On Surrender

by agrazza

Summary:

“Even if you find him, I won't let you bring him back here."

What do you get when you make Bhaalspawn into vampire-spawn? A mess.

Notes:

The first chapter is a prequel to "On Sacrifice", an AU in which Tav is turned by Cazador into vampire spawn. I would recommend you read that first.

All kinds of warnings for Cazador Szarr here, read at your own risk. I don't believe it is too graphic, but it's plenty implied.

Chapter 1

Well. Tav was sure he’d had worse days. He just couldn’t recall one, at the moment.

Tav hurt everywhere. He was shivering on the stone floor where he’d just dropped free of his restraints, though whether it was from chill or from fever he wasn’t certain. His tadpole was squirming— so helpfully, thank you, you gods-damned parasite— behind his eye, as if unhappy about the condition of its host. Well, Tav wasn’t happy about this either. If the tadpole didn’t like it, it could happily vacate the premises. Its writhing certainly wasn’t helping his headache.

Alright, so maybe talking to the tadpole in his head was a little deranged. Tav gave himself a pass; a night of torture could unhinge anyone. The world around him seemed both sharper and more out of focus. The room he’d woken in stank terribly and made his headache worse, and his wounds all clamored for attention. Tav understood so much better, now, some of Astarion’s odder behaviors. Gods, one night as Cazador’s guest was horrible enough; he couldn’t imagine two centuries of it.

His stomach turned, and he forced away thoughts of the vampire lord. He didn’t want to think about the knives, cutting him so carefully and thoroughly open, or about the teeth, so violent— so unlike Astarion— in his throat, about the spreading cold, about the screaming. About the helplessness. 

About how hungry he was.

Luckily, Tav had plenty of practice resisting irresistible urges, and he was pretty good at forcing himself to think about something else, when he wanted to. He was already Bhaalspawn, after all. Ha, what would Bhaal think of his precious offspring now? Would he be pleased or furious that his precious heir of the flesh was—

No. Focus on something else. Now was not the time for panic. Tav’s back ached miserably, his blood still seeping sluggishly. How did that work, exactly? If Cazador had fed from him, how did Tav have enough blood to still bleed from the cuts on his back, from the torn fingernails, the lacerations over his chest and stomach from that fucking skeleton?

Tav shook his head, trying to clear it. He had to get out. That was the priority. Not all of these useless questions.

Cazador had left him in the kennels, once he’d finished with Tav. An evening strapped into Cazador’s bed, which had started off horrible and only got worse, before Tav had finally been granted the sweet relief of— unconsciousness. Yes. That. 

He’d woken to an animated skeleton gleefully getting to work with a variety of sharp tools, slicing into his skin at seeming random. It was still nothing compared to the pain of his back, or the ache deep inside, where Cazador had brutally used him. Unfortunately for Cazador (or at least, so Tav hoped) either the vampire lord had forgotten Tav was a Bard, or he’d never known it in the first place. The modified Silence charms that had taken Tav’s magic from him, special ones layered over Cazador’s room which must have been crafted to allow for screaming but not the casting of spells, in case any of his victims had ideas about fighting back, weren’t present in the kennels. 

Tav had whistled up a vicious Ice Storm and blasted the skeletal fucker to smithereens with vicious pleasure. Overkill, maybe, but it had felt good, at least after his head had stopped spinning from the exertion the spell had cost him. Casting without his instrument was normally immensely annoying and required serious concentration, but this seemed even worse than that. He was pretty sure he blacked out for a moment or two. 

Maybe his magic reacted poorly to— no, it was just because he was tired.

Once he’d returned to his senses, he had had to deal with restraints. Tav had eventually managed by breaking two of his fingers to make enough room to slip one hand free. Then it had been a matter of undoing the rest of his chains with his fucked up fingers and gathering the strength to stand.

Gods, he was hungry. He’d never been so hungry in his life.

His mind skittered away from the thought. He was just… worn out. From the torture and assault and all the nasty, perverted things Cazador had whispered to him while lovingly flaying him, while forcing Tav to beg for something he didn’t want. Your screams are almost as sweet as Astarion’s, whore. I’ll have yours in his stead. 

Tav wanted to throw up, and was glad that he had nothing in his stomach. Hells, Astarion had put up with this for literal decades. The desire to light Cazador on fire and dance on his ashes was stronger than anything Tav had ever wanted in his life. Here was a murder he could relish in, if he could manage it. For once, he and his Urge were in complete alignment.

Kill, rip, tear, stab, bite, bite, BITE.

Tav shuddered and carefully kept his tongue away from his teeth. That way he could pretend they weren’t sharper in his mouth.

