The title sits with your father, and dead princes don't become kings. You'll swiftly be written out of your line."

 

"You're wrong. What better way to carry on a legacy than with a king that lives forever?"

 

"You've lived a sheltered life, so it's unsurprising that you have a warped view of the world. This world is run by the light of the day. A vampire king invites trouble. He's too conspicuous, and draws too much unrest. If you want to rule this world, you need pliable mortals above your station. This whole game you're putting on? A ridiculous farce. You're stealing away the one thing that makes them valuable to you."

 

"This is the first step to a new world," Owaren says. 

 

Astarion laughs. "Don't be stupid. If it was going to work, it would have already. There's a reason this game fell into obsolescence. You want obedient puppets - but they're worthless to you if they can't do their jobs. A spawn is a weak, needy creature. For years, they stand out like a sore thumb as they learn how to adapt to the world. They're sloppy and need to be picked up after. What good is keeping one half a world away? Without direct guidance or control, most don't last a year. Some starve, most are killed for their carelessness - others commit suicide."

 

There's an uneasy rumble from the crowd.

 

"People notice, when their leaders live forever. And vampires have one, glaring weakness. You can make everyone in your court a loyal spawn, but the question remains - who defends you in the daylight? Who is there to stop the rioters from burning your home with you inside of it - forcing you to choose which way you burn?"

 

"Erliza manages. All of you manage," Owaren's eyes dart around the room like a trapped animal.

 

"Even as a full vampire, Erliza rules as an extension of Amn. She's all but stamped out any resistance here - and Amn protects her because she holds the Isle in her name. If she were to lose that protection? It would only be a matter of time. A vampire in a strategic position of power can be an asset. It's a careful balance, however. Once the rumors begin, their position is more precarious. So long as the vampire plays nice with the top level of government, the balance holds. The people will look the other way, because they believe that if the vampire becomes a problem, their monarchs or councils will deal with it. The monarchs and councils and governments will look the other way, either through monetary donations or because they see some benefit from the vampire - even if it's nothing more than obedience through fear. You wouldn't hold the title of king for a day before Amn is knocking at your door. Your guards? Your human servants? They are beholden to Amn before they are loyal to you. If you want to be a King - go make a name for yourself in the Underdark." 

 

"No. She has a bigger plan - I'm sure of it-" he's quickly losing the support of the other nobles.

 

"She didn't think it through," Garett interjects. Even he appears pensive - discouraged. The cogs in his brain turn rapidly.

 

"That's not possible. Erliza is always one step ahead. She would never overlook something so obvious," Owaren protests - it's himself that he's trying to convince the most. "No. Of course. You're trying to distract me with a silver tongue. If you really believed what you say - you wouldn't be participating in it, would you?"

 

“Baldur’s Gate is my territory,” Astarion says with an icy resolution that makes you momentarily question his own motives. “I won’t have you sticking your grubby, inexperienced fingers where they don’t belong.”

 

"I don't care about your damned city - keep it. I’ll drink her dry regardless. It’s her fault Braethr is dead.”

 

Braethr . The friend Erliza had made him kill in front of you - the very likely innocent man that took the fall for the poison.

 

“ My fault?” You can be silent no longer. You stand up on trembling legs and lean into Astarion for extra support until you regain your bearings. Your heart flutters and twitches, frantically pumping what remains of your blood through your veins, working overtime to keep you upright. His expression is entirely opposed to your intervention, but he doesn’t stop you. “Am I the one that ordered you to kill him?”

 

Owaren winces. “If you’d never come, he’d still be alive.”

 

“For a while, maybe.” You lower your voice - your dry throat is parched, and you want to protect some of your words from the remaining onlookers who are feeding on the drama. “In those few moments I saw you with him - it was obvious how much you cared for him. She saw it too.”

 

He falters. “What are you saying?”

 

“You know what I’m saying.” You stare into his eyes, silently pleading with him. He could turn against her, you think. Astarion has worked him closer and closer to that edge - he just needs to be pushed over. You could win him to your side, and through her death grant him his freedom.

 

“No,” his nose wrinkles. “You- You shouldn’t be conscious. Who let you in like that, it’s against th- never mind that. You’re nothing here - you have no power.” He looks back to Astarion. “Hand over the Duke. Decorum demands that you share. You were stupid to bring her here in the first place.”

 

“Ha!” Astarion laughs smugly. His demeanor has shifted abruptly - his chest puffed up and his head high,  a smirk on his lips. He’s performing now. “You might be the host in name - but anyone would be a fool to share with you. You’re no equal to us.” He makes a sweeping gesture across the room, making eye contact with his audience. “Lady Daressin is the only host. I'd like to remind everyone that you're still but a spawn yourself. An underling. A thrall. Noble blood would be wasted on you, who can’t even make use of it.”

 

For someone who didn’t know the game, Astarion knew exactly what to say. The energy of the other vampires shifts - they’re no longer ready to jump to Owaren’s defense. Several disengage and move away, their attention already back on something else. The vampires have an unspoken hierarchy. Even as Erliza’s intended… as a spawn, he sits squarely at the bottom. It isn’t as if the vampires hold much loyalty to one another beyond their rules and flowery formalities.

 

“That’s not true,” Owaren protests, “She’s released me-”

 

Emboldened, Astarion swaggers towards him, putting barely an inch of space between them. Owaren has a bit of height on him, and yet still appears smaller now, suddenly feeling the weight of the pressure that Astarion exerts. You wonder if it’s more real than you imagine - if he’s somehow using his Ascendent abilities to cow Owaren into submission.

 

“No. She hasn’t. You reek of spawn, I can smell her all over you.”

 

All of his false bravado has been squashed beneath Astarion’s boot. “She won’t be happy when I tell her that you’ve done this,” he sputters with a voice more boy than man.

 

Even now, you can’t help but feel sorry for him. To be groomed by her his whole childhood, only to be frozen eternally at the awkward stage of life when one is only an adult by the letter of the law and not yet by the chemistry of the brain. And now she’s going to marry this man she once played second mother to.

 

“I’ve been playing nice. Lady Daressin is no threat to me.”

 

Owaren swallows, giving Astarion a proper once over. “Then you’re a fool.” He glances over his shoulder, back at the door. “She’ll be checking in any minute now, I imagine.”

 

“She might be planning to wed you - but you’re no different than the dead and dying on the floor. When they awaken, they’ll be the same as you. Precious political pawns - toys for the immortal to further exert their influence with.”

 

Astarion’s mocking words further diffuse the crowd.

 

“No, you’re wrong,” Owaren squeezes his fists at his side, his voice lowering. “I’ve known Erliza for years - and she’s been good to me.”

 

Garett rolls his eyes, clearly over the formalities now that Owaren has been reduced to a shriveled husk. “Don’t be stupid. She nearly robbed you from your cradle.”

 

He might not be significant in the eyes of the vampires, but he is still significant in the eyes of the castle staff. He could still be your ticket out. His lower lip quivers, but he doesn’t break.

 

“Finish your meal, then,” he says emptily, turning away.

 

“I didn’t realize the circumstances of the occasion - I do rather prefer my privacy. Tell me the way out,” Astarion orders, before Owaren can get far.

 

“The door.” He replies sarcastically.

 

“For both of us.”

 

"Please, Owaren -" you try. He could be an asset, if you can only protect him from Erliza's further influence. Your guests support his family, and having him as a figurehead could rally them. "We can-"

 

“Even if I could help you - I wouldn’t,” he scoffs and keeps walking. “If I were you, I’d finish her off before someone else does.”

 

“At this rate she’s going to die all by herself,” Garett mumbles.

 

“Why are you still skulking around?” Astarion asks indignantly.

 

He shrugs. “Well - if push comes to shove - I’m not about to let you waste her.”

 

“Would you stop talking about me as if I’m not here?” You snap. Unfortunately it lacks the authority you’re hoping for.

 

“Try it,” Astarion warns. “I’m more than confident in my ability to kill you before anyone else can stop me.”

 

Garett holds his hands up. “A last resort - I assure you. I offered my help, and I meant it. But waste is a terrible pet peeve of mine.”

 

“Help, or don’t. Would you both stop bickering? We’re wasting time,” you say, running out of breath. “It’s… a castle, right? There must be…  a second way out. An escape route, or a servant’s passage…” pictures of Cazador’s Palace swim through your head - hidden doorways.

 

At first, neither of them answer you - as if they’ve immediately written off the idea as ridiculous. But both subtly scan the walls for any signs of something out of place - in the dim lighting you can only assume their vision picks up more than yours.

 

“We may not have time. If Erliza wasn’t already on her way - I’m sure that little weasel is on his way to fetch her now,” Garett says. “You may not have time to pull out books and check seams of portraits.”

 

“Fine,” Astarion says impatiently. “We’ll just have to take Owaren’s advice then, and use the door.”

 

“They won’t let you-”

 

“Watch me.” He hoists you up in his arms with a small grunt and stalks towards the door. Over his shoulder, Garett trails behind.

 

Before he makes it anywhere near the door, two door guards block the path. One holds up a hand. 

 

“Halt. No mortals may exit the VIP lounge,” he says mechanically. “Deceased or otherwise.”

 

“You will let me pass,” Astarion says with a wildly unjustified amount of confidence. Under any other circumstances, you would ask him what the hells he thinks he’s doing. You sneak a peek up at his face, and your blood freezes. Red flecks in his irises glow and swirl in a dizzying dance. If you were facing him head on, you’re sure you’d be overtaken by his hypnotic stare.

 

The guards initially start to sputter a protest, but then their jaws go slightly slack, their pupils wide and grey, a twinkling red glint reflecting off the surface. One tries to look at the other, but Astarion snaps his fingers and his neck snaps back forward to attention, as if pulled by an invisible rope. Sweat shimmers on the guard’s brow over a vein that protrudes on his temple. The vampire knows what’s happening to him - and looks desperate to crawl out of his own skin. His rigid body fights the command, but no amount of preparation could steel him to the influence of the Ascendant Vampire. The second guard had broken immediately, already standing to the side of the door and blankly staring forward.

 

“Go on then,” Astarion coaxes further. His purr makes you shiver. “Move aside.”

 

If he ever uses that voice on you, you’re doomed.

The guard’s muscles shiver and shiver as he holds on far longer than you’d expect him to. But then, finally, the dam breaks and Astarion’s compulsion wins. The moment the guard shuffles to the side, Astarion bursts through the door and strides with decided purpose. He ignores the cries of the doorman on the other side. You hear the doorman’s footsteps following after you only to stop dead in their tracks with a thump and a gurgled choke. 

 

Garett appears at Astarion’s side again in short order. “Nine Hells, Ancunin. How did you manage to break two of them at once? Erliza doesn’t let just anyone guard when she’s hosting vampires - those men were tortured for years to build up a tolerance to charms. If Erliza finds out, they’ll be tortured fo-”

He almost sounds impressed.

 

“ Shut up ,” Astarion groans. “I’m starting to think you want to lead her right to us.”

 

“You can put me down now - I’m fine to walk.”

 

“Your heart rate and body temperature say otherwise.” He holds you a little more tightly to his chest.

 

A door opens not long after, dousing you in chilly night air. “Wait,” you gasp. A shot of adrenaline restores your energy. “What are you doing?”

 

“We’re getting out of here.”

 

“But the plan - the others! Shadowheart, Gale, Lae’zel-”

 

“Can die here for all I care - but the lot of them are like cockroaches. I trust they’ll be fine. Right now, my priority is us.”

 

“Astarion, no- we can’t-” you squirm against his grasp and try to wrest yourself to the ground, but he freezes in his tracks to keep you still. If you were at full strength he’d have no chance.

 

“You’re in no condition to go back in there.”

 

"But-"

 

"Look at yourself!" He barks. "Be realistic for one gods' damned minute! Shut up and live to fight another day when you can do more good. Trust in them. You've fought beside them. They're skilled. In this state, you'd make no difference to the outcome. Learn when to walk away."

 

You flinch. He doesn't say it to be mean - the  lines of concern run deep on his face.

 

“Go ahead - find the ship I told you about,” Garett says, looking up at the sky. “Sunrise is approaching. I’ll tell your friends what’s become of you.”

 

You don’t trust him. “If you’re truly on our side, then find them now . We’ll hold the ship until the morning.”

 

“Erliza will have every one of her eyes on you by then.”

 

You ignore Garett. “Astarion. We have to go back inside. We have no supplies.”

 

It reeks of desperation, but it’s also the truth. He might be able to survive a boat ride of several days with nothing but the shirt on his back - but you probably can’t. You need food, water, warm clothes - medicine. Something clean to wrap the gash on your wrist with.

 

He sighs and glances off into the distance. Towards freedom. Then back at you with softening eyes.

 

“You won’t have time,” Garett lectures. “Erliza already knows what you’ve done - you can be sure that Owaren and those guards reported to her immediately.”

 

Astarion has already started back inside. “She doesn’t know everything,” he mutters.

 

But she would soon. The attack is imminent now with sunrise looming within the next hour. Will it go off, even without your signal?

 

                                                           

---

 

The back route through the hallways is surprisingly quiet, and neither of the two lone servants you see give you a second glance. Upon reentering the castle, Garett immediately separated from you, claiming he would distract Erliza. You think it’s equally likely that he’ll warn her.

 

“Stay in your room - lock the door,” Astarion whispers as you approach your guest chamber. “Since we’ve come back in - against my better judgement - there’s something I’d like to go back for in my own chambers.”

 

Your stomach drops. “We shouldn’t separate - not if there are people looking for us. They’ll expect us to be exactly where we are now. And if the plan starts early, the rebels may think you’re an enemy. They’re looking for vampires.”

 

“Please. I can take a few starving rebels. But they won’t even see me. I’ll just - poof - “ he accentuates it with his hands “myself into mist and be back before you even realize I’m gone.”

 

“Promise me you’ll be back-”

 

“Five minutes.”

 

“Five minutes.” You repeat.

 

He runs a hand down your arm before he dissipates into thin air. Watching him disappear is a sight that’s difficult to get used to. 

 

Your room is pitch black - the magical light sources on the wall notably dark, as if you weren’t expected back tonight. That’s an unsettling thought. You bang your knee on a table and fumble your hands around looking for the regular candelabra that had been serving as a decoration piece, but knock it over with a clatter.

 

The room lights up behind you, catching you off guard. You swear under your breath as you face the intruder.

 

“What are you doing back here?” Shadowheart asks from your wide open door. You should have locked it immediately - but the darkness robbed your focus. “You look somehow worse than when I last saw you.” Her stare bores into you as she sets down her lantern on the table.

 

You tuck your injured wrist behind your back - she won’t give you time to explain it if she sees it. But she doesn’t need to see it when it isn’t the only evidence.

 

“Why?” She throws a hand up in the air, her voice loud enough to give you away from down the hall. “Tell me he compelled you. Tell me right now that you didn’t choose this. Gods. You did - you can’t even hide it. Why the fuck do you let him do this to you? And now of all times? Tonight?”

 

“Slow dow-”

 

Her face pales. “No. Don’t tell me - is he on her side? Are you working with them now? Was this all a trap?”

 

You go towards her, forgetting your wrist, waving your hands at her in a silent plea to get her to lower her voice. But as she rattles on, you have no choice but to grab her by the shoulders. Her anxiety is infectious, and it’s quickly sapping your ability to think straight.

 

“Listen,” you hiss. “It isn’t what you think. Let me explain.” But even you’re not sure what you’re going to say - you’re at a crossroads. Do you lie entirely? Lie a little bit? Tell the truth?

 

No. The entire truth is off the table for now. 

 

She’s staring at your exposed arms now - but she’s silent. Possibly seething - but silent.

 

“You’d better explain fast - or I’ll kill him alongside Erliza. I knew there was a reason he was suddenly interested in hanging around again.”

 

“It wasn’t him.” A half truth. “We were investigating. Things got… messy. There’s a lounge where the vampire nobility lure the mortal nobility. They’re creating politically advantageous spawn.” You sit on the edge of your bed, suddenly dizzy again at the memory.

 

She’s initially quiet again, reading your expression and considering the details of your story. “I’m… so sorry,” her voice cracks. She kneels down in front of you and inspects your wrist, placing a hand over it, but you stop her before her magic gathers around her hand.

 

“Don’t heal it. You may need your energy later.”

 

She nods and reaches into her pocket. “At least take this, then.”

 

It’s about half a vial of a cherry colored liquid. A healing potion. Not easy to come by.

 

She doesn’t let you refuse. “You need it more than I do. You’re as white as a ghost.”

 

You swish it around in your hand. “Thank you.”

 

“I shouldn’t have accused you.” She stands up and dusts off her knees, walking across the room to your serving cart. “I’m sorry. This place, this night… it’s all set me on edge. I’ll feel better when I see Lae’zel and Gale again. I want to know that they’re okay.”

 

You uncork the bottle, a strong whiff of herbs assaulting your nose. These never taste as appetizing as they look. Although tonight, it doesn’t look particularly appetizing either. It reminds you of blood. But you drink it back anyway, forcing it to stay down even as it burns your throat like a strong liquor. 

 

You’re still coughing when she brings a damp towel over and offers it to you. It’s just water, and it doesn’t sting as badly as a proper antiseptic would, but it does the job. Slowly, the little off-white towel turns pink. Underneath it all, Owaren’s bite doesn’t look quite as bad anymore. You’ve had worse.

 

Now bandaged up and changed into proper clothes,  you start to worry for Astarion. It’s been more than five minutes. You set your bag on the table - there wasn’t anything to pack when nothing ever left it. You’ve been ready to run on a moment’s notice since you’ve arrived.

 

“We should go,” Shadowheart says, squinting out of your stained glass window to get a read on the time of night… or… morning? “It must be nearing time now.”

 

Your head is clearer now, the potion working its way through your bloodstream. “I don’t know if it’s going to work anymore. We might have to call them off.”

 

“What?” She asks, in irritated astonishment.

 

“I didn’t know about the lounge. It’s changed some things.”

 

“Changed some things.”

 

“Well - yes. For one, there were so many down there, in a room without windows. They won’t all be in one place.”

 

“Isn’t that a good thing? A smaller group will be easier to manage. We can pick off the vampires in the ballroom before those in the lounge realize what’s happening.”

 

“Maybe,” you say with uncertainty. “But there’s so many more than I thought there would be. I was hoping to just eliminate Erliza for the good of the Isles.”

 

“You just said these vampires were killing nobles to exert power.”

 

“I know. I know. You’re right.” As you sigh, you think of Astarion, and can’t help but wonder if all of them are truly evil. “I just didn’t realize how deep it ran. And those nobles… they’ll eventually wake up in that room. Undead. Thirsty. They were… victims.”

 

“We’ll take care of them after,” she promises. “We won’t leave them to suffer. I swear it.”

 

“I don’t think we can kill them,” you say gently. “Well… not again. You know what I mean.”

 

“It’s kinder. Living out an eternity of undeath, unable to see the sun, with a thirst you can’t sate? Isn’t it kinder to spare them from an existence like that?”

 

Images of Astarion from another time flash through your head. Him looming over you in the middle of the night, starving and desperate. The fear and hatred he held for Cazador as he begged for your help. The scars on his back. The thousands of spawn beneath the Crimson Palace before-

 

“These are important people,” you swallow. “Really important people. They have people that depend on them - they aren’t strangers that won’t be missed. If they all die, including Erliza, and somehow word gets back that we were here…”

 

“Well, we can’t exactly leave them to figure it out for themselves either, can we?”

 

There’s never a good answer. “No… we can’t,” you agree. “Let’s worry about the others first.”

 

A misty trails beneath the door, and you’re relieved when the vampire takes shape in front of you, bag at his side.

 

“Astarion,” Shadowheart acknowledges. It’s not friendly - she’s trying to play it cool. But she’s studying him, too - maybe for signs that he’s recently fed. She doesn’t believe you. Not completely. Her eyes rest on the bag. “Going somewhere?”

 

Astarion looks at you to guide the conversation, but you look at the floor instead. 

 

“Were you… were you planning on leaving?” She asks. “Without saying anything?" 

 

Suddenly your bag is looking just as suspicious.

 

"Is that why you came back here?"

 

Astarion is about to say yes, but you talk over him before he can finish. “No,” you reassure. “But there’s a good chance we’ll have to disappear quickly afterwards.”

 

His body language gives away his displeasure - but it’s a battle that can be addressed later.