He finally managed to drag himself out of the torture chamber, passing the still frozen remains of the skeleton without a second glance. The place was dead quiet; he couldn’t hear anything or anyone. Godey— Astarion had described him once, that had to be the skeleton in the kennels— had rambled something about a ritual that Tav couldn’t be late for, but Tav had magicked him dead before he could finish the conversation. That was fine, Tav was pretty sure that particular invitation was one he would rather pass up.

His balance was off, because one of his eyes was swollen shut. He vaguely recalled, through the pounding of his headache, that Cazador had walloped him good around the head when he tried disobeying one of his orders last night. While Tav still could. 

Compulsions only worked on vampire spawn, after all. And Tav was just a Bard, a Bhaalspawn, a half-elf that Cazador wanted to punish for daring to steal (love) his favorite son. 

And a hungry son-of-a-bitch. Nothing else. (Please, please.)

“I hope Astarion killed one of his damned siblings,” Tav muttered to himself as he dragged himself down the dark hall, leaning against the wall to keep himself upright. He was currently finding it difficult to muster up any sympathy for the spawn who had invaded their camp last night and kidnapped Tav out of his bedroll. With one of them dead, the ritual wouldn’t be able to proceed.

Cazador had seemed too gleeful last night for that to be true, but Tav held onto the hope anyway. It was a nice thought, far nicer than the memory of Astarion’s ragged below of fury when Tav had been captured, a sound that had cut off abruptly when Tav had been teleported away by vampire magic. Tav had to get back to him, to let him know he was okay. He needed to touch his pale elf with his own two hands, to know that he was safe from Cazador.

Tav kept the wall on his left, the side where his injured eye was swollen shut. He peered down the halls with his right eye, but he seemed to be alone. Was the place abandoned? Or was it just a cover, and Cazador’s real home was elsewhere? Did he sleep in the attic like a bat? Or in the basement like the vermin he was? There was no sign of anything living or moving in the dark mansion he found himself stumbling through.

Until there was. 

He heard the footsteps long before he saw the house-servant, shuffling around the corner. He didn’t have a chance to marvel at it, though he should have; the steps were soft, the carpet thick, and he wasn’t at his best, admittedly, and he shouldn’t have been able to hear the man moving. And yet, he could, the tread reaching his ear with uncanny accuracy.

It hardly mattered. His mouth was watering before he even really processed what he was hearing, the hunger in his core wrenching more painfully than any desire he’d ever felt before. Something smelled delicious.

His gums twinged as his teeth suddenly sharpened in his mouth, his nails lengthening on his hands. He wanted to tear a throat, he wanted to rip open a vein. He wanted blood. Blood, bloodbloodblood.

For a moment, the desperate ravenousness balked against a bitter, cold voice, whispering in his head, grating on his nerves and sapping the control from his limbs. Thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures, Cazador’s insidious voice rasped along his spine, like an icy touch.

A different voice burned the vampire lord’s command to ash like so much tinder against an inferno. Or rather, a different desire. An Urge. Kill them, feast on their very life force, take their blood as your own, drink, devour, destroy.

Blood. Blood. Blood. There was no fighting it. It wasn’t like falling, or wrestling with his own dark passions.  Tav was simply swept away in an instant, devoured whole.

The world went red, then black.

* * *

Tav came to, head throbbing and hands shaky, in a washroom, nicely outfitted if somewhat old-fashioned. Maybe. Tav wasn’t exactly up on the latest interior design choices, he could admit. Judging by everything else he had learned about the cult of Bhaal so far, he was fairly certain that wherever and however they kept their headquarters would not be considered the height of modern fashion.

He knew enough to be sure that the blood smeared all over the walls and floors of the room was probably considered gauche, though. Also there was the matter of the servant's corpse on the floor at his feet.

The body was fresh, but cooling. Tav could taste blood in his mouth, oddly and damnably familiar. He wanted to retch. Or, he wanted to want to retch. But as he licked it off his teeth— instinctive and hating himself— the lingering flavor warmed his chilled body. Nothing had ever, he was sure even in spite of his lost memories, tasted sweeter.

The hunger was dulled. Not gone, not slaked, but sated enough for now to leave him with his thoughts, which were his own again. For now. He was shaking, he realized distantly. His mind, always fragile-seeming, felt like so much spun glass now. Whatever had happened to him…

No. He couldn’t lie to himself any longer. He turned to the looking glass— why did a vampire even have a looking glass in his manor?— and grimly looked at his reflection.

His own face stared back. Pale and sickly looking, his magic eye bright against his skin. Was his hair lighter than before? His face didn’t look as swollen as it had felt just a little while ago, the bruising and bleeding slowed and lessened by his— by his meal. His lips and neck were covered in blood, and he opened his mouth, peering dully at canines that seemed sharper than they had before. 