 

“Right then,” she says softly. “Let’s go - it’s almost time. We shouldn't miss our chance.”

 

When you first came up with the plan, it had seemed so simple. But now as the final hour approaches... have you doomed the rebels to a certain death?

                                                               

---

 

 

Chapter 35: Massacre

Notes:

tw: coerced sexual encounter (no actual sex, non graphic) in the flashback

It’s nearly morning now, and yet the ballroom shows no sign of the party relenting any time soon. If anything, you think there are more people than you last saw. The musicians are repeating content in the background, a little less precisely than the first time around. They’re only there now for the ambiance - the dancing stopped long ago. Several of the vampires are more obvious now - you can tell by their confident swagger that they’ve just come from feeding down the hall, and yet not a drop of blood soils their clothing. At the edges of the room, the servants have started to clean up forgotten remnants of the evening, constantly fighting against a mess still in progress. Shadowheart’s eyes scan the room as she looks for any sign of Gale, Lae’zel, or any of the rebels. 

“Where’s Gale?” She’s the first one to vocalize it. You haven’t caught sight of a friendly face in the mix either.

 

“Messing around with that other wizard, perhaps?” Astarion asks with a sarcasm that’s too relaxed for enemy territory.

You give him a weary shake of your head. Tensions are high, and the bond between the three of you is fragile. Now isn’t the time to be testing them. But there might be some truth to it - Erliza’s mage is nowhere to be seen either.

 

“We have to find him.” She frantically looks left and right again, Astarion’s comment seemingly lost on her.

“It’s okay - we don’t have a reason to worry yet,” you try to reassure her, putting an uncertain hand on her shoulder. But is it okay? Erliza, Garett, and Owaren are all noticeably absent as well. “Shado-” you stop yourself from calling her name too loudly as she hastily strides towards the sitting room on the side. Half of a dozen hungry gazes follow her - the self control of the room is wearing thin.

“Something’s wrong. We should leave,” Astarion grabs your good wrist before you can go after her. “You need to convince her to leave, or we’re going without her.”

 

“She’ll never leave without-” 

 

“That’s her decision,” he interrupts. “ But listen to me. The plan is compromised. Erliza isn’t here, and our little stunt has likely tipped her off to us.”

 

“Good. Then she’ll be enraged enough come after us.” You tug him towards the entrance to the sitting room - Shadowheart has disappeared.

 

“ Look around ,” he hisses, more insistently. “Who do you see?”

 

Nothing out of the ordinary under current circumstances. “I’m not-”

 

He sighs. A shiver runs down your spine that stops you in your tracks - you don’t think you’re breathing.

 

“Don’t you think it’s odd that so many vampires are still here, this close to sunrise? It must be less than a quarter of an hour away now. This room has so many windows it might as well be made of glass.”

 

You stare at him as he averts his eyes, guilty. His lips never moved. That thought did not belong to you - it carried his voice. 

 

He holds up a hand, “We’ll discuss it later.”

 

With so many unfriendly ears around you, you don’t know how to reply - and it isn’t the time or place to be making a scene. “Keep an eye out for Gale,” you murmur, trying to shake off the violation. It had felt like more than just an innocent message in your mind. It felt like for a moment, he was inside of your consciousness. Like if he desired, he could poke around in your thoughts… or insert new ones. The Astarion you once knew never felt like a threat - even after he initially ascended. You knew how to handle him, and if it really came down to it, you could have kicked his ass.

 

You’ve been underestimating him. He’s grown since then - and he’s come into his powers. He’s more competent and dangerous than you realized.

 

Damn right you’ll be ‘discussing it later.’

 

The least you can do now is keep track of Shadowheart, or by the end of this trip, they’ll all be lost to you. 

 

Fortunately, she isn’t foolish enough to disappear - before you can cross the threshold into the side parlor, she’s walking back towards you, shaking her head. “There’s no sign of him.”

 

Gale wouldn’t be stupid enough to wander far - or would he? He is prone to be overconfident, even arrogant at times. And yet… “He should be back here by now. Wait. I have an idea.” 

 

The sending stone Gale gave to you remains fresh, tucked away in your backpack. A contingency plan. At the perimeter of the room, you turn towards the wall and discreetly rummage through your bag. You pause as your fingers wrap around the textured stone… it emits a weak, but unmistakable heat. 

 

Similar to the voice of Astarion minutes prior, another voice fills your head. It sounds like Gale, but also not - like his voice has been filtered through the weave and melded with a chorus of thousands of spectral voices that have harnessed the magic before him. Even through the stone’s limited magic, you expect Gale to be more loquacious, and to expertly craft a careful sentence with every word available to him. 

 

But instead, a chilling, two word message floats through your head.

 

“Get out.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Astarion asks, reading your body language. 

 

Now removed from the bag, you unveil the stone. Only moments ago, a current of magic had jolted through you, but now it sits inert in your palm. You uncurl your fingers to display it.

 

“The stone! Of course!” Shadowheart exclaims with relief. “You can send-” she cuts off. Your somber expression must give her pause. “He sent you something first.”

 

“He did,” you confirm. “Only, I don’t have any idea when he sent it.” The stone had remained tucked away in your belongings now for the night, if not a little longer. “He said…” you clear your throat. “ Get out .”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “How ominous of him. Of all of the words available, and he picks-”

“The longer the message, the more of it that’s at risk of being lost. He gave this to me for an emergency. He wouldn’t have wasted it on something frivolous. If it’s short, he was either in danger, or he believes the threat to be so great that he couldn’t risk elaborating.”

 

“He’s in danger, then,” Shadowheart concludes.

 

The three of you exchange long glances. Gale might be overconfident and arrogant, but he doesn’t lack skill. He has full control over the stones - any message he sent would come through flawlessly, barring something going critically wrong. This message was urgent. 

“Let’s go then - we need to reconvene with Lae’zel and the others. They should be on their way up now from the servants’ quarters.”

“Shh,” you press a finger over your lips. In her anxiety, she’s lost awareness of her volume. As some of the only remaining humans, you aren’t inconspicuous.  “They’ll have to be here any second now - if we go hunting for them we’ll only draw attention.”

 

“They’re late . I’m going.”

 

“No-”

 

You nearly have to run after her, weaving in and out of the guests that get too close to you - if you didn’t know better, you’d think they’re purposefully trying to box you in. Shadowheart is slippery, but it doesn’t matter. 

 

The guests around you are starting to grow anxious. “Where’s Lady Daressin? She demanded we all remain for a closing announcement - but the gods’ damned sun is almost up now.”

 

“What a stupid choice of curtains - how does she cover the windows?”

 

“I’m not waiting around any longer - the happy couple must have gotten distracted.”

All of the doors leading from the ballroom are closed now. When did that happen? From a dozen feet back, you watch your friend juggle one of the door handles - and then grab both double doors at once and try to pull them open with the weight of her body. The doors have been locked. A tinge of color appears on the horizon, the faintest light from outside dusting the eastern floor.

“Locked?” You whisper, but your brain is already grasping at straws.

 

A vampire - the one you had overheard - tries and fails to open a different door, angrily rattling it. “What’s the meaning of this?” He bellows at no one in particular. It’s enough to catch the attention of some nearby guests, and a silence slowly spreads across the ballroom until only the music remains. 

The eerie silence is short lived. The sky is getting brighter, and a pinkish glow is starting to form puddles of light around the room’s edge. You turn to Astarion - you’ve both figured out what’s going on here now, too late.

 

Once again, your host had been one step ahead of everyone. “She’s insane.”

A panic breaks out, and a dozen vampires begin swarming the doors, descending on Shadowheart. The mortals in the room watch on, flummoxed. Some are poisoned with mob mentality - joining those that have realized that they’re locked in. But most hang back unaware of the time running out for those they don’t know to be vampires. 

 

Only now, as daylight breaks into the room do you notice several skylights in the vaulted ceiling, worked into the painted murals of the feywilds. Within the next few minutes, there won’t be enough shadowy places for the vampires to hide. The sliding panels of the sitting room have been shuttered too - the servants disappearing like ghosts. 

 

Shadowheart, swallowed by the crowd, cries out - she’s still in her servant disguise. They don’t know that she has no keys - that she can’t let them out. Astarion can’t hold you back as you run towards the growing riot, looking for an entry point to get through to her. 

The sunlight has grown strong enough now to singe flesh, and it’s a fight for the small shadows beside the innermost wall that holds the hallway doors. The unlucky few - the weaker, the drunken - that are shoved to the perimeter start to hiss and howl. Those at the front throw their entire bodies at the door - but not even their immortal strength is enough to break through the heavy ornate doors, which they quickly realize are stealthily lined with metal. A few spells slam uselessly and dissipate against them - sputtering out.

The mortal guests begin to realize what’s happening - a few at a time. It’s too late for the few that have joined the horde - the vampires turning on them to buy themselves precious, useless minutes of healing. The music comes to a grinding halt, and those that can run to safety by the windows.

 

“Get back!” Astarion yells from behind you. You sidestep a vampire that clumsily launches itself at you, letting it stumble into a box of sunlight. You reconsider your angle - there’s no way to get to her now. You’re wildly outnumbered. 

Your throat closes as you look helplessly back and forth at Astarion, and at the mob obscuring Shadowheart. Just as you think all hope might be lost, a ball of light explodes from its center, clearing through a line of vampires. If her radiant light didn’t finish them off, the  natural light claims them moments later. It’s enough that you have a path now, as you glimpse her prone on her backside, pressed against the door, wielding the only weapon she could hide in her disguise - a pitiful dagger. Her magic will do her more good, if she can get off another shot.

 

You pull out a sword and dive towards the fray, the cleared path closing with bodies trying to escape the sunlight. A vampire on the outer layer turns to you and bares her fangs, gray patches of skin on her arm peeling away in a trail of dust. You almost feel badly for her. Once a noblewoman, now reduced to a rabid animal caught in Erliza’s trap. You flinch as you stab the sword into her stomach as she reaches for you - so consumed by her desperation she hadn’t even noticed or cared about your weapon. Her shrieks will haunt you for the nights to come as her arms claw at you, still trying to close the gap. Still skewered, she follows you several steps backwards, and disintegrates underneath the skylight, leaving your blade bloodless.

The priorities of the remaining vampires have shifted as their numbers dwindle and the room grows brighter. The press closer to the dwindling shadows, ignoring you in favor of fighting one another for protection as several burn away like stacks of paper. You push through them and find purchase on your friend’s forearm, yanking her up to unsteady feet. She’s bloody, and in the moment there’s no way to tell if it’s hers or someone else’s. In another moment, Astarion is on the other side of her, his arm under hers, dragging her towards the safety of the windows where she drops to the ground with a thud.

 

“Fuck,” she chokes through heavy breaths. “Thank you.”

 

You drop to your knees next to her, looking for any grievous wounds. “Are you okay?”

 

She swallows. “Mostly unscathed - I think. The bastards got a bite in or two… but I’ll live. So much for the plan.”

 

The plan. Ugh - what a spectacular failure. As it turns out, your idea wasn’t novel at all - Erliza had been plotting to take out her guests in exactly the same way. She’d staged a massacre of her own kind.

 

Of course she had. Vampires are solitary, reclusive creatures. She’d never planned on sharing.

 

“We should move out to the garden,” Astarion says, his arms crossed. “I imagine she’ll be sending someone to finish off the rest.”

 

Fewer than ten vampires remain, cowering on islands of shadow.

 

“But Lae’zel. Gale-” Shadowheart protests.

 

“Maybe they got lucky. If all of the vampires were in here, she wouldn’t have had much backup,” you offer hopefully. “They might have been able to take her down elsewhere.”

 

She can’t take her eyes off of the floor. “No. They were supposed to be here. If Gale said to get out…”

 

“Then we get out ,” Astarion snaps. “And we get these people out with us.” He jerks his chin at the quivering, huddled partygoers nearby - about thirty in total.

 

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… surprisingly charitable of you, Astarion.” He isn’t one to go out of his way to help others.

“I can be charitable ,” he says defensively. “But don’t worry, I haven’t gone soft. We may need their testimonies.”

 

“It’s daylight - we have the advantage now,” Shadowheart says weakly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of the doors.

 

“The gith has survived worse,” Astarion replies. “If she can survive battles in the astral plane, she can survive Erliza. Besides,” he wrinkles his nose. “Githyanki blood tastes awful.”

Shadowheart glares at him. “You say that like you’ve tried .”

 

Some of the mortals have already started finding their way through the glass door to the garden.

“She’s right,” you interrupt. “If we’re going to finish this - we should finish it now. Before the new spawn wake up.”

 

“No,” Astarion shakes his head. “You both look like shit. She has plenty of human guards to look after her in the daytime. We have witnesses. We can come back after you’ve both rested, with backup.”

 

Shadowheart gets to her feet. Ignoring Astarion, she’s looking directly at you - pleading. “They could need us now. They might still be fighting.”

 

You sigh. “I know.”

The other vampires catch your attention again - maybe you already have backup. Astarion calls your name in protest as you walk back across the ballroom, holding your head as high as you can manage.

“Erliza Daressin tried to kill you,” you call out to them, your voice echoing across the now sunny ballroom. In the daytime, it was uniquely beautiful, the windows bringing the lush green gardens inside. “Are you going to take that from her?”

 

At first none answer you, but you do have their attention. They eye you with suspicious, hungry glares.

You swallow. “We’ll go outside and find our way back in again - and when we do, we’ll get these doors open. Will you fight with us?”

 

“No,” Astarion says sternly. 

 

A heat bubbles in your chest, and you’re ready to tell him off. “How can you-”

 

“It’s a waste of time,” he says flatly, holding up a hand. He strides right past you, and towards the doors, sidestepping what remains of the mortals lost in the fray.

 

Your anger instantly deflates, popping like a bubble as you watch him expertly work one of the locks.

 

“Someone might come to finish them off in the time it would take us to find a way back in and around. This is faster.” 

 

The vampires are ready to rush the door, but not before Astarion barks at them. “Eh! Not so fast.” He waggles a finger. “You fight with us, or you die. Understand?”

 

                                                                   

---

 

You burst into the Devil’s Fee, eyes watering and lungs pumping from the run. The entire time you imagined that Karlach was hot on your heels, ready to tackle you to the ground and drag you back, but even now there’s no sign of her. You hobble forwards as Helsik jumps from her stool behind the counter, hand on the pommel of her sword before she identifies you. Looking around, she’s alone in the shop - not a single patron browsing her curiosities.

Relieved that you aren’t an enemy, Helsik lets out a lengthy sigh. “Barging into a place like this could get you killed. Are you so careless?”

“Have they already gone?” You lean against a post for support as your breath returns to you. The shop isn’t terribly far from the Elfsong - but you aren’t used to sprinting for that distance in full armor. 

“Yes- it’s been nearly an hour, now.”

“Is the portal still open?”

“I should hope so-”

You run for the stairs, but she blocks your path. “Are you mad?” She demands. “You can’t go in there alone - you don’t even have a weapon!”

Right. You’d put on your armor this morning, but there would have been no explaining to Karlach why a sword was necessary for an innocent meal. She would have sniffed you out a mile away. You poke around in your bag and pull out a dagger, glancing over your shoulder. Karlach would pop in any moment now - you’re sure of it. “I have a weapon, see?”

Helsik raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her puffed out chest. “Ha! That butter knife? Don’t make me laugh. You can’t go to Raphael’s domain armed with a dagger.”

“I’ll be fine,” you insist hurriedly. “My friends are there already - they’ll have something I can use.”

She looks you over. “I don’t doubt your strength, but I fear you’re grossly underestimating the danger.”

“It’s not your business, is it? You admitted that yourself. We paid your price,” you stand your ground.

She falters - at first unable to argue. “That was my price for a healthy, battle-seasoned group of travelers. I charge more to have someone’s suicide on my hands.”

“Fine.” Exasperated, you pull out your coin purse and shove it towards her.

She only hesitates for a fraction of a second before snatching it from your hand and feeling the weight of it - a heavy thing. You’ve been saving it for a while now, and it stings to hand it over under such a stupid pretense. She unties it with a painstaking slowness, sifting through the contents with her fingers.

“Better?” You ask, running a hand through your hair. Every sound outside and inside the shop puts you on edge.

“A little less than I would have preferred,” she frowns. “But suitable, I suppose.”

“Consider it insurance. I’ll bring you back something more valuable, and you’ll give back my coin.”

She laughs to herself, but steps aside to let you pass. “Right. Are you sure you don’t want to write a will before you go?”

 

                                                                       

---

 

Even in the realms of magic, portals are regularly uncommon forms of travel at high material and magical cost. Most will never step into one - and of those that do, they do it so infrequently that few get used to the disorientation and nausea that follow. You’re spit out into a grand chamber with high ceilings. The ornate decorations scream Raphael - there’s no question that you’ve made it. You hang tight until the spinning stops, only to be immediately caught by a spectral resident - a dwarf.

“Oh! Oh no no no - not another one. I thought you were the Master,” she frets, her high pitched voice wailing. Then she winces. “Be quiet - be quiet, or they’ll hear us. I’ve already taken so many risks today….you should go. Be on your way.” Her rosy image flickers as if she might dissipate.

“Wait!” You shove out a hand. “I’m looking for my friends. Have you seen them?”

She pauses, looking right, then left - as if waiting for something. Or someone. “Friends?” She asks with a nervous stutter. “No. There’s no one here but lost souls - trapped -”

You think you hear the distant rattling of chains.

Maybe this strange woman didn’t run into them - but the recognition you saw on her face seems to suggest otherwise. You shouldn’t trust anyone here, and you think she’s lying to you, but she doesn’t quite feel like an enemy either.

“My friends,” you repeat. “A silver haired man, a man with a glass eye and horns, a woman with a long ponytail…an insufferable wizard? A githyanki?”

She has no poker face - and now you know you’re onto something. Still, she seems to agonize over elaborating. “Your friends… you’re here to help your friends.” Her voice turns manic, giddy. “And your friends are helping me! Will you help them help me? The more of you there are, the better chance you’ll have.”

Gods, what have they gotten themselves into? You look over your shoulder, still expecting Karlach to appear. You don’t know what to say. “Well, if they agreed to help you, I’m sure that they have a good reason for it. I’ll do whatever I can. Who… are you?”

“I’m Hope!” She says. “Or… a part of her anyway. I’m a prisoner of this wretched place.”

“Hope. It’s nice to meet you. Do you know where they’ve gone?”

“The archive,” she whispers. “I don’t have much time. Here - for your protection.”

Before you can consider protesting, she’s casting a spell on you, and you look down to see ugly, tattered red clothes where your armor was. As you open your mouth to object, she continues.

“Just a glamour,” she holds up her hands. “Just a glamour. It will let you walk around without raising suspicion. Everything of yours is still with you, I promise. I have to go- but please. Hurry. Raphael could be back at any time. Don’t stay alone for long.”

She disappears. 

The sounds alone of this place are enough to drive you to madness - the distant cries and screams of the damned and dragging chains faintly echo from far beyond - so softly that they mimic hallucinations. You linger a few seconds longer, staring at the portal back to safety. Now, you almost wish Karlach would appear from it. It isn’t like she’d make you turn back now, and this is no place to be by yourself.

                                                                 

---

 

The damned pay no mind to you as you pass, and you don’t try your luck striking up a conversation with them. Hope mentioned the archive, but you have no idea where that is, or how large Raphael’s home even is. When you reach a door, you press your ear up against it, hearing nothing on the other side. Before you can try the handle, the door falls open, a strange floral cologne floating through the air. It entices you inside, coaxing you in - covering the smell of brimstone and burning flesh that permeates the rest of the lair.

“Come in, Little Mouse,” a familiar voice calls. “Why sniff around outside?”

Your internal alarm bells sound - you definitely should not go in there. Again you look over your shoulder - no one is there to stop you. A glimpse inside shows you a promise of an elegant looking room - artwork and fine furniture line the small part of the wall you can see through the door. If you’re going to find anything valuable to bring back to Helsik, it looks promising.

As soon as you step inside, the door shuts behind you with a gentle click. The centerpiece of the room is a lavish bath - it mirrors those from Sharess’ Caress, but even grander. You shudder to think that these are Raphael’s…personal…quarters.

There, on a small table against the wall, sits an elegant looking pewter jewelry box - the key in plain sight right beside it. A curiosity takes over, and you turn the little key in the keyhole, and it clicks open to reveal a small tangle of chains, bands, and gemstones.

“Our Little Mouse is a thief, then,” a voice snaps you back to reality. You drop the top of the box shut and turn to face the owner. “You know, I don’t let just anyone in without an invitation. You might be more grateful for such a unique opportunity.”

Your mouth goes dry as you face the owner of the sultry voice. The creature shares Raphael’s face and features…but is far more demon than human. He’s seated amongst a pile of pillows on a large bed, red wings tucked behind his mostly naked chest.

Incubus. You should keep your distance. They’re dangerous - particularly alone.

“I should call home Master Raphael,” he clicks his tongue, resting his chin on his hand. “He’ll be furious. You’re the one he made a deal with, aren’t you?”

You’re careful not to look at him directly, unsure of how his charms could take root - and you take a step back towards the door.

“I’m terribly bored,” his voice lilts. “Perhaps if you speak with me you’ll buy your friends some more time. Or - I could call Raphael home now. He might even reward my loyalty.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Fuck. “No. Don’t call him. Please.”

“Hmmm. That’s better. Come closer - I want a better look at you. I’m terribly curious what type of person has him so fascinated all of the sudden.”

Your heart drops as you scoot forward - no further than a few shuffled steps. There’s still plenty of distance between you and the Incubus.

He frowns. “What’s brought you into my Master’s lovely little home, Little Thief? Not many come here by choice.”

“I’m looking for something.”

“Looking for something. Hm. How vague - you’re going to have to do better than that to entertain me. Your friends are in the archive, no?”

“How do you know that?”

He smiles. “I have eyes and ears everywhere. All sorts of friends. What is it that you’re here for?”

“My contract.”

The Incubus looks taken aback. “Your contract? You’re foolish enough to try to break a deal with Raphael? He gave you a generous gift - more generous than most.”

“Where is the archive?”

“What’s the rush?” He shifts himself and sprawls out on the bed, leaving little of himself to the imagination. “Even you should understand that nothing is given down here without something in return. I’ll tell you where to go - in fact, I won’t even tip off Raphael to the fact that you’re here.”

“But you want something in return. What?” You cross your arms. Nausea bubbles in your gut.

“It’s as I said - I’m bored. Play a game with me, Little Mouse.”

“A game.” Absolutely not. There’s only one thing an Incubus could want. One thing that they’re known for. “What’s the game?”

He shakes his head with a smirk. “You either agree… or not. You really should consider it though - your friends need all of the time they can get,” he taunts.

You have to buy yourself time. Distract him. “Why do you look like Raphael?” 

He sits up a bit more on the bed, cocking his head. A smile spreads across his face. “I choose the form that he wishes.”

Ew.

“Do you have a name?” You speak slowly… purposefully. Every second counts.

“Haarlep.”

“That’s unusual.” Maybe. You have no idea about incubus naming conventions.

“An anagram. You’re stalling. Yes… or no?”

“You want me to make an agreement I don’t know the terms of.”

“You’re trying to break an agreement that you do know the terms of. Tick tock. I’m getting impatient. How quickly can Raphael run home, I wonder?”

“Fine!” You gasp. You won’t go through with it - you’ll fight your way out of it - just buy a little bit more time.

“Excellent!” He smirks. “Take off your clothes. Leave them over there - I would hate to have any mishaps.”

Fuck. You turn away from him and start to slowly undo your armor, fishing for it beneath the glamour. What you feel and what you see dont match. You don’t even need to pretend to struggle with it.

“No, Little Mouse… don’t turn away. I want to enjoy the show.”

Gods, you’re going to be sick. You keep your head turned from him, but his hand is suspiciously…low. Moving. You should have brought Karlach. You never should have come alone.

“Don’t be shy - I know you like horns. And here I am… horny.” He makes a sweeping gesture at his head.

You freeze - was that a purposeful comment about Wyll? You look up to see the twisted smile on his face - he enjoys the horror on yours.

“I’m in tune with your desires - there’s no need to be modest. It’s hard to believe that he restrains himself around you. I’m going to enjoy that little number of a body, that’s for sure.”

Gag. He’s still studying your face with an intensity that makes you want to run from here. You shed the top of your armor, unable to delay it any longer.

“Or perhaps you prefer… fangs?” He laughs. “Lucky for you, I have both.”

No. This is wrong. Consequences be damned - you’re not spending another second here. You bend over and pick your armor back up off of the floor.

“Oh, what’s the matter? Have I hit a nerve? You’ve made a deal with me, Little Mouse - I’m giving you the opportunity to come willingly first, but I will collect.”

“Fuck you,” you snap - but there’s no time now to don your armor again. You have to prioritize arming yourself, as Haarlep stands from the bed.

“Interesting choice of words. A shame - you would have enjoyed it. I would have made sure of it. Last chance… no? Have it your way.”

Before you realize what’s happening - you’re paralyzed. He’s cast a spell on you, and you’re frozen in place as he waltzes towards you. Damn it all. Concentrate - you need to concentrate. You’re stronger than this - you’ve faced far worse and shrugged off other spells with ease. 

He grips your chin and yanks it upwards, and it’s the extra push you need to snap out of it. Partially, anyway. Your arm frees itself and wraps itself around his wrist, pulling it away with adrenaline fueled strength. He’s exposed now, if only you could lift your knee-

You hear your name from the doorway, and you could cry in relief. Wyll.

“Move! Move, damn it!” The voice in your head shouts. “You’re in the way.”

You regain control of your limbs, and you leap to the side, just as a crossbow bolt lands in Haarlep’s shoulder.

The fight lasts for too long - but you enjoy the killing blow. Of course, in the hells… monsters rarely die for good.

Chapter 36: Mind Games

As soon as the doors open, three of the cowering vampires defect - skittering down the darkened hallway. Astarion raises his hand for a moment as if he might do something to try to stop them - but he knows better. There’s no sense in wasting limited time and resources hunting them down to make good on his threat. Others consider following them - the anxiety in the room has become a living, breathing entity. Even cursed with eternal life and unnatural strength and stamina, these aren’t seasoned fighters at your side. They are nobles who have lived cushy lifestyles and sought out easy prey through charismatic charm. More could disappear by the time you reach Erliza.

 

Astarion tugs your bicep and leans close to your ear. “If we find Lae’zel and Gale before Erliza - we’re out of here.”

 

You nod, but refrain from agreeing out loud. It isn’t wise to leave a powerful enemy alive - particularly when her superiors are even closer neighbors. It won’t be long before she sends word to Amn, and last you knew, they were itching for a reason to start conflict with Baldur's Gate. Whatever tale Erliza would write in a letter to them would be expertly spun in such a way that they'd never bother to ask for your side of it.

 

“I don’t even know where to start,” Shadowheart says. There’s an uncertain sway to her posture as she peers down the hall. 

 

“Where were Lae’zel and the others waiting?” You ask. Unfortunately, despite Astarion's comments, finding your allies first is the only correct move you can make. You'll convince him after the fact that immediately fleeing isn't the answer.

 

“They entered through one of the servants’ access doors - but I don’t know if they stayed nearby. The plan was that some were slowly going to integrate with the staff over the course of the night - but if they did, they disappeared at the same time the real servants did. Before the doors were shuttered. Between the masks and the lighting it was impossible to know who was who - particularly when I've only ever spoken with a few of them.”

 

“We should try to locate them first. The more we have on our side, the better. For all we know, Lae'zel led them into battle without us." The best case scenario is that you'd emerge to find Lady Daressin already deceased. For good.

 

The hallway is eerily quiet now - and dark. The candles and magical light sources have been snuffed out, and all of the curtains are drawn. For the vampires, it’s a welcome reprieve from certain death. For you… you keep Astarion and Shadowheart close. It’s difficult to make out much in the darkness - beyond the tiny cracks of light that frame the edge of each curtain.

 

“This way, I can show you. I remember the way,” Shadowheart whispers as she takes the lead. 

 

Your group moves slowly down the hall, turning several corners until you’ve lost most of your sense of direction. It would have benefited you to spend more time exploring her home when you had the opportunity. By some miracle, you don't run into anyone - or is that more unsettling?

 

“Stop,” Astarion says suddenly, breaking the extended silence. He holds his arm out to block her from continuing. “We’ve lost. It’s time to go.”

 

“What? Like hells we’ve lost,” Shadowheart spits. “I thought the Vampire Ascendant had grown out of his cowardice. Don’t tell me that you’re backing down from Erliza .”

 

“Don’t be stupid. Erliza doesn’t scare me. Even if she did - I can get out of here on a moment’s notice, and can be sitting comfortably in my own bed in Baldur’s Gate within six hours. I can’t say the same for the rest of you. I came here to protect the Duke - and I intend to do that. It’s time to go.”

 

Why the sudden change of heart? He reaches for your hand, but you yank it away. “You agreed to this - why change your mind now?”

 

His lips press together, and his eyes fall to the floor. He's hiding something, and his poker face is terrible.

 

“Fine!” Shadowheart huffs, her voice too loud. “Leave if you want, I don’t give a damn. But I’m not leaving Lae’zel behind.” 

 

She stalks forward, prepared to leave everyone behind. Should you follow? If you do, Astarion will follow - you're sure of it. You move one foot forward.

 

“She’s as good as dead!” Astarion blurts out. His tone is oddly erratic - callous to a bystander, but you sense that he's harboring something deeper.

 

Shadowheart freezes up ahead, her body stiff with sudden tension. Her fists coil up at her sides, her back still towards you.” What? ”

 

You can’t hide your own shock. “Astarion, how could you-”

 

“She’s bleeding. I’d recognize that strange aroma anywhere,” his nose twitches. “Spare yourself the heartbreak and save yourself.”

 

She whips around. “Astarion, you bastard !” She charges for him, a spark of magic gathering around her hand. Sniffing out her radiant magic before it forms, you lose several more vampires to the shadows.

 

You throw yourself between them, shielding yourself from her building light. Your interruption throws her off guard and she reels to the side to avoid hitting you.

 

“We won’t make it in time,” Astarion doubles down. “She’s lost too much blood.”

 

“You can’t be so certain. This is Lae’zel,” you insist. “We have to try. Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

 

His eyes soften - you’re breaking through to him despite his self-preservation instincts. “I’m not a dog,” he mutters indignantly.  “But yes.”

 

“Take us. Please. ”

 

                                                                             

---

 

Lae’zel didn’t go down without a fight. You find her in an atrium - the dome-shaped ceiling painted to look like the night sky and embedded with magical lights that twinkle and shift, just as the real constellations do. Her crumpled form leans against a pillar, eyes closed - a trail of blood leading towards her from halfway across the room. Several bodies litter the floor - no less than a dozen. All appear mortal. Some are guards, but others appear to be common folk. No one immediately familiar to you.

 

Shadowheart doesn’t wait to see if anyone else is still lurking about - she runs to Lae’zel’s side as soon as she lays eyes on her, gripping the gith’s hand tightly in her own. Over and over again she repeats her name, her voice weak and scratchy. She rests her head on Lae’zel’s chest and slides a hand to her neck, searching for any sign of life.

 

“She’s still alive. Barely,” Astarion says quietly as you both approach her.

 

Only up close do you see the sword that’s been plunged through her gut, clean through to the other side.

 

Shadowheart desperately tries to conjure up some of her healing magic, but it sputters and fizzles against Lae’zel’s skin as she sobs, unable to wholly concentrate.

 

“If you hadn’t wasted our time, maybe we would have been able to help her!” Her wail echoes and bounces on the walls of the circular room.

 

“Keep it down,” Astarion hisses, his arms tight against his chest. “Unless you want the whole damned cavalry running in and doing the same to us.”

 

Lae’zel’s eyelids flutter - and then miraculously open halfway. Aware of her consciousness, her body shudders in pain.

 

“What happened? What happened?” Shadowheart asks, desperately clinging to Lae’zel’s hand between both of hers. She plants a soft kiss on it.

 

“Traitors,” Lae’zel wheezes. “They turned on us.”

 

Your throat catches. “The rebels?”

 

She makes a small grunt in affirmation and squeezes her eyes shut to manage a wave of pain ripping through her.

 

“What - why?” You don’t mean for her to feel obliged to answer - every breath she takes is a struggle.

She opens her mouth, but whatever she’s about to say dies on her lips.

 

“Shh, don’t say anything,” Shadowheart whispers. “Just focus on staying alive. Please.” Her voice cracks in anguish.

 

You kneel down beside them and inspect the blade that’s pierced her - straight through plate armor. Blood has trickled out from the lower edge of it and pooled on the floor at her side. It strongly resembles the wound of the vampire you stabbed earlier - like this is some form of cosmic justice that’s come around to greet you.

 

“We need to get her out of here,” Shadowheart looks at you with desperate, wet eyes.

 

“We can’t move her like this,” you say softly, just barely touching the handle of the blade with a single finger. “We have to get it out, get the armor off - and then do what we can to cauterize or heal the wound.”

 

“Tchk,” Lae’zel grunts - it’s almost a laugh. “My time is done now - do not waste what remains of yours.”

 

Shadowheart shakes her head. “No - you’re not allowed to give up on me that easily.”

 

You turn back to Astarion. “You pull out the blade. I’ll get the armor off - and Shadowheart… be ready to try and close the wound.”

 

“She still may not survive,” Astarion warns. He kneels down hesitantly beside you as you undo some of the buckles at her side. “I don’t think you understand how much blood-”

 

“I understand,” you snap in exasperation. The blood in question is seeping through one of the knees of your pants as you speak. “Will you help, or not?”

 

He glances at the door with a sigh, but grips the handle of the blade. 

 

“Are you ready, Shadowheart?” You ask. She’s paler than normal - frozen, lower lip quivering as she stares at Lae’zel’s chest. Each breath is more shallow than the last. She doesn’t acknowledge your question right away.

 

“Pull yourself together,” Astarion bites impatiently. “If you want her to have any chance at all - prepare the gods’ damned spell.”

 

Her mouth falls agape for only a second before she snaps out of her horror and swallows it back. “Right,” she coughs, and looks down at her hands. “Do it.”

 

Without a flinch, Astarion pulls out the sword in an effortless swoop, sending it clattering to the ground behind you. You don’t hesitate to do your part of the job - you’re ready to yank off her armor over her head the moment the blade has exited her flesh. Unfortunately it isn’t as easy as it sounds - it’s heavy and her body doesn’t easily relinquish it while she remains mostly limp. But with some effort it comes off, and you drop it to the stone floor, revealing the full extent of the damage.

 

Shadowheart looks as if she might be sick, her determination slightly wavering as she moves her hand towards the bloody gash splitting open Lae’zel’s abdomen. You put an encouraging hand on her shoulder - urging her forward. 

 

“It’s not going to be enough,” her voice quivers. “We’re too late.”

 

“Just do your best. She’s tough - she might surprise us,” you say. It’s an empty comfort - you haven’t convinced yourself.

 

As you watch the warmth of Shadowheart’s magic balloon around Lae’zel’s injury, your mind drifts to the rebels - and to what she said. Why would they have turned on her? Had they fallen victim to the charms of vampires, or was it a betrayal made of their own right minds?

 

“We need to go,” Astarion interrupts. “She’s as stable as she’s going to get. There are more coming.”

 

“Just a little longer,” Shadowheart insists through gritted teeth. She’s putting every last drop of her energy into it - loose strands of hair stick to her face with sweat.

 

The few vampires that remain appear nervous - their loyalty wanes with every minute that passes. Over all else, they’ll protect themselves. Back and forth their eyes flit from door to door - the atrium offers many points of ambush. Too many points of ambush.

 

Astarion curses under his breath as Shadowheart dips forward, now breathing almost as heavily as Lae’zel. She’s reached the threshold of her magic, you think - it’s unlikely she’ll be much help in a fight now. 

 

As you look around at your companions - one almost dead, one pushed to the limit; your allies - fair-weather at best, likely unskilled at combat; you face the reality of your situation. Even with a boost from the potion, you aren’t going to be useful for much longer either.

 

“We have to retreat.” The admission stings. It’s worse when Shadowheart looks back at you - her expression horrified and disappointed.

 

“Gale,” she says breathily - the weakness of her own voice appears to shock her. It’s at that moment you think she realizes it too.

 

“We’ll never make it,” you say. “Not like this. Not if the rebels have turned on us. We’ll come back for him.”

 

She wants to argue, but she looks down at Lae’zel again. “I shouldn’t have left her alone. We never should have split up.” She slips an arm underneath one of her armpits and tries to lift her up - with little success. The weight of the barely-conscious githyanki and what remains of her armor nearly sends her toppling over. 

 

Astarion steps in and takes her other side, draping her green arm over his shoulders. “I’m glad you’re both coming to your senses. Now let’s get the hells out of here.”

 

“Just a minute,” a defiant voice from behind interrupts. One of the remaining vampires. “You said we would be getting revenge on Lady Daressin!”

 

“And now what? You plan to just leave us behind, trapped with her while you all frolic off into the sunlight?” Another one speaks up.

 

You exchange a wary glance with Astarion.

 

“Circumstances have changed,” Astarion says icily. “We’ll be back to finish what we started - but for now, her demise will have to wait.”

 

The five remaining vampires look around at one another, a wordless conversation between them.

 

“It’s because they’re weakened,” one of them snarls as he takes an offensive stance. “If we finish the women off, we might have a chance until nightfall.”

 

You look around for any natural defenses - but there are no windows in the atrium. Only a maze of hallways and doors.

 

Astarion unloads Lae’zel from his shoulders and steps forward, leaving Shadowheart to nearly topple over.

 

“Try it,” he dares. You swear that the reds of his irises begin to glow.

 

Initially unconcerned, the five vampires all lunge towards the three of you at once - only for Astarion to hold up his hand. “ Stop ,” he commands. 

 

As soon as the words leave his lips, their bodies freeze in place.

 

You back up to take his place supporting Lae’zel to ease some of Shadowheart’s burden. She’s heavier than you expect - but you persevere. “He can… control them?” She whispers to you in horror. 

 

You don't acknowledge her - you're unsure how to, when a part of you holds the same fears.

 

"But... why wouldn't he have..." She never finishes that thought - and it's one that you can't guess the ending of. 

 

“ Defend us. Distract our enemies and enable our escape ,” he continues. “And should any of you break rank and betray us - the rest of you are to eliminate the threat. Should any of you be compromised by Lady Daressin’s entourage - you will allow the sun to claim you before you breathe a word of anything you’ve seen of us.”

 

They take on the same glassy-eyed appearance of the guards he charmed his way through earlier - the threat neutralized. 

 

As he hurries back towards you, you can’t shake the haunted expression on Shadowheart’s face. You know what’s going through her mind without asking, because you’ve had the same thought. 

 

What if he chose to do that to you?

 

The once ambiguous power of the Ascendant is now real to her - tangible. This wasn’t the same Astarion she thought she knew - up until now he’d had her convinced he was mostly talk and no action. There is something about seeing him bending several others to his will, at the same time, who had moments ago been hostile that is a cold bucket of water over the head. Matters of mind control are no small thing - if one cannot trust their own mind around a person… what can they trust? 

 

                                                                         

---

“What in the hells were you thinking?” Wyll cries. His voice sounds distant, and blurry - you still haven’t entirely recovered from the portal sickness yet. “Entering that portal alone - walking around Raphael’s house alone - what the fuck has gotten into you? You could have died!”

 

He grips your shoulders, but it’s his eyes that are truly pinning you down. He’s the first thing you can focus on as the upstairs room of the Devil’s Fee materializes and stabilizes around you.

 

“Me?” You ask incredulously. “I can’t believe you left without me! You all could have died. We all should have gone. Together.”

 

“Do you think the rest of us incompetent? Honestly - it’s like you can’t trust us to do anything without you. You need a rest, for gods’ sake. This doesn’t all fall on your shoulders.”

 

He sounds like Karlach.

 

“It was my contract you were after.” You clear your throat. 

 

“I told you - I warned you - I begged you not to sign your life away to that devil - I know better than anyone-”

 

“It was my choice to make, and my problem to fix.”

 

“Just like the rest of our problems that you’ve fixed?” He takes his hands off of your shoulders and steps back. “Why are you so averse to letting us help you?”

 

“I never asked you to help. You didn’t even tell me you were going!” You snap. “You left Karlach behind to babysit me - what if - what if you never came back?”

 

Then you’d have to go on knowing that they died for no other reason than fixing your mistake.

 

“We were doing fine - and we might have even made it out of there without attracting Raphael’s attention if it weren’t for you poking around in his bedroom. If we hadn’t wasted time with… Good gods, why would you ever approach an incubus? What were you thinking? Do you know what could have happened to you?”

 

You flinch as you remember the feeling of Haarlep’s fingers on your chin. “Yes. I’m a grown woman - I know what could have happened,” you say softly.

 

“Calm down, Prince Charming,” Astarion interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Maybe save this lover’s spat for somewhere more…private?”

 

Wyll deflates, his posture sagging slightly in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he sighs, looking into your eyes. “Really, I am. I just… I don’t want to lose you.” 

 

“I know,” you say. You give him a half-hearted smile and reach for his hand. It’s only been a couple of days since he lost his father - he’s still fragile. “It’s okay.”

 

He contemplates your outstretched hand before ignoring it and pulling you into a hug.

 

“Gods, it’s like watching two pubescent children who have been madly in love for five minutes,” Astarion mutters. “Let’s give them space, then.” Soon he’s stomping down the stairs to punctuate his disgust, the others in tow.

 

You bury your face into Wyll’s chest - though he doesn’t smell like himself right now. He still carries the subtle stench of the hells on him, and it’s nauseating, but you push past it and try to enjoy the embrace.

 

“I love you,” he says when everyone is gone. “Your business, your problems - they’re mine too. I want to help you, and I can’t stand to see you run yourself down day after day. We have a long road ahead of us still - promise me you’ll rest tomorrow.”

 

“I can’t promise that.”

 

He squeezes you tighter. “Please - we’ll take it together. Let the others worry about saving the world for one day.”

 

If only it were that easy.

 

                                                                         

---

 

Well-rested after your bath, you have a fresh perspective after taking some time with your thoughts. With some of the reckless mistakes you’ve made recently… Perhaps a true rest day is in order. Dried off and re-dressed in clean clothes, you find the room eerily empty - save for Jaheira sitting at a desk rustling through a stack of papers.

 

“What are you doing?” You ask as you approach her. 

 

She jumps - somehow you’ve caught her off guard. It’s unusual for her to be surprised, so whatever she’s engaging with was absorbing much of her attention. Reflexively she covers the paper in front of her with her hand, only to immediately mutter a curse and lift her hand. It’s now stained with black ink. She takes some other papers and tosses them on top instead, resting her elbow on them as she turns to face you.

 

“Official business,” she says. “Harpers.”

 

That’s the extent of it then - she has no plans to elaborate. You nod in understanding.

 

“Where is everyone?”

 

“Dinner. Not Wyll - he was waiting for you. He should be back soon - he went up to the roof for some air.”

 

You thank her and leave her to her work, exiting the room to find Wyll. You’re going to tell him that you’ve agreed to his little rest day - it might be good to spend some time together, just the two of you. A day off, where maybe you can buy into the illusion that everything is normal.

 

As you get to the top of the stairs where the rooftop garden is, you pause. Wyll is speaking with someone. No, not just speaking. Arguing. You hold your breath and duck back out of sight.

 

“...one job. One thing. That’s all I asked of you.”

 

“I’m sorry, Wyll. I tried - I thought we were on the same page. How was I supposed to fucking know that she’d stand me up like that? It - it actually hurt.”

 

The other voice belongs to Karlach.

 

“You shouldn’t have let her out of your sight.”

 

“You’re fucking joking, right? What, did you expect me to follow her into the washroom?”

 

Wyll sighs. “No - no. But you know how she is. You should have expected-”

 

“Resistance? Yeah, yeah. She tried to resist in the beginning - but then she conceded. Or at least… I thought she did. I thought we were better friends than that. I wanted to believe her. And why shouldn’t I, after everything she’s done for me? Honestly, if I’d caught her jumping out of the fucking window I probably would have just said ‘hey, what the hell’ and gone with her in the end.”

 

“Karlach-”

 

“She was right. It’s been tearing me up inside all day thinking about it - I don’t know why I ever agreed to let you all go without us either. Rest day or not - there’s no place more dangerous than Avernus. And there’s no one better suited for it than me.”

 

“No. You swore you’d never go back there - and I wouldn’t have let you. You were in no state after last night.”

 

“Last night?” She snorts. “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying - you just happened to be the unfortunate ear that was awake to dump the trauma on.”

 

“You weren’t that drunk - you don’t have to play it off now because you’re embarrassed. I’ve seen you drink five times as much and hold it down.”

 

“Well, the ale last night must have been particularly potent then.”

 

“It’s okay-”

 

“Look. Could you go back to scolding me about not doing my job and looking after her? Please? I preferred that conversation. I can’t stand your pity - stop looking at me like that.”

 

“I could never pity you.” He says something after that, but it’s too soft to hear.

 

"Wyll- there's something I've been meaning to tell you...it's about- never mind."

 

"What is it? You can tell me anything."

 

“I... it's just. You caught me in a vulnerable moment last night. It won’t happen again.” Her voice is laced with dishonesty - words left unsaid.

 

You back down a few of the stairs as you hear heavy footsteps approaching - suddenly feeling guilty, like you’ve violated a conversation that you shouldn’t have heard. Karlach appears at the top of the steps. She looks surprised to see you - but it’s clear that the conversation has made her upset. She starts down the stairs and brushes past you. “Wyll’s up there,” she mumbles.

 

You watch her descend the rest of the stairs. She’s gone before you can think of anything to say to her or decide whether to try and stop her. You hear the door to the suite slam so hard that it slightly rattles the staircase. When you look up again towards the top of the stairs, you see Wyll’s silhouette against the moonlight. For a few seconds you both stare at one another, neither expecting the other to be there. You’re the first to crack - and you finish ascending the staircase to meet him - unable to shake the feeling that the entire time he’s looking past you.

 

“Are you okay…?” You pry gently, unwilling to admit how much of the conversation you’d listened in on.

 

“Oh. Yes,” he gives you a soft but unconvincing smile.

 

“I saw Karlach coming down the stairs,” you prod a bit further, watching his smile fade. “She looked upset.”

 

“I may have accidentally been too harsh on her - I blamed her for not looking after you.”

 

“For not babysitting me, you mean.”

 

“It isn’t like that-”

 

You sigh. “I’m not here to fight, I promise. I’ve thought about it, and I agree with you. I need to rest. I don’t want to make stupid mistakes.”

 

Like being partially responsible for your father’s death.

 

“Let’s take a rest day tomorrow - both of us. I can trust the others to manage without me.”

 

Wyll looks at you suspiciously, like he doesn’t quite believe you. You’re not sure you believe yourself, either. “No - I’m sorry too. You’re an adult. I shouldn’t have tried to take away your agency like that. You’ve just seemed so exhausted lately. I’m concerned.”

 

You can’t help but laugh. “Exhausted? I could be hours away from turning into a mindflayer, I’ve taken out a goblin camp, traversed the shadow-cursed lands, taken down a vampire lord, among a million other things in the process - exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

 

“You really are amazing, you know that?” He reaches out and runs a hand along your cheek, which quickly turns pink.

 

“Well - anyway,” you stutter. “A rest day. Tomorrow. We’ll take one together, okay? We can pretend for a few hours that everything is entirely normal - that we’re just two people. Maybe we can even manage a real date.”

 

Your stomach flips at the prospect of maintaining such a ruse while your friends potentially risk their lives committing themselves to other affairs. You care for Wyll. So why can't you shed your responsibilities for one day without guilt?

 

“That sounds nice.” His smile this time is genuine. "Coincidentally I know all of the best spots in the city, if you're looking for suggestions."

 

You should know better - there aren’t enough days left to afford yourself such luxuries.

 

---

Chapter 37: Bonds

In the daylight, you’re safe from the vampires - but it doesn’t stop you from hustling as quickly as you can through the streets of Westphal. You haven’t noticed any guards yet, but it’s only a matter of time before word spreads. It’s still early enough that most of the citizens haven’t left their dwellings, so for now you aren’t drawing too much attention as you drag a wounded githyanki through the streets. Lae’zel is heavy over your shoulders, and slowly the burden of her weight is transferred to you as Shadowheart deteriorates on the opposite side. You walk with an unbalanced, limping gait. It’s slow

 

“Let me take-” Astarion says for at least the eleventh time.

 

“No,” Shadowheart snaps. She’s equally annoyed with him.

 

“We’ll move fast-” 

 

“ No! ” She shuts him down, but she can’t hide the shortness of her breath. You can feel her faltering, lagging a step behind.

 

You wish she’d agree to his offer - but you don’t make the mistake of trying to convince her. Shadowheart only has one thing on her mind - getting Lae’zel to safety. Allowing Astarion to take over would be a personal failure.

 

“Gods, I’m starting to miss when you hated one another,” he mutters, bringing an exasperated hand to his forehead.

 

Suddenly, Lae’zel is pulling you to down side as Shadowheart’s knees buckle. There’s a sharp twinge as your arm pulls in its socket, but you manage to keep her upright long enough for Shadowheart to right herself again.

 

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”

 

“We should rest,” you suggest. Right now, you’re on a winding back street - there are plenty of people around, but there are plenty of narrow alleys to disappear down and take a breath.

 

“No - not here. We aren’t far enough away. I’m fine. Really.” The weakness in her voice betrays her.

 

“It’s going to take the better half of an hour to reach the docks at this rate - we may as well rest now because we can’t carry both of you.”

 

Astarion’s lips are pressed together in a tight line. He moves in front of her path, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Let me take over.”

 

Shadowheart stutters, and you can feel her slacken beside you. “Okay,” she agrees, finally.

 

You’re relieved when Astarion takes over for her, redistributing the weight of your companion more equally. 

 

Shadowheart looks lost - blankly staring at the three of you. Disappointed in herself? Or is it… something else ?

 

You glance over at Astarion - his gaze straightforward and avoiding yours.

 

Had he just compelled her? You aren’t sure. His voice hadn’t carried the same command to it as when he’d used it on the vampires, but you aren’t sure anymore. How many other times had he used it before, where it sounded like a friendly suggestion? You swallow the budding lump in your throat.

 

No. Don’t be silly. You’d know if he used it on you. Right?

                                                         

---

 

The docks are awake and teeming with life before the rest of the city, as if they’ve been conducting business for hours already. Fishermen load barrels of foul smelling bait onto small dinghies that rock perilously alongside larger merchant vessels. All around you, men and women haul around parcels, crates, and bags - each on their own purposeful path back and forth. On the outskirts, where the docks meet the street, several vendors set up their wares at stalls - unappetizing selections of food past its prime, garish selections of fabric and clothes, and worn tools, among other things.

 

Here, the passersby are too busy to pay you any mind - they push past you as if you aren’t even there.

 

There are so many people that you don’t know where to begin. You still have the strange coin Garett passed off to you - but who are you meant to show it to?

 

Astarion interrupts your thoughts. “Stay here. I’ll see if anyone will take us across.”

 

“Garett-”

 

“ Fuck Garett.” Astarion narrows his eyes. “Now you decide to trust him?”

 

“I don’t trust him. But he gave me a coin that he claimed would give us passage. I just don’t know who to give it to.”

 

“For all we know, that coin could be a message to take us back across the world to whatever backwater place he crawled out of. I have plenty of money to barter with. Anyone would be a fool not to take us.” He sets up Lae’zel against Shadowheart on the ground - and finally you stretch out your aching shoulders.

 

“Stay here, I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

 

                                                   

---

 

Unable to sleep, you’re overcome with sickness. You peel yourself out of your bedroll, suddenly too hot despite the cool night air. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck, the sweat at the collar of your shirt sending chills down your spine. Ears ringing, you stand up on trembling legs and try to take a walk to distance yourself from your companions. The tadpole… is this it? So soon? You swear you can feel it squirming around, just out of reach behind your eyes. Gods.

 

You don’t make it too far - the trees spin in circles as they stretch up towards the moon. You shut your eyes and crumple to the ground - there’s someone behind you but you can’t find your voice to acknowledge them. The pain distracts you.

 

You gasp as you feel hands grab you, and the kiss of a dagger against your throat. Your eyes flutter open to see Lae’zel. She first utters something in her own tongue - unfamiliar words swallowed by the horrible high pitched tone that pierces your skull. “Do you feel it? Crawling through you? Tendrils squirming in your chest, gripping your heart, piercing your belly? Your bones popping, your flesh swelling?”

 

You’re unable to come up with a response.

 

“I can,” she continues. “I can see it in you. I feel it in me - we are lost.”

 

Stunned, you feel around the ground beside you for anything to defend yourself. In your nightclothes, you’d left behind your weapons. They’re too far out of reach.

 

“I will be quick with my blade. First you. Then the others. Then myself.”

 

She’s telling you her plan - she hasn’t done it yet. Her hand shakes, and you realize that she’s trying to talk herself into it. There’s doubt. If she were fully committed, she would have slit your throat the moment she grabbed you.

 

You use her hesitation to your advantage, pushing away to the side of her and getting to your feet. “Lae’zel.” You hold your hands out in front of you. “We’re all exhausted. That’s all.”

 

She recoils slightly, considering. She looks down at the dagger in her hands as if it’s a foreign object - like she doesn’t know how it got there. “Bah. It seems I can’t trust my own mind.” She shakes her head. “It seems-”

 

She is cut off abruptly by a bolt of fire zooming past her head, just missing the mark.

 

“I knew she couldn’t be trusted!” Shadowheart barks, pointing an accusatory finger.

 

Lae’zel sneers and tightens her grip on her dagger. “I should have started with you - I might not have hesitated.”

 

“Ugh. Couldn’t you have waited until morning to kill one another?” Astarion asks with a yawn. It seems the whole camp is awake now.

 

“No one is killing anyone,” you slowly move between Lae’zel and Shadowheart, darting your eyes back and forth between them.

 

“What are you talking about? She just tried to kill you!” Shadowheart protests. We should have left her in that trap. Gith can’t be trusted.”

 

“But she didn’t. We’re all a little on edge right now. Let’s all go back to bed - we can talk in the morning.”

 

“Oh, like I’m just supposed to be satisfied that she won’t kill us in our sleep?” Shadowheart crosses her arms. She has a point. You uneasily eye Lae’zel.

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to take watches, then,” Astarion says.

 

“Tchk.” Lae’zel slides her dagger away and kicks her foot into the dirt before striding away towards her tent.

 

Shadowheart watches her with a blazing intensity. “Doesn’t even bother with an apology, that one,” she mutters.  Only when the cloth of her tent has settled does she back towards her own tent.

 

“Your n-” Astarion clears his throat. “Ah-” he places a finger towards his throat.

 

“Hm?” You instinctively reach up to your neck, wiping away no more than a drop of blood from where her blade had grazed your skin. It stings, but it’s little worse than a papercut. “Oh.”

 

“A waste,” he smirks. “I would have happily cleaned it up for you. And here I was thinking I was the only one taking blood from your neck. I didn’t realize I’d have to fight off Lae’zel for it.”

 

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, grasping at your throat for defense.

 

He takes a step towards you, and in sync you take a step back. “Are you embarrassed? Why? Surely the others would understand - you helped a friend.”

 

“Friends?” You ask, almost laughing at the idea. “This is the first time you’re speaking to me since, if I’m not mistaken. Is that how friends act?"

 

His smirk fades. “I went too far - I nearly killed you. Worse, I slinked back to my tent and crossed my fingers that you’d wake up in the morning. I thought it would be more tactful to give you space.”

 

The warm pulse of the memory is quickly extinguished with the knowledge that he left you there for the others to find in the morning.

 

“It won’t happen again,” he follows up. Just like Lae’zel - no apology to be found. 

 

You slowly nod, trying to shake off the shadow of disappointment that stirs inside. “I trusted you.”

 

“An inherently stupid thing to do, really. Why didn’t you tell the others and immediately run me off?”

 

“I won’t lie, I’m still considering it. It’s not my secret to tell - but I will, if I think you’re a danger. You said it before - you hadn’t fed properly in some time. I’m willing to overlook it. Once.”

 

“Not much to catch out here,” he says sourly. “And…I’ve never tasted blood from a person before.”

 

That rings an alarm for you. You cross your arms in suspicion. “Astarion the flirt - Astarion the vampire flirt - has never had blood from a person before. Forgive my skepticism.”

 

His expression catches you off guard. “I’m telling the truth,” he says softly, turning his back to you. “Before - when I was beholden to my Master- the vampire that created me - Cazador,” he says the name with pointed disgust. “It was forbidden. He allowed us rats, and sometimes other small animals… never people.”

 

“I’m sorry-”

 

“Don’t be. You didn’t know. Pathetic, isn’t it? For the first time in two hundred years, I’m free of his influence. I can walk in the sun. I can drink whatever I like. And the only drawback is that I could turn into a disgusting tentacled freak at any moment.” He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “How cruel.”

 

You have so many questions for him - but none of them feel right.

 

You sigh. “I’ll keep your secret for now - but I need to know you won’t try to do to any of the others what you did to me. If you need blood - if you’re a danger, or if you’re weak - I’ll give it to you. In small doses.” You place heavy emphasis on the last part.

 

His mouth twitches, conflicted. “Why?”

 

“I want to keep everyone safe.”

 

“How noble. Keeping them safe from the terrible monster."

 

"Everyone includes you."

 

He furrows his brow  and straightens his posture - he doesn't know what to make of that. "What?" He scoffs.

 

"We're in this together, for better or worse. All of us. Let me help you."

 

There are words he's holding back.

 

                                                   

---

 

Astarion returns after several minutes, just as Lae’zel has started to gain a spark of consciousness. She hasn’t yet tried to speak, but her eyes have opened, and she periodically groans.

 

“Great news. I’ve found someone to take us across.”

 

“When do they leave?” You ask.

 

“Tonight.”

 

“What?” Shadowheart jumps in. “I thought we agreed that we were just resting. We can’t leave tonight. Gale-”

 

“Gale,” Lae’zel coughs, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

 

“Lae’zel!” Shadowheart exclaims, a tiny smile of relief peeking through. “Shh. Don’t push yourself.”

 

“Leave him. The bastard turned on us.”

Notes:

spice incoming soon, promise x

Chapter 38: Break

If Gale turned on you, then that means he’s one of the few on Erliza’s side capable of coming after you now, while the sun is up. Still, you remain unconvinced - if it’s true that he’s defected, then why did he bother warning you to leave with the sending stone?

 

“Turned on us?” You ask aloud, knowing that Lae’zel may be too weak to properly elaborate.

 

She utters little more than a soft grunt of acknowledgement, squeezing her eyes shut as a wave of pain courses through her. You flinch sympathetically - reminded of a time when the tadpoles tethered you together, linking inner thoughts and emotions that are typically more private. 

 

“He couldn’t. He wouldn’t -” Shadowheart starts in disbelief. “Gale is good - better than the rest of us, that much is certain. If he turned against us… why would he have warned us?”

 

She perfectly articulates the concerns you’re holding close to your chest.

 

“He did,” Lae’zel coughs. “With…the rebels. With…” she trails off. She’s several shades greener than usual.

 

“It’s okay, don’t hurt yourself,” Shadowheart comforts her with a small gesture - a gentle squeeze of the shoulder. She looks behind towards the town, away from the docks, scanning for any sign of a threat. “If it is true, we should get out of the open. We’ve lingered here far too long already.”

 

Without any strength to continue, Lae’zel slumps in Shadowheart’s arm.

 

“We can board the ship now,” Astarion offers, “I’ve offered a handsome sum of coin for the captain’s silence, and also promised more upon our safe return in Baldur’s Gate.”

 

With luck, it will give you some temporary safety. Between the three of you, you’re able to help Lae’zel to her feet, suspecting she’s still mostly unconscious. You help her towards Astarion’s hired ship, her feet dragging along the wooden planks.

---

“No. Absolutely not.” A chilly breeze blows in off of the sea, ruffling what remains of the sandy grey hair of the captain. He is an aging human man with a face that bears a lifetime of experience - pockmarked and scarred, holding two cloudy eyes in his skull.

 

“Sir-” Astarion begins indignantly. He’s prepared to fight.

 

“No. Absolutely not,” the man repeats with an aggressive shake of his head. “I agreed to take you and your party- I didn’t agree to take no gods’ damned githyanki . Not on my ship.” He takes a drag from his pipe.

 

“Why? She’s no threat,” Shadowheart protests, “Can’t you see she isn’t well?”

 

“No threat. Psh,” the captain rolls his eyes. “All gith are a threat - the only one that isn’t is one that’s six feet in the ground. See to it that you put this one there - it’s near finished.”

 

Shadowheart opens her mouth to argue, but you interject. They’ll have to forgive you later.

 

“She’s a prisoner,” you blurt out, thinking on your feet. “Wanted in Baldur’s Gate. Worth a hefty bounty alive. I am the current acting Grant Duke, and I humbly ask for your cooperation in returning this githyanki prisoner back to face justice.”

 

The words are awkward and frantic, they don’t belong to you. You can only hope that they sound believable enough to the stranger. It earns you bewildered stares from your companions of course, but fortunately Lae’zel is too out of sorts to care, if she can even make sense of your words in her current state. You’ll be hearing about this later.

 

“I don’t have the resources to transport prisoners. Find someone else,” the man waves you off. Adding to the insult, he blows a long puff of smoke towards you. “That thing would kill us all while we slept if it had the chance.”

 

“I assure you it will not have the chance,” Astarion backs you up. “We have it more than under control. Perhaps you’d reconsider your stance for a higher sum?”

 

You fumble around in your pocket for the piece Garett gave you, displaying it in your outstretched palm. Maybe it will mean something to him. “I’ve also been given this - I was told it might be worth something down here.”

 

The captain’s eyes widen. “An obsidian token,” he murmurs, stroking his patchy beard.

 

You might be on to something. You hold your breath in the silence that follows, hoping that you’re getting somewhere now.

But when his initial surprise fades, a shadow falls over his face to replace it. He reaches out and smacks your hand away, sending the piece skittering to your feet and narrowly avoiding falling through the cracks of the dock. You hastily pick it up again and tuck it away.

 

“Your blood money's no good here - I don’t work for that,” he spits. “If you’ve got that shit, it’s Sariv you’re after.” The captain jabs a crooked thumb down the dock towards a large galleon constructed of some of the darkest wood you’ve ever seen – nearly black. The color is so black that it almost sparkles, reflecting the water that dances around it.

 

Astarion gives you a side eye, not long before you hear his voice resonating inside of your own mind. An intruder.

 

“Back off of this - I can force him to take us.”

 

You stare back in horror, with a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head. No.

 

“Who is Sariv?” You ask carefully, before the captain suspects anything of you.

 

He furrows his brow in response. “Why do you have this if…” he shakes his head. “Never mind. Bring it there - I’ll have nothing to do with this. Not again.”

 

Whatever is going on, he’s determined not to involve himself. He begins to turn away and resume his work - he appears to be taking inventory of some crates alongside his docked ship.

 

“Oka-” you begin, but Astarion interrupts.

 

“No. Sir-” Astarion says insistently enough to convince the captain to turn around again. “ You will take us across. You’ve already agreed, and I’ve already paid your advance. ” 

 

It’s an order. A compulsion. Now caught in Astarion’s crimson gaze, the man falters, his jaw first clenching, the slackening. His expression contorts as if the weight of the compulsion pains him - forces him to go against his very will and nature. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face, forming at his temple and disappearing into the fold of his neck.

 

“You- you’re right,” he stammers. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Of course.” He offers a small bow of fealty.

 

You give Astarion a disapproving glare, but he isn’t paying attention to you right now as he focuses the full weight of his attention on his victim, picking him apart. It’s one thing to compel your enemies – or to save yourselves from imminent danger. But to compel someone innocent? The captain’s disapproval of Lae’zel might be bigoted, but that’s all the more reason not to embark on a multi-day journey with him, or give him your coin.

 

Still, there’s nothing you can say in the moment, not in front of the captain anyway. You begrudgingly go along with it for now, the coerced captain leading you into the ship bobbing on the gentle waves behind you.

 

---

 

“I’m not a strong enough healer for this,” Shadowheart sighs, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. She’s trying to be strong, but her lower lip trembles, betraying her helplessness. 

 

Lae’zel lies on a small linen cot. The living quarters on this ship are far more meager than the last, offering no privacy for its crew or passengers. She’s slipped entirely out of consciousness again, her breaths now uneven and heavy. 

 

“You are strong enough,” you encourage. “But you’re also exhausted. We all are. We’ve been awake for over a day now - your magic is spent. You need rest.”

 

“How am I supposed to rest when she may never wake up again?”

 

“She’s stable - no need to be so dramatic,” Astarion replies. He’s leaning back on a cot of his own, an arm draped over his eyes.

 

“You don’t know that!” Shadowheart snaps, ready to lunge at him.

 

Sensing her movement, Astarion sits up. “I do, actually .”

 

“She needs a healer - a doctor. Someone skilled,” she insists.

 

“For gods’ sake, calm down.” Astarion rolls his eyes - he’s acting remarkably callous, even for him. It’s clear that you all need proper rest. “She’s in shit condition - but she’s been through worse. If you’re that concerned, I can always bring her back.”

 

“Do you always have to be such a bastard?” Shadowheart clenches her teeth. “She would never want that. If gith… can they even become vampires? Never mind. It’s not important - we don’t need to find out.”

 

Shadowheart paces back and forth as the ship sways beneath her feet along with the waves. In the silence, you hear every creak and groan of the ship, and every step of her heel. You sit on a cot in the corner of the room, which isn’t really a room at all, but a wide open space below deck. Makeshift places to rest are scattered amongst the cargo hold - sad excuses for cots covered in scratchy blankets. It won’t be a comfortable journey ahead. Your eyes are getting heavier and heavier - sleep has eluded you for too many hours now, and the gentle rocking of the ship and dim lighting of the space lull you closer to sleep. The cot, however uncomfortable, calls your name - begs you to lay down.

 

“I can’t stay here and do nothing,” Shadowheart announces after several minutes of silence. “I’m going to find a doctor – or medicine, at least. A potion. Anything.”

 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” you protest. “They’ll be looking for us.”

 

“Then come with me. Help me. Help me help her. Please.”

 

Your body disagrees with the idea of standing up again, let alone the idea of going back out into the world like this. One look out of a porthole reveals an overcast sky that threatens rain. But you stand up anyway. You won’t let her go alone.

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Astarion warns. “You’ll get yourselves killed in this condition.”

 

“I don’t care,” Shadowheart retorts. “I can’t stay around all day and rest while she suffers. There has to be something I can do to help her.”

 

“Well, you should try. Dig through some of the cargo - maybe you’ll find something here.”

 

“Oh, yes,” Shadowheart croons sarcastically. “Lovely. Let’s take further advantage of the man helping us.”

 

“You heard what he said about her, why do you care?” Astarion snorts. “He deserves it.”

 

Her confidence flickers - she considers it. “No,” she ultimately decides. “It isn’t worth it. Suppose he caught us rummaging around down here. Then what happens? We get kicked off and have to find another way.”

 

“Nothing, if I have any say in it,” Astarion smirks. His lack of hesitation to use his abilities concerns you. “It’s easy enough to convince him that he gave us permission.”

 

“Astarion,” you utter in shock. “Do you do this often?”

 

His lips tighten. “Only when necessary.”

 

Your suspicion heightens Shadowheart’s. “How often?” She grimaces.

 

Astarion tenses, his arms crossing defensively over his chest. “Well - I haven’t used it on any of you yet, if that’s what you’re implying. But I may reconsider if you insist on trying to leave this ship right now.”

 

The word ‘yet’ is an unexpected shot to your stomach. Yet.

 

“I dare you to try,” Shadowheart says icily, heading for the ladder that leads to the deck above. “I’ll kill you if you get in my way, Astarion. Don’t think I’ll let our history stop me.”

 

“I’m shaking in my boots,” he says with scathing sarcasm.

 

Shadowheart places her hand on a rung of the ladder, glaring back at him. Still daring him to do it. “Well?” She taunts.

 

He scoffs and waves his hand. “Do whatever you like, then. But I won’t hold the ship for you if you miss the departure.”

 

You move to follow her, but to your surprise, it’s Shadowheart that stops you. “I need you to stay with him.” She scowls. “On second thought, I don’t trust him alone with her anymore.”

 

“You think she could stop me?” Astarion asks in amusement. A shiver runs down your spine.

 

The doubt on Shadowheart’s face is surprisingly hurtful. But she is resolute in her decision, and she takes a deep breath. “She has a better chance than I do.”

 

With that, she disappears up the ladder.

 

---

 

You don’t even know where to begin with Astarion. You look over to make sure that Lae’zel is truly unaware of her surroundings, which she appears to be - and at least for now you hope she stays that way.

 

“What is your problem?” You ask Astarion, utterly exasperated. Oh well. It isn’t the perfect first blow that you were hoping to land, but there’s too much running through your head right now to formulate the perfect inciting question. It’s the best you can come up with.

 

“ My problem?” He asks in surprise. 

 

Good. It was at least unexpected, then. “My problem is that I’m trying to protect us, while you both insist on trying to get us killed at every turn.”

 

“What do you mean? Everything I’ve done was to protect us. All of us. I’m not an opportunist ready to leave someone behind when things get hard.”

 

“You’re too good for your own good - even now,” he says softly - almost in disgust. “Then follow her, if you feel that you must. But I would suggest that you stay here.”

 

“Suggest? Or compel?” Oops. It’s provocative - Shadowheart isn’t the only one that needs rest.

 

Astarion sighs. “I didn’t force her to stay, did I? I could have. I should have.”

 

“It didn’t stop you from threatening it,” you reply. Still, he’s right - he didn’t. If for no other reason than knowing that you wouldn’t be able to trust him easily after such a drastic move. “I didn’t realize how… powerful you’ve become.” Your shoulders sag.

 

He seems to stare right through you. “Dangerous, you mean. That’s what you really want to say.”

 

And it’s true. Last night, you saw a new side of him - a side that you have to admit is terrifying. He holds a power so great that it would allow him to take the world in his hands, if he chose.

 

You swallow. “No,” you lie. “I don’t believe you’re dangerous.”

At least, not to those he keeps on his side.

 

He approaches you, with the slow stride of a predator that’s cornered its prey. If he wasn’t Astarion - if you didn’t know him, it might be intimidating. Do you still know him? Is this the same, terrified man that clung to you and begged for your protection from Cazador? Or did someone else take his place when he ascended?

 

“You don’t believe I’m dangerous,” he repeats, now standing less than an arm’s reach from you.

 

“No,” you lift your chin a little higher, refusing to back down from him. Underneath the new persona, he’s still there. The Astarion that needed your aid.

 

“You’re lying,” he whispers. His fingers find your chin, coaxing it higher and tricking your eyes into becoming ensnared in his. “You’re having doubts. You wonder if I’ve used the charm on you. Don’t bother denying it -your thoughts are loud. They betray you.”

 

Your mouth goes dry. “Yes. Fine,” you admit. “I’ve wondered . Can you blame me, after tonight?”

 

You knew that vampires possessed the power to charm and coerce, but to dominate the minds of others so completely, and to do so to several at once…

 

“I haven’t dared to use it on you, darling - believe me, there would be no mistaking it. The power is not without fault. Those that experience it are entirely aware of it, once it wears off. Unless, of course…”

 

“Unless?” You prod.

 

“Unless they already wanted to do it themselves.”

 

You shiver. He’s so close to you now - you want to reach out and pull him closer and push him away at the same time. Just over his shoulder, you see Lae’zel’s back turned towards you, facing away on the cot. Hopefully oblivious.

 

“Compel me, then,” you blurt out, your voice hushed. Already you feel a heat rise to your cheeks. “Make me do something - so I know how it feels. So I have something to compare it to.”

 

He blinks in surprise, clearly taken aback. “What? Are you out of your mind?”

 

You shake your head. “No.”

 

His eyes flit away, if only for a moment. “You should rest,” he shakes his head and takes a step back. “You aren’t thinking clearly.”

 

You stand firm. “Please. If you’re telling the truth - put my mind at ease.”

 

“Fine.” He frowns as his eyes meet yours again - a faint glow circling his irises too bright to be a reflection from any of the portholes. “ Walk back towards your cot .”

 

The instruction feels inviting - but not entirely against your will, either. You’re tired. It was already something you might want - and you obey, not feeling anything particularly out of the ordinary.

 

“Satisfied?” He reads your wordless expression - he knows you aren’t. “Well - what am I meant to make you do, then?”

 

You look up at him. “I don’t know,” you shrug. “Something I wouldn’t do anyway.”

 

He’s not sure of what he’s about to say next - there’s a lengthy pause before he says it. “ Kiss me .”

 

You freeze - time stops flowing around you, and you almost laugh. Is he a fool? That’s all you want - you don’t need convincing, aside from the fact that Lae’zel shares the room with you. You feel none of the pull of his compulsion, only the pull of him giving you permission to do the thing you long for. You throw yourself forward and wrap your arms around his neck, crushing your lips against his. He hungrily kisses back, his lips parting yours, his tongue tracing the contours of yours.

 

His hands grasp at your lower back, pulling you closer until your pelvis meets his, and you feel him pushing into you - a hardening mass.

 

But just as abruptly as it began, he suddenly pulls away. “No-” he whispers breathlessly, his eyes falling to the floor with the weight of guilt. “I didn’t want to force this.”

 

You shake your head. “You compelled me to kiss you. You didn’t compel me to do it again.” You reach behind his head and thread your fingers into his hair, pulling him into you again. This time, he walks you backwards until you’re knocked backwards on the cot as it catches your knees. 

 

It squeaks underneath your sudden weight, and again as Astarion’s knee digs down into it beside your thigh. He pushes you down the rest of the way, flat on your back, and in the next moment he’s holding himself over you, hands clutching the blanket on either side of you. Nervous, you glance over in Lae’zel’s direction - but from this angle the crates of cargo mostly obscure her from view.

 

“She won’t wake,” he reassures with a breath. “At least - not if you’re quiet.”

 

He leans down and kisses you again, pressing his hips into yours. You stifle a moan and jerk your head backwards into the flat pillow, and he pulls away to leave soft kisses along your jaw and down the line of your neck. You brace for the possibility of his fangs - even stretch your neck to offer it to him - but they don’t come.

 

"No - not that... unfortunately, darling. Although I would love nothing more than sucking your sweet veins dry, I've overindulged today. It's your turn."

 

Instead, his lips continue down to the neckline of your shirt, inching further down your breast as he tugs back the fabric.

 

“Shh,” he warns, as another involuntary noise threatens to break through from your throat. 

 

Right. You have to remember where you are. At any moment, the hatch above the ladder could open, and Shadowheart could come back. Anyone could come down, really - and witness this stolen moment. 

 

You reach around his back and slide your hands underneath his shirt, feeling the cool marble of his skin and tracing the sharp ridges of his lean muscle. He responds to you with some enthusiasm, pressing you deeper into the cot that buckles towards the floor. You follow the curve of his back lower, down to the waist of his pants, your fingertips testing the waters. He responds by snaking a hand up underneath the bottom of your shirt, cupping your breast in his hand, and pinching at the nipple. You gasp and buck your hips forward, feeling your insides clench as a familiar heat gathers between your legs.

 

“This is dangerous,” you say, wondering if you even care anymore.

 

He nibbles at your bottom lip while pulsing his hips against yours. “I thought you said I wasn’t dangerous.”

 

“I lied,” you choke, as you feel him nudging down the waistband of your pants.

 

“Hmm,” he hums, sliding away from your face and down your body.

 

“Ast-” you can’t get his name out. He kisses the ridge where your undergarments meet your hip and stomach, and your thoughts melt into a shiver. A finger slides under the thin piece of fabric at your crotch, now damp. It’s joined by a second, and together they slide between your lips. At the first touch your thighs shudder and clamp shut, but another hand pries open one of your thighs, pinning it to the bed. 

 

Between your thighs, the other hand slides up to your clit, expertly working it between a slow, deep rub and a fast, light flutter. A moan escapes against your will - louder than you mean it. He stops for a moment, pinning you between two fingers, then slowly sliding them down towards the entrance of your vagina. First one slides in, swirling around lazily before it pulses in and out - in and out, building speed. The second finger is a surprise, joining the first as it plunges in. Your body is more than ready for it, eager and willing. 

 

You don’t realize that your undergarments are missing before you feel his tongue flick against your clit, fingers exposing you to his touch. Your mind goes blank - dizzy with pleasure as a third finger spreads you wider.

 

“We shouldn’t…here,” you breathe.

 

“You’re right,” he agrees, pulling away.

 

You aren’t prepared for the void he leaves behind - how badly you need him to continue. You reach up, desperate to pull him close again as he looms over you, your hands grasping for his shoulders. You should stop - you need to stop - but you don’t want it to stop. And then, in one, effortless push, you feel him enter you - sending stars dancing across your vision.

 

You feel his lips at your ear as he rhythmically pulses in and out of you. “Are you sure you want me to stop?” He muses.

 

“No.” You aren’t even sure it’s audible - the sound is stolen away with a particularly strong thrust. You push up against him, coaxing him deeper - your body slick and exuberantly receiving him.

 

“Good.” He smirks above you. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

 

You can’t bring yourself to say it… but you have, too. How long had you held back your desire for him, while you convinced yourself he was nothing more than a rake? Your pleasure slams to a breaking point, and Astarion covers your mouth, anticipating the wail of pleasure as you careen into an orgasm. He lets out a soft chuckle and increases his tempo - you can’t keep your eyes open any longer. Your body is weak as it wraps around him now, overwhelmed with aftershocks of bliss.

 

Astarion lets out a moan- no. The moan doesn't belong to him. It's further, female-

 

Not Astarion. He freezes and presses down low to the bed - you feel him slide out of you. He shudders and climaxes with a choked sigh, and his cum spills down your thigh.

 

Lae’zel is awake again.

 

Chapter 39: Captive

You’ve been robbed of the moments of quiet, blissful peace that would normally follow intimacy. Only a moment before, Astarion was straddling you, pressing you into the sheets - and now he’s gone, literally, in a puff of smoke. Your arms are left frozen above you, holding the air. You stare emptily at the dark ceiling above, at the void he’s left, your heart pounding against your ribs. Reality is crashing in now, tearing down the curtains you temporarily shrouded yourself with.

 

There isn’t enough time in the world to fully process what’s happened, or how reckless it was.  Out of all of the stolen moments you’ve had, and the opportunities alone… and you risk making a public spectacle of the very thing you’re trying to hide. Lae’zel coughs from the other side of the room - not visible from your vantage point. Careful not to draw attention to yourself, you readjust yourself, fixing your clothes with slow, creeping motions. Over the shuffle of the fabric, you can hear her stirring. As long as she doesn’t sit up, she shouldn’t see you.

 

“Lae’zel?” you squeak, only once all of your garments are back where they belong.

When she doesn’t answer, you navigate your wobbling knees towards her cot. You repeat her name again as you stand over her.

 

Her eyes are open now, squinting, and she blinks at you as if she’s trying to recognize the shape of your face. There’s a flicker of relief as she recognizes that you aren’t an enemy - but undeniably tainted with disappointment that you aren’t who she was hoping for. She grunts in acknowledgement before draping an arm over her eyes, making every effort to mask her pain.

 

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently. “Do you need anything?” 

 

It’s a good thing that she’s still delirious, because your heart is still pounding so loud you can hear the blood rushing in your ears, and you can only imagine you’re wearing a guilty expression. 

 

She grunts again - nothing you can make sense of - but you’re determined to do something for her. You dig through her pack to find her canteen, unscrew it, and offer it to her. She tries to crane her neck forward, supporting herself on an elbow that shakes like a tree about to uproot. You carefully hold it to her lips, at which point her arm gives out on her and a splash escapes.

She immediately curses, cross with herself, forces herself into a seated position and snatches the canteen from you, drinking deep. Only after she’s emptied it does she scan the breadth of the room. “Where are we?” Her voice is dry and husky - but it’s the closest to herself you’ve seen her. It’s apparent that she recalls very little of the past several hours.

 

“A ship - they’ll be leaving port at dusk to take us back to Baldur’s Gate.”

 

“Where is-”

 

“Shadowheart is okay,” you reassure, reading her expression. “She went to look for something to help you.”

 

“Bah,” Lae’zel scoffs. “She should know better. This is nothing.” 

 

It’s a lie - the pain is eating at her, her stilted words allowing you to read between the lines.

 

“Here - sit back. Let me look at the wound. I don’t have potions or proper medicine - but… there is alcohol. Something to help with infection.” You pluck a clear glass bottle from a nearby table.

 

“I have no need for such things,” she says, waving you away.

“We’re about to be at sea for several days.” You uncork the bottle and blot a rag with it. “We don’t have the luxury of taking chances.”

 

“Githyanki are immune to much of your illness. Our flesh is not as susceptible to the rot as yours.”

 

“I wonder who told you that.” Your implication is a finely tuned arrow that perfectly hits its mark.

 

“Tch,” she averts her eyes and pulls down her blanket, leaning back into the bed. “Fine.”

Her blood-soaked shirt sticks to her skin, stuck on the nascent crust of a scab. You gingerly pry it away and push it up to uncover the partially cauterized, oozing stab wound. It hasn’t been cleaned - not properly. You put the alcohol-soaked rag to the side for now and dig through her bag to find clean fabric - a shirt that will have to be sacrificed. Then you locate a stock of provisions, where you dunk it in a half empty barrel of drinking water. Not ideal - but the best you have on short notice. It’s enough to mostly clean off the wound, through which she doesn’t flinch. But you can tell from her concentrated, rigid muscles and the taut line of her mouth that it hurts.

 

“It… doesn’t look so bad, now,” you say unconvincingly. Lae’zel raises an eyebrow at you, but she doesn’t have the strength to argue.

 

When the first warm drop of alcohol touches her flesh, you get the closest thing to a reaction from her: a tiny jerk of her abdomen and an unfriendly scowl. She mutters something in a tongue you don’t understand - you can only offer an apology.

 

“If you don’t have it in you, we can talk later,” you preface. “But about before… you said that Gale turned on us.”

 

She nods. “With the rebels. When they saw the Kenderick boy - they lost heart and bent the knee to him. Her mage came forward and reassured them that a rightful heir was being installed once more.”

 

You wrap your hand around the sending stone in your pocket, now long cold. You could still send a message to Gale with it, if there’s any hope he’s still on your side but playing their games. “Did Gale seem like himself?”

She looks puzzled as she considers your question. “Yes - though I did not see him for long. They left the guards and rebels to take care of me.”

 

Interesting, indeed. It seems as if it might still be too early to give up hope on your wizard. You don’t want to push her much further. Every sentence deteriorates her, each one her voice softer and more gritty.

 

“He sent us a warning to leave. Whether he’s being compelled, or chose this of his own accord… I don’t know. Did he say anything to you?”

 

“No. He was behind… the other one.”

 

Either way, Gale abandoned Lae’zel. Left her alone to fend for herself against a horde of enemies. If he had a reason, it would have to be a damned impressive one. In a final rally, her arm shoots out and grabs the bottle of alcohol from the table beside her, still uncorked. She takes a swig of it before you can stop her.

 

“That isn’t the sort of alcohol for drin-”

 

Your protest is ignored as she gulps it down anyway, slamming it down on the table beside her when only a puddle of it remains.

 

The conversation tapers off as she slips unconscious again.

 

 

---

 

 

You don’t realize that you’ve fallen victim to a nap until you’re awakened by the sound of the trapdoor slamming behind someone descending the ladder. Shadowheart is back, breathing heavily, carrying a clinking sack in the crook of her elbow. 

 

Placing the bag on the ground next to Lae’zel’s cot, she kneels down and studies the unconscious woman, brushing hair back out of her face.

 

“Has she woken?” She asks quietly. With her back still turned to you, you don’t realize right away that she’s speaking to you.

 

“Yes. For a few minutes.” You stiffly climb out of your bed and walk towards her.

 

“Where is Astarion?” 

 

Your breath catches. It’s impossible for her to know what occurred between you, but the question makes you feel guilty all the same. He hasn’t made an appearance that you know of - and he gave no indication of where he was running off to. “I don’t know. I must have fallen asleep.”

 

“Hm.” She turns her attention back to her patient, shuffling the bag she’s brought back and plucking out a glistening corked vial. It’s fat and round - expensive. You release a breath you’d been holding - you expected a more explosive reaction, considering that she’d essentially left you behind to watch over Lae’zel.

 

She gives Lae’zel a gentle shake of the shoulder and repeats her name to try and wake her. You can’t take your eyes off of her loot though - it’s stuffed full, slightly turned open. Other potions rattle around alongside one another. Shadowheart starts to drip one down Lae’zel’s throat as you kneel down beside them and sift through the bag. It’s mostly healing potions, but there are also others, in every color of the rainbow, some in artisan glass bottles.

 

“Shadowheart…” you murmur. “Where did you get these?”

 

It’s her turn to look guilty. “Hm?” It’s a full octave higher than her normal vocal range. “ Oh . I bought them off of a merchant.” She just catches the potion in her hand from spilling.

 

And she thinks that you’re a bad liar. “These… what is this?” You hold up a fancy bottle of glass that swirls around itself to the top, meeting an intricate pattern around the neck. The liquid inside is a dark, velvety purple. 

 

She snatches it away from you. “It’s… I don’t know. They said it might help.”

 

“And this one?” You hold up a very round bottle full of something the same color as Lae’zel’s skin.

“Put it back,” she protests, both of her hands now occupied. The tips of her ears are turning red, peeking just up through her hair.

 

“You don’t even know what these are.” You say flatly. “Who sold these to you?”

 

Pausing her endeavors with Lae’zel, she shoves the purple bottle back in the bag and kicks it underneath the cot. Immediately you hear them spill out and start rolling around with the rhythm of the waves. “Damn it…” she sighs.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” she continues quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and bringing the healing potion to Lae’zel’s lips again. “This is enough - this will work.”

 

You let her finish administering the bottle to Lae’zel before you pry further, but the conversation is far from over. “You’re smarter than that - I know you wouldn’t risk her life dumping mysterious liquids down her throat.” A pinkish bottle rolls out from underneath the cot and hits your foot. You pick it up, uncork it, and sniff it. “This is perfume , Shadowheart-”

 

She drops the empty healing potion on the bed and grabs the perfume bottle from your hands, stuffing the cork back inside. “Shh- shh. Okay, I-”

 

“She stole them.” Another voice completes her sentence.

 

Shadowheart throws her head back and shuts her eyes - Astarion is leaning up against the ladder.

 

“Yes. Fine. I stole them,” she admits. “You followed me?” 

 

Astarion shrugs. “It wasn’t hard. Which concerns me - you were sloppy. If I followed you, it won’t be hard for whatever sucker you stole those from to track you down. The merchants talk , you know.”

 

She sniffs and locks her shoulders. “Does it matter? We have you to talk anyone into anything. You were skilled enough to follow me - make yourself useful and convince him that he sold them to me.”

 

Astarion grimaces. “There are limits , even for someone as talented as myself,” he says drily. “As it is now I’ll have to keep our dear captain in a state of repetitive stupor for days. These things wear off - they aren’t my spawn. When it wears off, he’ll know exactly what’s been done to him.”

 

Shadowheart sags. “Will she be safe here? What if it wears off while he’s sleeping - or if the crew-”

 

He holds up a hand as he crosses the room. “I have it under control,” he insists. Something in his tone triggers a prickle of doubt at the back of your mind. “But these things take energy, darling. And unless you intend on donating to the cause,” he purposefully flashes a fang, now standing less than an arm’s length away from her. “Then you might think twice about asking me to do extra.”

 

You know he just says it to shut her up, but you can’t deny the smallest, automatic twinge of jealousy that you feel at  the thought of him biting her. It catches her up in her own discomfort so that she doesn’t notice the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

 

“ However ,” he continues. “Stealing is second nature to me - you might ask me to do that part next time. Because you were followed.”

 

The trapdoor bursts open and a dozen people pour down the ladder from the top deck. Far from ordinary citizens or merchants - they’re armed to the teeth. Not Erliza’s men, though - their eclectic clothing and menagerie of weapons identify them as mercenaries… or pirates. 

 

“There she is!” One of them points the curved, chipped blade of a scimitar towards Shadowheart. “The thief!”

 

Nine hells. Who did she steal from ? Shadowheart moves in front of Lae’zel. There’s no chance she’ll be able to fend for herself. You take a proper mental tally of enemies - eleven. Eleven that you can see, anyway - there might be more outside.

 

“I thought you said you bought the captain’s silence, too.” you hiss at Astarion.

 

He frowns. “I did. What, do you think they asked him politely to board his ship?” There’s a biting sneer to his words as he reaches for a weapon. “We certainly don’t have to worry about his silence, now.”

 

“Wait,” Shadowheart interjects, holding up her hands in surrender. “Wait. I can give them back, see?” She drops to the floor and starts scooping the rogue bottles back into the sack. “And, I’ll pay you for what I can’t give back - twice over.”

 

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be so quick to give up - but you’re all running on empty. The crew in front of you, on the other hand, is well-rested and itching for a fight.

 

The man at the front of the pack is a bear of a man - most of the size of an orc with a thick layer of meat covering his tattooed muscles. The black ink tattoos cover the full length of his arms and up his neck, all the way to the top of his bald head. You can’t make out the full scene while he faces you, but several black tentacles reach out from behind his ears onto his cheek and temple. He jerks his chin towards the empty potion bottle that sits next to Lae’zel. “She the one that guzzled it?”

 

No one answers.

 

“Ye missed yer opportunity to pay when ye stole from the Inkmaw. Now I’ll be takin’ it back… one way or the other.” 

 

You glance across the room - your weapons are nestled beneath your cot. At least four of them could cover the distance and cut you down before you reached them. Lae’zel’s greatsword rests against the foot of the cot… it will be heavy and unwieldy to someone unfamiliar with it, but it will have to do. You inch back towards it.

 

“We have plenty to offer you,” Astarion says diplomatically. His brow is furrowed as he sizes up your odds, and from his resulting expression, you don’t like your chances. “Plus more, if you walk away. I own a palace full of priceless artifacts across the sea in Baldur’s Gate.”

 

It clearly piques the bald man’s interest, but he isn’t ready to bite. “Funny what cowards will say to save their asses.”

 

“Assets for asses, that’s what I always say,” Astarion’s unexpectedly jovial joke falls flat. He clears his throat. “Well then.”

 

“The cargo on this ship and wha’ever’s in yer pockets is more than worth the effort- I’m not responsible for chasing treasure to Baldur’s Gate.”

 

“You can have it all!” Shadowheart says nervously. “We won’t put up a fight. It’s all yours - we’ll walk away.”

 

The bald man laughs, and others in his crew follow suit. “Little bird doesn’t understand how this works. You know what? Leave ‘er for last - I want to have a little fun with that one.”

 

Shadowheart pales.

 

“They don’t look like much of a threat, Orc,” a human steps up alongside the best of a man. The second individual is entirely androgynous - none of their immediate features, nor their voice helps you place them as man or woman. They’re slight in stature with warm sun-kissed skin and a build hidden beneath a heavy brown coat, hair entirely obscured and tucked up inside of their tricorn hat. “I say we take them prisoner and have a little fun with them all . Make them work for what they stole.”

 

You wrap your hand around the hilt of Lae’zel’s blade, testing the weight of it discreetly while it remains out of their sight, blocked by the cot.

 

The aptly named Orc shrinks back - so he defers to the smaller person then, in whatever hierarchy they have established. Still, he clears his throat. “We shouldn’t make decisions like that without the Cap-”

 

“Tut!” The smaller pirate barks, cutting him off. “We handle the messes so his work can go unbothered. Who is in charge in his stead?”

 

You catch Astarion’s eye. “If you have any brilliant ideas, now would be the time to share them,” he says inside of your mind. “I’m not sure I have enough in my reserves to wield eleven - I might buy us thirty seconds, at most.”

 

“Ye are,” Orc grumbles.

 

You give a slow shake of your head. “ Right, because my last plan worked so well ,” you think back bitterly at him.

 

“Should I tell the Captain that you’ve been questioning my authority? You know what he does to insubordinators.” 

 

Orc sheepishly shakes his head. “Sorry, Brenn,” he mumbles like a scolded child.

 

His superior is still unsatisfied and appears to be waiting for something. Orc takes a deep breath, barely suppressing his eye roll. “I humbly ask ye to forgive my transgressions-” he stumbles on the word, “and for mercy in punishment.”

 

“There, that’s better.” Brenn straightens with a wry smile. “Your transgression-” they enunciate the word carefully. “Is overlooked this time.”

 

“In any case,” Brenn turns to their crew. “For now I say we take them prisoner - the Captain can decide what to do with them in the end, but it’s been so long since we’ve had some entertainment on board.”

 

“The last ones didn’t last a season,” a voice adds.

 

“Brenn,” yet another voice chimes in. The owner waltzes forward, her hips swaying confidently. She still has a sword drawn, and another at her side. She’s the best looking of the bunch by a mile - half elf, at least, but you can’t make out her ears beneath a wave of windswept blonde hair.

 

There’s a lethal confidence to her step that’s necessary for the company she keeps. 

 

Brenn glares at her, but she’s unphased by it, her full lips tilted up in a serene smile. “You know I would never question you, Ser,” she says sweetly enough. Her eyes land on Astarion, and her smirk grows. 

 

Your hand grows clammy as it clings to the handle of the sword.

 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Brenn says through gritted teeth.

 

“But as Second, I feel it is my duty to remind you that the Captain explicitly asked us to be mindful of our resources. Prisoners are more mouths to feed.”

 

“I doubt he’ll complain. Look around, we’ve nabbed a whole second ship. Fully stocked and ready to sail.”

 

The woman can’t hide her surprise. “Two ships? We’re already running one ship on a skeleton crew. We don’t have the manpower to defend two, not on these waters.”

 

“I seem to recall this conversation beginning with ‘ you know I would never question you, Ser ,’” Brenn’s imitation of her voice is uncanny.

 

“Apologies, Ser-”

 

“Go on.”

 

“Yes, yes. I humbly ask you for forgiveness of my transgressions and for mercy in punishment,” she spits out hastily.

 

Brenn gives a smirk of approval, but you can tell that they’re still sour towards her. “As for your staffing concern - we’ll bring the rest of this crew before the Captain. He can decide who stays and who goes. Nothing like the threat of ‘join or die’ to keep the new recruits in line.”

 

The trapdoor opens again, and a voice shouts down. “We’ve attracted attention up here - someone’s sent word to Amn’s Navy. We couldn’t shoot the birds down in time.”

 

“Damn it!” Brenn snaps, taking a small circle around themself. “The Captain won’t like that. We’ll have to leave ahead of schedule.”

 

“But his guest hasn’t returned-” the Second is snubbed.

 

“His guest should have known better. Ugh. I’ll stay here and prepare this ship for departure - Siren, take some of the men down here and all of most of the team upstairs and inform the Captain. We’ll meet on the open waters when the shore is out of sight.”

 

The woman, Siren, stares at him with contempt. There’s something she wants to say, but in the end she thinks better of it. She’s bitter to be the unlucky soul tasked with delivering their captain the bad news. “Yes, ser,” she says mechanically, before bowing her head and making for the ladder. “Scout, Nettle, Ari- with me.”

 

“Astarion!” Shadowheart gasps nearby - only loud enough for the two of you to hear her.  Irritated, he puts a finger to his lips to hush her - leaving you to wonder what you missed.

 

“No - Scout stays,” Brenn. “If we’re taking this ship out of port understaffed, Scout’s the best chance of steering us out of this minefield. She’s the best sailor out of any of you lot. Take someone else.”

 

“Ser, I know these waters well, I can-” Orc’s protests are ignored as a girl hesitantly steps away from Siren. And a girl she is - she can’t be any older than sixteen. You hadn’t noticed her at first, surrounded by all of the others.

 

Scout looks back and forth between Brenn and Siren, conflicted. She’s practically beaming at Brenn’s praise, but at the same time looks loyally back at Siren.

 

“Go along with them for now - don’t fight. We allow them to take us prisoner for now. They’re separating, weakening themselves. A few hours rest should give me enough recovery time to catch them off guard before we meet up with their other ship in the open water. We’ll get the original crew back in charge, and then all we’ll have to do is outrun them.”

 

Now you understand what Shadowheart was going on about - Astarion had entered her mind moments ago. He makes the plan sound so easy. Taking the ship back might be, at least if he can pull off a mass compulsion - but outrunning a purpose built armed vessel? That would be harder, particularly in broad daylight.

 

“What are you waiting for?” Siren unhappily barks at Scout, shooing her away like a lost puppy. “Your- Our superior gave you an order.” She cuts off eye contact with the young girl - refusing to look at her again. “Bait - you’re with me instead.”

You wonder how he got stuck with a name like that. 

 

Siren’s group leaves without any further fanfare.

 

“Orc, Rex - restrain and guard the prisoners - everyone else, on deck!” Brenn commands. “If we aren’t pushing off in ten minutes, there will be hell to pay!”

 

“Ser, please,” Orc insists. “Can I speak with ye?”

 

You slowly release the pommel of Lae’zel’s sword, the color rushing back into your white knuckles. Rex, another tower of a man, starts unwinding a length of rope and begins working it around Astarion, around his midsection and tying his wrists behind his back. He’s unnervingly relaxed about the experience.

 

“That’s it, go on,” Astarion goads. “I’ve had whores that can tie tighter knots than you.”

 

Rex says nothing as he wears an expression of utter bewilderment and disgust. No amount of rope would hold Astarion anyway, but it brings him joy to torment the man while he’s forced to endure it.

 

“We’re running a tight schedule, Orc, can’t this wait? Amn’s navy could be just over the horizon.”

 

They start to walk away but Orc grabs their shoulder. “Ye insult me, ser. I’ve been sailing these waters longer than the child’s been alive - hells, I been sailing longer than ye. Getting out of this port can be treacherous, Scout’s great on the open sea, but-”

 

“Listen to yourself!” Brenn says icily, shaking their head.  “Talking back to me, ignoring direct orders… Bait!” They snap their fingers, and a man about to ascend the ladder turns around and points at himself.

 

Another person named Bait? Or did Brenn not care to learn names?

 

“Yes, you,” Brenn confirms impatiently. “Help Rex restrain the prisoners. Orc insists that he needs to waste my time right now. Let’s hope the Navy is at least an hour out. Without our Flagship, we’re undefended and the gallows are an unsightly way to go.”

 

Rex finishes on Astarion, who has been running his mouth incessantly. “You’d better hope it’s nice and secure, because I should warn you… I never forget the face of someone who ties me up.” It’s a threat, but after the other nonsense he’s been hosing Rex down with, the worn down guard is horrified and embarrassed.

 

In any other circumstance it would be funny, but you can’t convince yourself to relax as the rope digs into your skin. Rex has learned a thing or two after his practice run on Astarion.

 

“Hm, wait-,” Astarion interrupts. “That’s no way to treat a lady - her wrists are turning blue. Looser, go on . Be a gentleman.”

 

At first you’re confused - it wasn’t painful by any stretch of the imagination. But then you realize he’s compelling him. You give him a pointed look of disapproval - he’s supposed to be resting.

 

“No, you fool - you did it wrong. See? There. Bring that loop back around - tug the right down a little…better. Gods, I’ve seen seven year olds tie better knots than you.” Whatever he instructs Rex to do, whether it’s compulsion, good-old fashioned pressure and redirection, or both - he’s tricked into leaving the rope that restrains your wrists behind your back extremely loose. With some determination, you think you’ll be able to work your way out of it.

 

“Fuck, can we shut him up?” Bait somehow snaps before Rex, as he pulls Shadowheart’s rope tight around her back.

 

“You could gag me, but I might enjoy that,” he smirks deviously.

 

Seeing it now from the outside, you realize he’s a true artist of his craft. Astarion is a master manipulator, and these men don’t even realize it. By leaning into the act and being brazen and obnoxious, he hides his actual strategy. He’s learned a thing or two over the past year. Coupled with his vampiric compulsion, he’s more dangerous than ever. An odd thought to have about the clown tied up in front of you making BDSM jokes.

 

“Excuse Me, Ser…” Bait interrupts cautiously. Brenn and Orc are in a heated, but hushed argument, most of which you can’t make out. They’ve moved further away.

 

“Ser?” Bait tries again, with a small cough.

 

“What?!” Brenn finally explodes, taking out his frustration on the lowly crew member.

 

Bait takes a deep breath, concentrating carefully on his words. “I humbly ask you to forgive my transgression, and ask for mercy in punishment. I didn’t want to intrude…however, what would you like us to do about the gith?” He lowers his voice and nervously sneaks a peek backwards to gauge your expressions.

 

“That thing? Kill it while it’s down. No good ever comes from their kind, they’re feral, brutish creatures.”

 

“Yes, Ser,” Bait bows his head and looks uncertainly at Lae’zel.

 

Shadowheart is immediately sent into a panic. “Wait - wait. No,” she stumbles, pulling uselessly against the rope. Now would be a great time for her to awaken again, conveniently freshly imbued with new strength from the potion. Gods, you hope it was a potion and not red perfume. 

 

“No, please,” Shadowheart continues to beg, her voice becoming a fragile song. “You’re making a mistake -” she looks over at you, her mind and her mouth running on entirely different frequencies as she tries to save Lae’zel. “You’re making a mistake. She’s worth a huge bounty in Baldur’s Gate. Historically large, really - we hunted her for months. Last I knew it was several million, but it must be higher now.”

 

She shoots you a look of gratitude, thankful she had your earlier lie to fall back on as unpleasant as it might have been in the moment.

 

Money is a motivator, and she has Bait’s interest - he hesitates and looks back at his superior. Unfortunately, Brenn isn’t paying attention - they’re still focused on the disagreement with Orc. Bait considers Lae’zel again, exhaling dramatically while he scratches at the back of his unusually lumpy head. Rex gives him no reassurance when he seeks it, the larger man just shrugs and raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘ do you really want to push it with the boss right now? ’

 

“Several million platinum,” Shadowheart elaborates. Instead of making the offer more enticing, it has the opposite effect - they’re suddenly suspicious of her. Bounties paid in platinum are exceedingly rare, and in millions? Even cities would start to feel a loss with that amount.

 

“Fucking hells, what did she do…?” Bait asks. It’s clear he’s drunk on the prospect of that kind of coin, and because of that he’s willing to put aside his doubt. Rex, on the other hand shakes his head and tunes out.

 

“They’re pulling your leg, boy,” he warns. “A bounty that high would be for someone terrorizing all of Faerun.”

 

“No - sorry, I misspoke,” Shadowheart backtracks. “Math. I meant several million gold - hundreds of thousands of platinum. Silly me, I’m always bungling up the conversion rate.” She laughs nervously.

 

Bait, bless his naive soul, shares the laugh with her and nods. “Me too, eh? Guess that’s why I’m a pirate and not a banker.”

“They’re lying to you, Bait. Don’t listen to ‘em. Unless you want to earn yourself a name like Gully.”

 

Bait stares blankly at Rex. “Gully?”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, putting his head in his hand. “Gully. Short for Gullible .”

 

Bait starts to turn a little red in the face, his skin matching the color of his mostly shaved head. He’s older than Scout, but there’s still a youthfulness to him. If he’s over twenty, he’s only just there. You only notice it once you’ve looked at him long enough - his dirty clothes and crooked teeth age him on first impression, but now his boyish uncertainty glares through his rough exterior shell.

 

“I uh… didn’t get much schooling, Ser,” he admits, rubbing his hands together.

 

“What? Words ain’t schooling!” Rex exclaims. “Reading, writing - that shit’s schooling. But words? Words are just talking.”

 

“Selune save us. We’re at the mercy of these idiots,” Shadowheart whispers to herself. You don’t think she intends for you to hear it.

 

“Remind me not to drink their blood - I might take psychic damage,” Astarion groans while Rex is in the middle of the most long-winded, convoluted explanation of the definition of the word gullible that you’ve ever heard in your life. 

 

“I’m suddenly envying Lae’zel’s unconsciousness,” you mutter. Both you and Shadowheart rest your backs against the side of her cot. “But… everyone is distracted…”

 

“Not yet,” Astarion shuts down the suggestion. “We’re only going to have one chance at this. I’ve done more with my abilities in one day than I have in several weeks - I don’t know how far I can push it.”

 

“I’m the Vampire Ascendant, and I’m infinitely powerful,” she mocks with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, except when we need you.”

 

“Be a little more grateful, hm? Remember, I could get out of this situation and be home by dinner time, cozy in front of the fireplace with a book on my lap.”

 

“But instead you’re here, gracing us with your presence.”

 

“Really?” You look at her incredulously. “He’s the only one that can get us out of this mess.”

 

“He got us into this mess.”

 

“What?” Astarion is taken aback. 

 

“You found us this stupid ship - maybe if we’d tried to follow up on the coin Garett gave her we’d be in a better situation.”

 

“You’d trust him? Are you joking? We were home free, if it weren’t for your little kleptomaniac spree.” Both of their voices are increasing in volume, and you try to shush them, but have no easy way of getting their attention without your hands.

 

“You’re judging me now. For stealing . Hilarious. What’s that saying, with the pot and the kettle-?”

 

“Stop!” You hiss. “It’s my fault we’re here at all - stop wasting your breath on this stupid bickering and blame me if you want.”

“Ugh.” Shadowheart shuts her eyes and sinks down. “You’re right, I know. It’s no one’s fault. I just can’t sit back helplessly and let them hurt her.” Her eyes glitter with tears that she suppresses.

 

Astarion scoots himself forward looking comically undignified, just to give her a kick in the shin. Bound as he is, he can’t get enough strength behind it to hurt her.

 

“Wha-” she’s angry all over again, but he quells it.

 

“Would you cut that out? Quit being so dramatic. I won’t let them hurt her. I may be weakened,, but these two idiots? There’s enough in the reserve for them twenty times over.”

 

“Oh, I get it!” Bait’s eyes light up with the pride of the first person to discover magic. “So gullible is when you’re easy to trick.”

 

“Yes, exactly.” Rex pats him on the back. “Now I’ll tell you one more secret, are you ready?”

 

Bait leans in.

 

“That very word I just taught you? Someone carved it on the ceiling, right there above us.” He points upwards.

 

Bait immediately looks up without a wink of hesitation. “Why would someone…”

 

Immediately, Rex erupts into laughter so loud he might split a rib.

 

“Rex? Why are you-” the realization hits him too late, too slow, as he comes to terms with the joke that’s been played at his expense.

 

“Gully! Gully’s your name! Oh gods, I can’t wait to tell the others. Congratulations, boy, you’re sharkbait, fresh meat no longer.”

 

“No - no, that’s not fair,” he protests. “I’ve been waiting to earn a name for over a year now, I think - what month is it now? You can’t stick me with something like-”

 

“Bait!” Brenn’s voice bellows across the room, as they start stomping over. Orc is now standing by a porthole with his back to everyone, flipping a switchblade open and closed in his hand while he stares out at the waves. “Stop dawdling and do what I asked.”

 

“Bait’s going by Gully, these days,” Rex snickers.

 

Brenn isn’t in the mood. “Come on, boy, my patience is thin today. You can’t be scared of it - it’s practically dead already. Few can say they killed a githyanki - hells, I’ll even keep your secret for you.”

 

The loud, mechanical grinding of the anchor being raised shakes the ship.

 

Bait looks back and forth between Lae’zel and Rex - now weighing the undesirable name he’d waited so long to earn with the possibility for monetary gain. He swallows and speaks slowly. “They say… that there’s a bounty on the gith. A heavy one. Millions.”

 

Brenn rolls their eyes. “Gully, indeed,” he mutters. “If you don’t have the spine, Rex will. Won’t you, Rex?”

 

The joking smirk fades from his face, now tasked with something serious.

 

“Well?” Brenn prods. “We don’t have all day - I have to give the order to disembark.”

“Really - she’s more use to you alive,” Shadowheart insists. “Why else would we go through the trouble and danger of transporting an injured gith? They’re no friends to the people of Toril.”

 

Brenn looks your group up and down with a critical eye, picking you apart and laying you bare. “I’m supposed to believe that the three of you apprehended a gith? Please. I’d sooner believe that these two fools did it.”

 

“Given our current state, I wouldn’t believe us either. It’s been a long…hunt. If you saw us fully rested, you might think differently.” Shadowheart might be right, but she’s doing a terrible job selling it.

 

“Take us across, with her alive,” Shadowheart stresses the word. “And seventy percent of the bounty is yours.”

 

“You’re not in a position to be making deals,” Brenn growls. One flash of metal, and suddenly they’re holding a dagger against Shadowheart’s throat.

 

You give a panicked look at Astarion, but he’s lost in thought - concentrating on something.

 

“Seventy percent? We split our spoils nearly fifty ways already. It seems much more lucrative to me to kill you three now and turn the gith in anyway. Then it’s one hundred percent for us.”

 

“I can’t pin them right now - not like the others. This one is strong enough to push out my influence.” Astarion’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

 

“What? Has that ever happened before?” You respond. Not good.

 

“It’s…uncommon,” he admits. “But I’m sure it’s just my own exhaustion. The bastard’s not impenetrable.”

 

But that doesn’t help Lae’zel now, if they insist on destroying her.

 

“Fine. One hundred percent of the bounty,” you agree. “Our freedom is worth it.”

 

Brenn shrugs. “Well. It isn’t me you’ll have to convince.”

Notes:

these people really need sleep

Chapter 40: Gifts

You watch what you can see of the coast of Westphal slip entirely out of view through the small circular portholes, then track the other ship that runs parallel some distance away. It leaves at approximately the same time, or no more than a quarter of an hour later - but it moves at a quicker clip. Over roughly the next hour, you watch its path list slightly closer - the dark ship carries an eerie familiarity to it. With nothing else to do but wait, you slowly work at the loose rope around your wrists. It’s enough to slip out with a moment’s notice, but you keep the uncoiled ends grasped in your palm along with your secret. Best not to give it away to your captors too early. It works in your favor for them to underestimate you, and to think you weak and helpless. The upper hand can be the most valuable tool in your arsenal.

 

Gully’s been left alone to guard your group while the others work the ship - not much of a threat on his own, but taking him out won’t get you anywhere now without a plan. He’s foolish enough that you’ve been racking your brain for a different way to make use of him. Even if you manage to take out the whole crew, it won’t get you back across the sea. Navigating a ship of this size isn’t a task for beginners - you could easily end up in Athkatla, or Waterdeep. Immediately resorting to violence would be easy but possibly shortsighted. If the others come down to find him dead, you'll be outnumbered and lose the opportunity to handle this diplomatically.

 

The other ship gets closer and closer, a dark shadow against a gray overcast sky. You’ve seen it before - you’re sure of it. 

 

But not just floating in port.

 

Your blood is ice in your veins. You’ve seen it coming up beside you - similar to this. Through the fog of a fabricated storm.

 

“Astarion,” you whisper. It breaks the still silence, and you quickly glance over to confirm that your guard hasn’t reacted. You’ve slowly been scooting towards him with the pull of the waves - tiny, calculated motions to avoid drawing attention. You’re close enough now that your bicep almost brushes his, and some loose strands of your hair catch on his shirt. 

 

Fortunately, Gully appears blissfully deaf in his current position, sitting on a hammock hanging between two posts whittling at something with a dagger. No one has spoken in over an hour now - you were almost certain that the sudden noise would tip him off. He's too lost in his work to notice.

 

Astarion looks down at you, raising his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

 

“That ship ,” you gesture your chin towards the porthole.

 

He doesn’t have to look at it - his solemn nod tells you it’s already occurred to him. These are the very same pirates that interrupted your journey over - and you can only hope that those that survived to cross back won’t remember your faces. You can only hope that there was just enough chaos that night to cloud certainty of your identities. 

 

Your attention wanders back to a sleeping Lae’zel. If anyone is going to be remembered, it’s her.

 

“Don’t worry,” Astarion replies, straightening his spine. Even with his hands behind his back, he manages to look dignified. “A little longer and I’ll be good as new.” 

 

He flashes a fanged smirk.

 

You slip a hand out of your bindings and reach for his, but he shakes his head. “Really? I’m offended you’d think so little of me,” he rolls his eyes. A wiggle of his hand shows you he’s already out. “You’d better spend your efforts on someone that could use it.”

 

His bravado isn’t entirely convincing. He’s still haggard, paler than usual - a few more hours off from health. You’re not in a position to offer him anything, particularly not in front of Shadowheart or the guard.

 

Shadowheart appears to be concentrating, her face contorted in a focused grimace as she tries to read your lips. She's noticed you wriggling closer to Astarion all this time, and she's no fool. Her suspicions about your relationship grow by the hour if not the minute, and you sense that you're on borrowed time now before she confronts you. The smaller your group gets, the more she pays attention, and the truth is ready to break to the surface. You'll have to think of a way to let it. You've won her over to your side before... maybe you can do it again now. Maybe she'll understand. Astarion gives her a curt condescending wave before tucking his hand behind his back again. Looking back out at the neighboring ship, it won’t be long now before it meets you in the open water. Before the captain meets you, and your fates are decided.

 

The other ship is ever present in the background, like a living painting. It's more than the ship that attacked you. You have a feeling - no, you’re reasonably sure - that it’s the ship that Garett wanted you to find. It radiates an aura of dark authority and power - a vessel of lethal elegance. He gave you almost no instructions on how to find it, which can mean only one thing. That you’d just know when you saw it. But it doesn’t relieve you to know that the coin might yet get you out of this, or that it might be an unspoken debt that the captain is required to pay. Instead it adds a new and unexpected complication.

 

Just how close is Garett to these people?

 

With the ship inching ever closer, the urgency of your situation is becoming more and more apparent. Even free of your bindings, your party is still in no condition to fight back. You need an edge.

 

Gully. Gods - you’re about to do something truly twisted.

 

You slide away from Astarion, and dramatically cough. Alarmed, his head snaps towards you, brow furrowed.

 

You cough again, and muster a weak, cracking voice. “Excuse me, sir?” you choke out to the guard.

 

Gully stops his whittling and looks up at you. Good. You have his attention now. You pretend to try and push towards him, only to fall to the ground and cough again. “Please,” you beg, throwing him the most pitiful, wettest eyes you can.

 

You’ve been a bit too convincing, because Astarion immediately hisses your name and moves closer to you. You don’t look at him though - only silently pray that he doesn’t intervene yet. You'll only have one shot at this.

 

Gully puts down his dagger on the hammock and stands up, his curiosity taking over. You’ve pegged him perfectly. “What is it, then?” There’s a vulnerability in his tone - a genuine concern to exploit.

 

You cough again, squeezing your eyes shut in feigned pain while you try to get some water from them. It barely works - but it’s something. “I need…” you gasp. “Please…”

 

He comes closer. “What?”

 

Not close enough yet. Just a little further…

 

“I need …” you only break eye contact momentarily to glance over at Astarion - hoping he catches on to your cue.

 

“A drink . Please . In that barrel…” you weakly point at the one near Astarion. You have no eye if you’re telling the truth or not. It could be full of spiders for all you know.

Gully looks over at it uncertainly, as if he isn’t sure whether to get it for you or not. But in the end, he isn’t a monster, and you might be after this. He goes over to the barrel, and while he’s distracted, Astarion throws off his rope, and stands up to grab the unexpecting guard. He effortlessly covers his mouth at the same time he plunges his fangs into Gully’s shoulder, preventing him from crying out any warning.

 

Shadowheart is the one who has to swallow back her disgusted grunt of surprise, laced with a string of expletives.

 

His blood will offer a boon - but you quickly realize you’re feeling more than guilt for Gully. There’s another, darker layer of guilt - a guilt that you can’t provide this for Astarion right now. How willingly you’ve come to give yourself over to him now. Karlach’s old words echo in your mind - is the bite truly addictive?

 

It doesn’t take long for Gully to fall limp, and Astarion drags him back over to the hammock and drapes him over the side of it, legs dangling out on the floor.

 

“Fuck, Astarion,” Shadowheart exclaims. Her eyes are wild with concern. “What are they going to think when they find him?”

 

Astarion wipes his mouth with his sleeve as he stalks back towards you, though you hadn’t seen any blood to clean away. He hadn’t left so much as a drop of evidence behind to suggest what he’d done. A trained, practiced killer, far more polished than his earlier days.

 

“Oh don’t be so dramatic ,” he shakes his head. “He won’t remember a thing when he wakes up. We’ll convince the rest he fell asleep on the job.”

 

“You don’t think they’ll be tipped off when they see the gouges in his neck?” 

 

“I’d hardly call them gouges .” He rolls his eyes. “They’d never have a reason to look for them anyway. The man has at least a dozen other scars.”

You don’t want to further the discontent between them now by bringing up your suspicions about Garett, but it does occur to you that they might not be as ignorant about vampire bites as Astarion thinks. Nothing should be ruled out.

 

“And you ,” Shadowheart says in an accusatory tone. “I can’t believe you would…” she can’t even finish her thought. 

 

“Don’t lecture me,” you warn. “We need every advantage we can get right now.”

 

She swallows, her anger dissipating out with a slow exhalation as she follows your eyes to Lae’zel. A not insignificant reason why it was necessary, and Shadowheart knows it. “You didn’t kill him then? Or make him…a vampire?” She prods.

 

Astarion sours. “Of course not. I have standards. I’m not going to make my f- a spawn out of some lowly fool. I could get him to do whatever I want without tying him to me in immortality. I don’t have time to worry about nursing a starving vampire spawn on board.”

 

The momentary hesitation in his speech doesn’t slip by you.

 

“Right. Of course not.” She stares at the ground nervously. A heavy thud shakes the deck above you, and shouts and a rush of footsteps suggest that the ship has met up with their original vessel, tethered with a gangplank. 

 

Astarion sits down on the floor as if he’d never left, working the rope back around his wrists. Already he’s looking much better, a pinkish tinge to his cheeks as the blood of another works through his veins. 

 

“Excellent thinking, thank you. Nothing like a warm meal to perk you up again.” 

 

At first you don’t even register that it’s directed at you. It feels wrong to acknowledge his thanks while you wrestle with the guilt of it. It had to be done. It was necessary. 

 

Shadowheart snorts and shakes her head in disapproval, and again you doubt you'll ever be able to tell her the whole truth.

 

                                                                             

---

 

 

You open the flap of your tent, and it’s more than the breeze that sends a chill down your spine. You can’t explain why right away, but you immediately know that someone’s been here in your absence. Paranoid, you feel for the weapon that hangs at your hip, wrapping your fingers around the handle as you squint into the darkness. There’s no one here. That much you’re certain of, and you relax as you light the lantern. It’s just a tent - hardly any bigger than the bedroll itself. There’s nowhere for an assailant to hide. Still, with the tadpoles swimming around in your heads, is it wrong to be on high alert? Even in the safety of camp, there's always a chance of an uninvited guest as you traverse the wilds.

 

The tent is empty, but still, something’s off. It isn’t how you left it. Your belongings have been touched, although there was nothing worth stealing. You’d left in a rush that morning, but now your previously disheveled bedroll is pressed flat, the closest to “made” it can be. On the pillow, there’s a small grouping of flowers purposefully left. An offering, and one that’s been sitting for a few hours, by the looks of it. They’re already starting to wilt, stolen from the soil and no longer able to care for themselves. You gingerly pick them up as a shriveling petal falls off, and take a deep breath of the aroma. It does little to mask the stench of blood and dirt on your clothes, but it does calm your nerves.

 

Save for one nagging question. Who would have left them? You place them down again, staring at them as you shrug off your armor and stretch out your tired arms. A kind gesture, and yet you can't help hoping they were found incidentally, and not sought out at the expense of food and more worthwhile supplies. Maybe a more nihilistic thought than typical, but not uncalled for given the circumstances.

 

Damn it. You squeeze them in your hand and throw back open the flap of your tent.

 

Fucking Astarion. It has to be him, right? He hasn’t spoken to you since that night you discovered he was a vampire - since the night he nearly left you for dead. You storm over to where he's set up his tent, where he sits outside, back propped up against a rock, inspecting the strange book you picked up yesterday. The face on it unsettles you, its gaping mouth and dead eyes warning those who would read it away. It seems he still hasn’t found a way to pry it open since you wordlessly relinquished it to him.

He places it to the side as he sees you approaching, looking for an escape but finding none.

 

You throw the flowers at him. “Is this your idea of an apology?” You demand through gritted teeth. The others have turned in, but you keep your voice down.

 

“What?” He asks, staring at the fallen flowers. “I never much cared for-”

 

“You haven’t spoken to me in days. Haven’t apologized for-” you can’t bring yourself to say it. “What… what you did.”

 

He shrugs. “Apologize for what? You agreed.” He takes a sip of wine, entirely unbothered. 

 

You can feel your face turning red. “You could have killed me. You didn’t even check up in the morning, and you’ve avoided me for days.”

 

His face gives no indication of what’s going on beneath the surface - he’s a statue. But then he breaks, a coy smirk unfurling. “Darling, I’m a vampire. You seem smarter than average. You had to know the risks.”

 

So that’s it then. You thought he’d shown you a moment of vulnerability - but instead he’d manipulated you. “You’re not a vampire. You’re a spawn,” you snarl, using his own words against him. He winces. “I gave you a chance - I trusted you. I should have trusted my first impression. That you’re a manipulator, a flirt, and a rake.”

 

“Would you like me to leave?” He asks. The question is unexpected, and the way he says it gives you pause. He’s afraid. 

 

“No. But I’m not keeping your secret from the others for much longer. Either you tell them, or I will. I trusted you. I trusted you to be able to stop - and you didn’t. You could have killed me.”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t, did I?”

 

“Astarion!” You seethe, fighting to keep your voice down.

 

“Fine, fine.” He holds up the half empty wine bottle to you. “I’m sorry. Is that better? Here. Have a drink. Sit down and relax if you like, or take it with you if that strikes your fancy.”

 

In context, it feels like he’s mocking you. “I don’t want your stupid wine.”

 

“Your loss.” He tops off his own glass. "It might taste like the sewers of Baldur's Gate and rancid grapes, but it takes the edge off the same."

 

“You have to tell them. And if you hurt any of them - I won’t hesitate to hurt you.” You start to walk away before he can take the last word, but he has other ideas.

 

He calls your name. “Wait.”

 

You stop, but don’t give him the satisfaction of turning towards him.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you darling, but I only wanted your blood - don’t read into it. I’m not the romantic type. I didn't leave the flowers - flowers are dreadfully tacky. Not my gift of choice for my intended paramours - honestly. 'Here, I resigned these lovely plants to a premature death so you can watch them wilt in a corner' - who decided that was the epitome of romance anyway? If I had left you flowers, I might have bothered to learn what you like, or at least your favorite color."

 

Fuck - you’ve made a fool of yourself now. Unless he’s lying. But if he isn’t… who would have left the flowers?

 

"Maybe they are my favorite color," you say drily. It isn't like he would know it.

 

"They aren't," he says matter-of-factly. "If you liked them, you wouldn't have thrown them at me. I would have bothered to gift you something you liked too much to throw at me, no matter how much you can't stand me."

 

"I'm not sure there's anything you could give me that I wouldn't throw at you. But tell you what. If you try, make sure it's something sharp."

 

He laughs. "Something sharp... hmm. Do you prefer swords? Or fangs?" The taunt is low and lyrical, and every muscle in your body tenses. "I'll be sure to pass on the information to your mystery suitor."

 

                                                               

---

 

Chapter 41: Captain

The gangplank slams down on the deck above you, the boat swaying in proximity of its new neighbor. Outside of the portholes, the side of the other ship blocks everything else from your view, eclipsing the horizon line and leaving the lower deck submerged in shadow. Footsteps rain down like thunderous applause, at least a dozen sets more have boarded, their heavy boots sending clouds of dust sputtering down from the creaking ceiling.

“Damn it, I thought we had more time,” Astarion curses, now on high alert. 

 

It’s too late now, to take them down while they’re separated. The ships moved at a faster clip than you could have planned for, and Astarion is only just now appearing restored. You’re going to need a plan B. There’s still the trinket from Garett - the coin that you run your fingers over in your pocket, memorizing its ridges. 

 

“How are you feeling?” You ask.

 

He smirks. “Much better.”

 

“We could ambush them as they descend,” Shadowheart whispers. “Pick them off as they squeeze down the ladder.”

 

“Not a terrible idea,” Astarion considers. “However our guests have the high ground, and this isn’t their ship. We can’t assume they won’t push something heavy over the trapdoor and set the whole thing ablaze.”

 

“But the bounty-”

 

“Isn’t real, and I’m not convinced they believed us anyway,” you interject. “So, we wait. They won’t travel tethered to one another forever - if we play nice until tonight, we’ll have another opportunity to act.”

 

“And what if their captain decides he doesn’t want to keep us around?” Shadowheart asks.

 

“If it comes to it, we fight. But if we can persuade them we’re no threat and can be useful, we stand a better chance.”

 

Your conversation is interrupted as the trapdoor opens again, the natural daylight burning your eyes. Shadowheart seems to be looking at you, as if awaiting your permission to spring to action. You offer an almost imperceptible shake of your head - a refusal of her plan. It’s risky, and can still be saved for later if talking to your captors fails.

Brenn appears down the ladder first, jumping to their feet from the halfway point. Siren follows, forgoing the rungs entirely and sliding down the side rails by her hands. She lands light on her feet with a catlike grace that the rest lack. Her honey blonde hair is tousled from the sea salt, and the sun has bronzed her cheeks. Her gaze washes over Astarion with the steady rhythm of waves on the beach, and an unfamiliar emotion blossoms between the bottom of your ribs and your navel. You try to shove down your jealousy, tempering your expression, fighting to keep it flat. Orc follows last.

Brenn’s attention, however, falls to the limp, snoring form of Gully. “Boy!” They bark. When he fails to respond, the senior sailor flicks open his knife and slices through the rope that holds one side of the hammock to a post with one effortless swipe. Gully’s body falls to the floor, a heap of tangled limbs, but a low moan rumbles from him as his eyes blink open. He is given no reprieve, as Brenn grabs him by the front of his shirt and tugs him to his feet. Gully’s knees buckle like a newborn deer, but to his credit they keep him upright.

 

“You fell asleep on watch,” Brenn says, matter-of-factly. 

 

Gully sputters something incoherent in reply, eventually hanging his head in shame with no defense to offer. Astarion watches him with the concentration of a predator, unblinking, ready to invade his mind on a moment’s notice to preserve the truth. It isn’t necessary. “I… s’pose I did,” Gully admits sheepishly. “But it’s the strangest thing, see, I don’t-”

 

He is interrupted by his superior’s hand striking against his cheek. The lecture that follows is lost in the background as Siren slinks towards Astarion. With every step she takes you reconsider Shadowheart’s proposition of ambush a little more. There aren’t many of them down here now, you might be able to take them with a fed vampire on your side.

 

“It’s your lucky day!” Her sarcasm is venomous. “The Captain wishes to speak with you.”

 

Astarion barely reacts. “ Me ? Ha. The honor is all his.”

 

Her nose twitches, and it pulls the corner of her lip upward revealing the hint of a snaggletooth and shattering the illusion of her near perfection. Her displeasure is immediately suppressed and replaced with a forced smile. “It would be in your best interest to show some respect. A little groveling never hurt.”

 

She produces a sword, and begins to sweep it towards him - and just as fast as her weapon flashes you jump to your feet, nearly ready to give up the secret that your hands are no longer tied. But just as quickly as you stand, your face heats with embarrassment. The point of her sword is tucked just under his chin, coaxing his face upwards to look upon her. She doesn’t spare you a glance.

 

“Stand,” she orders him. “The captain isn’t a patient man.”

 

Astarion smirks at her, dropping his lashes. “Oh darling, I’m flattered, but I’m not the brains of the group. A bit disappointing, too - that such a strong woman like yourself would assume that the man of the group would have the most to share with your captain.”

 

It’s enough for her to be thrown off guard - her weapon droops. “I’ve assumed nothing,” she begins to argue.

 

“It’s her he ought to be speaking to.” Astarion nods his head in your direction.

 

He means it as a compliment, but you can’t help but feel he’s thrown you under the cart.

 

Siren finally turns her attention to you, sizing you up, her face giving nothing useful away. “Very well then,” she sighs reluctantly and gestures towards you. “Orc! Take this one.”

 

Take?

 

A moment later, you’re hoisted over Orc’s shoulder as easily as a sack of flour. Of course - you wouldn’t be capable of climbing the ladder with rope around your wrists. You clench it tightly between your fingers now, the loose coils threatening to unravel and unveil your secret too early. When you crane your neck to look behind you, it’s Astarion’s turn to wear an expression of displeasure. His eyes never leave yours as you jostle over Orc’s shoulder, careful not to breathe in his stench as his shoulder digs into your stomach. The dampness of his linen shirt is indistinguishable between water and sweat.

Astarion looks as though he wants to stand up, but you shoot him back a warning look. You aren’t the only one to notice his silent wrath. Shadowheart is fixating on the moment, studying the invisible tether that binds you. Her lips purse, and you watch the fragile lie continue to crumble around you. This time, you won’t be around to defend yourself, leaving her to smolder with her thoughts.

 

“We’re typically a package deal,” Astarion tries uselessly. The pirates don’t seem to think he’s worth responding to anymore.

 

“A package deal?” Shadowheart hisses as you’re carried away. There’s accusation buried in her words.

 

“Relax, I meant all of us, of course.”

 

“You just told them to take her instead, you bast…” 

 

You feel Orc’s slimy hand at the small of your back as he climbs one-handed up the ladder, and you have to squint as your eyes adjust again to the light. Your perspective of the world is upside down as you watch the ocean water swirl beneath the narrow gangplank that your captor seems almost too large for. He sways noticeably with the wind, but his feet are solid and sure. He hoists you over to the other ship and through a cabin door before dumping you onto the floor. It’s getting more difficult to keep the rope gathered as it loosens.

 

“One of the prisoners, Cap’n,” Orc grunts. “Traveling with the gith.” He spits the word out like it’s something sour.

 

You reorient yourself to get a better glance at the captain. His skin is like the cover of a worn book - leathery and peeling from years of sun and salt. It ages him beyond his years, you think - there’s still youth in his healthy physique, hiding beneath a thick brown beard and tangled braids that fall down his back. There’s not yet a hint of grey in either. Peeking out through his collar, up his neck to his ear is a long, thick scar - now healed, but preventing new hair from growing. Discolored.

 

He steps out from behind his desk, a spread of navigation tools on top, to get a better look at you.

 

“How did you happen upon a githyanki?” There’s condescension in his voice. 

 

“There’s a bounty-”

 

He circles you. “You didn’t hear me right. I know about the bounty - my men have filled me in. How did you happen upon a githyanki?”

 

“Forget that,” you try to ignore the offense. “I have payment for passage to Baldur’s Gate - a token.”

 

He raises a scarred eyebrow, more bored than intrigued. “This is no cruise - I’m not in the business of taking passengers. Crew and cargo only.”

 

“Are you Captain Sariv?” You blurt out, barely recalling the name the other captain mentioned.

 

The question wipes the amusement from his face, and he doesn’t answer right away. “Who wants to know?”

 

“There’s something in my pocket. A coin of sorts. It was given to me with the promise that someone would take us across.”

 

“I didn’t make you no promises,” he says with disdain. But he bends down and reaches for you, shoving a hand in your pocket, lingering a moment too long after he collects the coin. At least he smells better than Orc - like coconut and rum.

 

He produces the coin between two fingers and inspects it in front of your face, still crouched down before you. He holds it up to the light, and then brings it to his mouth and bites it between his teeth. “Well. You certainly are full of surprises. Where did you get a thing like this?”

 

You don’t know if Garett is a true friend to this man, or if he ever even knew his name, but with no other options, you offer his name.

 

Sariv laughs and tucks the coin away in his jacket. “My guest didn’t make it back to the ship in the end though, did  he? In any case, I’m afraid this is only good for one passenger. How will you pay for the other two?” He reaches forward and takes your chin between his fingers. His eyes are a set of mismatched marbles - one blue, the other half brown, half blue. 

 

“The bounty on the githyanki is more than fair.” It feels as if he holds you beneath a magnifying glass, and you’re about to catch fire.

 

“Almost every one of us has a wanted poster ourselves - taking you across the sea and downriver to Baldur’s Gate? We’re more likely to have our own bounties cashed than hers. It’s not enough.”

 

“What, then? What else do you want?”

 

“Hmm…” he stands and paces the room, which suddenly feels smaller and more suffocating. The glint in his eye is unnerving. It’s familiar. Greedy. Hungry. Lustful.

 

You take a step back. “I can give you more. When we get to Baldur’s Gate. Money, items - name it, it’s yours.”

 

He chuckles. “Who are you to make such promises? If you have nothing to front, your words are worthless to me. You could be primed to arrest me as soon as I step on land.”

 

“I have nothing else to offer you… aside from another sword if we come to battle.”

 

It piques his interest, but not in the way you hope. His smirk is amused - he doesn’t take you seriously. It might flare your temper if you didn’t think you could use that to your advantage later. Let him underestimate you - see how it ends for him. 

He still paces the room without an answer, softly humming under his breath - not loud enough for you to make out any recognizable tune. The cabin is more than a navigation room, but the captain’s personal quarters. It’s elegant enough that you could forget where you are. The plush carpet, intricately woven with red and gold thread takes up most of the floor, wholly impractical and incompatible with life at sea. Tapestries, artwork, and maps create a collage that dances across the walls, some overlapping the others. A huge glass window takes up most of one wall, looking out across the open waters ahead. A beautiful view, but a liability in a naval battle.

 

“I don’t know much about ships, but I’m quick to learn,” you continue in his silence. “You can put us to work if you like.”

 

He stops at the foot of a bed that would be more at home in the Crimson Palace than on a ship. It’s clear that Sariv takes pleasure in all of the comforts of his…successful career. “No, you’d only get in the way. I have something else in mind.”

 

You take another step backwards towards the door. You’re only going to play nice with him up until a certain point, and if it goes where you think it’s going, all bets are off. “What’s that?” You ask warily, grinding your teeth together.

 

“It gets terribly lonely on the seas. You’ll stay here… with me.”

 

You shudder, but a sudden jerk of the ship hides it. Some shouting and banging from outside suggests that the boats are separating - severing the lifeline to your friends. This wasn’t part of the plan - you had assumed they’d drag you back there afterwards.

 

“Stay here with you,” you repeat, swallowing your panic. “What about my friends?”

 

His smile turns your gut. “Surely you’re smart enough to extrapolate. They’ll be perfectly fine and well looked after. So long as you cooperate.”

 

Cooperate . The word holds a dark subtext. A threat you refuse to let him follow through with. You’ll skewer him in his sleep if you get the chance.

                                                                                     

---

 

“You don’t… belong here, do you?” The drow addresses you curiously, her sultry voice lowered. You had passed by her too closely, and now her attention was on you, pulled away from whatever it was she was working on at the table. Strange vials in all shades- mostly reds - stood behind her, held up in wooden stands. Stained tomes are splayed out across the table, some in text you don’t recognize.

Instinctively your hand covers the hilt of the weapon at your side. You’ve been on high alert from the moment you stepped into Moonrise Towers.

 

“Relax, I won’t tell,” she purrs. “It’s a pleasure to be standing before a True Soul. And…your pale companion.” She leers at Astarion.

 

Gods, that’s all you need, for someone to match his flirtations. Only, when you glance at Astarion to gauge his reaction, something is wrong. He steps away from her, a shadow falling over his face. Any joke you might have made or smirk you might have given him dies immediately on your lips, and suddenly you want to break her line of sight.

 

“Araj Oblodra,” she offers a hand to you. “I’d like to offer my services, if you’re willing.”

 

You rip your hand out of the handshake as quickly as you can while trying to appear cordial. “Why are you interested in my ‘pale companion’?” You ask suspiciously. Astarion is shrinking to the back of your small group as you speak, but there’s no one to hide behind without wounding his pride.

 

Araj rolls her eyes. “Please. I specialize in the sanguine arts. You think I wouldn’t recognize a vampire spawn when I see one?”

 

“Don’t worry, we’re all friends under the Absolute,” Astarion says with all of the false bravado he can muster. “I won’t bite.”

 

“Oh, I’d prefer it if you did.” She glances at you. “I assume he belongs to you?”

 

“Belongs to…excuse me? What in the hells would give you that impression? Let him speak for himself - he’s his own person.”

 

She looks back and forth between you, appearing on the verge of laughter. “Oh, I’m sure he really believes that. How adorable. Do you have a name, spawn?”

 

Spawn. It takes everything in you not to defend him - to hold true to your word to let him speak for himself. Butting in now would only prove a point. You might have your differences with Astarion, but now your blood boils hearing this stranger speak down to him in such a condescending manner.

 

“Astarion, but hold on-”

 

“Good. Now Astarion, I’ve been dreaming of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl,” she smiles wistfully.

 

“I’m sorry? You want to be bitten?” He asks incredulously.

 

The memory of his bite comes flooding back to you, and you can almost understand her desire. There was something about it that was… you can’t put your finger on it. Or maybe you fight to deny how it truly made you feel. But you could see yourself becoming addicted to a feeling like that. After that fleeting moment of pain…

 

“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes… I want it.” Desire drips off of her voice. 

 

You share an uncomfortable look with Shadowheart, and then Wyll.

 

“I’ll even compensate you for it. A potion of legendary power for whoever consumes it. It’s not for sale… but it’s yours, if you bite me.”

 

“I will have to decline,” Astarion says more quickly than you expect. It surprises you that he would decline the opportunity. Not for blood, but for power.

 

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!” She protests indignantly. “And you’re squandering it. I’ve never known a vampire to decline a free meal.”

 

“Well now you have. I gave you my answer, and my answer is no,” Astarion replies firmly.

 

“Ugh! Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?”

 

You look around at your companions, a little bewildered with her insistence and her interpretation of the power structure in your group. Why does she speak to you as if you’re the leader? 

 

“He said no.” You step to the side to step in front of him defensively, for all the good it does when he’s taller than you. “And our discussion is over.”

                                                                                     

---

 

Wyll seeks you out when he returns to camp, looking dejected. He perks up a little when he sees you, but he’s less enthusiastic to see you than you are to see him.

 

“It wasn’t good news, was it?”

 

“No,” he sighs, and produces the dark hunk of metal from his pocket. “Dammon said it’s just a rock.” He takes it and chucks it into the woods, where it disappears beyond the protective barrier around the Last Light Inn.

 

“Oh. How’s Karlach?”

 

He comes and sits beside you, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Chipper as ever. I think I’m more disappointed than she is. Gods, I feel terrible. I got her hopes up for nothing. For a rock.”

 

You give his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re trying. I know that means a lot to her. And for what it’s worth, it did look a lot like infernal iron.”

 

He nods, still not lifting his eyes to you.

 

You pull your hand away slowly. “Wyll… is something else wrong?”

 

“No.” His eyes close, and he tilts his head up towards the sky. “Yes. I don’t know.”

 

“Whatever it is… you can tell me, you know.”

 

“You’re right.” Finally his gaze meets yours. “You’re right. We should speak about it. Earlier today, with the drow. The way she spoke of your relationship to Astarion…”

 

“Oh gods,” you hold up a hand to cut him off. “I don’t know what she was going on about.”

 

“All day I’ve been wondering - running memories in my head. Trying to figure out if I’ve been missing something so obvious that even a stranger could see it.

 

You don’t say it, but you’ve been wondering too. Wondering if Araj somehow knew, in her sanguine expertise, that Astarion had bitten you.

 

“Between Astarion and I?” You ask incredulously, wrinkling your nose. “Please, Wyll. I know better.”

 

“Right, of course.” He shakes his head and puts his hand on top of yours. “I’m sorry - I hope it didn’t sound like I was accusing you. It’s just… been a long day.”

 

“A long day? More like, gods, what has it been now -  a long week?” You rest your head against his shoulder.

 

“You would tell me though, wouldn’t you?” He asks after a pause. “If you aren’t interested in me-”

 

You jolt upright. “Wyll.” He isn’t normally this insecure.

 

He runs a hand along the side of his head and scratches his neck. “I know,” he murmurs. “I should drop it, but whenever he looks at you I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else there.”

 

“Are you jealous?” You ask in surprise. 

 

His cheeks flush. “Well - I know we haven’t exactly put a name on this… whatever it is we’re doing. I don’t give my heart so freely.”

 

“I can’t speak for his feelings, nor can I control the way you say he looks at me. But I can speak for my own. Astarion is…” you struggle to find the words. “Despite everything,  I feel sad for him. I want to help him. The same as you do for Karlach.”

 

“It’s different. I trust Karlach. She’s good,” his tone is suspiciously defensive. “As for Astarion, he only looks out for himself. He’d sell us out if it furthered his cause.”

 

You open your mouth to deny it, but you realize you don’t have much argument against it. Something deep inside of you agrees with Wyll. Logically, Astarion has done nothing to prove otherwise.

 

But when you spoke to him earlier, and he thanked you for telling off Araj, you thought you might have started to really break through. It was sincere.

 

“At the end of the day… how much do any of us really know about each other?”