He reached up, ignoring the spike of pain as he peeled open his bruised eye, bloodshot and aching though it was, and shut his right eye. His reflection vanished.

“Fuck,” he whispered, opening his eye again and ignoring the disorientation of seeing his reflection through only one side of his vision. The left eye, swollen as it was, was clearly red.

There were puncture marks in the dead man’s neck.

He remembered almost nothing of the kill, he realized distantly, staring blankly at the dead man wearing a servant’s uniform. All he could recall was a moment of a desperate, desolate thirst… and then the complete subsumption of his will into a combination of bloodlust and the familiar, sickening Urge to kill boiling under his skin.  Bhaal’s murder puppet, with a new hunger to test the already strained and tenuous threads of his control.

It was just like what had happened with Alfira, but somehow worse. Tav could remember nothing. Only one moment of being in control of his own mind, and the next, his own consciousness snuffed out like a candle. No chance to fight back, no moment of wrestling for control. Just instinct and murder and hunger.

His knees went out from under him, and he curled up next to the corpse and sobbed. It hurt his back and his ribs— apparently one man’s blood wasn’t enough to fully heal all his injuries— but he deserved the pain, so he just rode it out. He wanted to slit his veins open and rid himself of the stolen blood. He wanted to find another neck and feel delicate skin give way under his teeth.

He wanted Astarion’s hand in his hair. He wanted to walk into direct sunlight.

What if he couldn’t control himself ever again? That night that Astarion had bound him, hand and foot, to keep himself safe, still weighed heavy on Tav’s thoughts even tendays later. The others all acted like Bhaal— a whole god! Of murder!— was something Tav could somehow fight, if he wanted it hard enough. They all promised to help, like their measly mortal lives could do anything against a divine, evil power that was practically carved into Tav’s bones. Astarion, at least, knew the pain of compulsion, the anger and hate and helplessness of your own will being stripped from you.

I don't know how you can beat him, but I do know this— you must try, the memory of Astarion’s words rattled around in his skull.

“I can’t,” Tav whispered, helpless and useless on the floor of a vampire lord’s home. “I can’t. It’s too much.” Blood-thirst and the Urge? Vampire spawn as Bhaalspawn, his compulsion-softened brains ripe for the claiming. His worst fears, reality. All of his fighting, the struggle, the desperate resistance to the despicable desires were for naught.

He’d slipped so easily.

He snarled in raw agony. There was naught to him but destruction, now. Cazador had wanted a replacement for his ritual and had turned an already-sharp knife into a mindless reaping blade without even realizing it. Tav couldn’t fight on two fronts, he could sense it in his bones. The craving for blood, twice-fold, was too great. The whispers of his wretched father seemed only magnified by the vampiric yearning.

Tav didn’t want to live like this. He refused. He would not become Bhaal’s mindless puppet.

But. He could yet be useful. Cazador wanted to ascend. He’d waxed poetic about all his plans while carving Tav’s back open. Tav could make sure that didn’t happen.

The vampire lord needed another spawn for his ugly, terrible magic, had turned and carved up Tav to take the place of his favored son. And if that son were to kill the rat-bastard and take his place… he now would have the seventh, necessary spawn to finish the ritual in the form of a wretched Bhaalspawn. The team would have a vampire ascendant to help them against their impossible foes. Tavran would no longer be Bhaal’s puppet. And Astarion would be truly free.

Tav could spend his life to give Astarion the one he wanted.

Yes. That was something he was good for.

Tav staggered to his feet and washed the worst of the blood off skin, scrubbing extra hard around his face. Then he slipped out of the washroom, closing the door on his crime. On his weakness.

He had to make it back to the group. He didn’t think Cazador’s compulsion would work on him, but he didn’t want to stick around the give the vampire lord time to try again. Hopefully, the damned tadpole would protect him as it had protected Astarion. (And where was the mighty Emperor now, hm? Where had he been, while Tav had been used and abused and broken and reforged into something even more terrible? The silence echoed in his skull. 

Relative silence. He was fairly certain the Urge’s whispers hadn’t left him since he’d tasted blood. Maybe they never would again.)

Get out, he reminded himself. Step one. Get out. He held his breath and pressed forward.

* * *

The seven thousand spawn were a surprise. Astarion’s reaction to them, less so. Tav might have felt regretful, if he wasn’t expending all his energy to put one foot in front of the other.

He’d met his companions at Cazador’s back door, ready to charge to his rescue. It was almost sweet. Astarion, of course, was a wreck, nervous and angry and barely able to show his relief that Tav was alive and well, but of course Tav was. Tav was always fine. Sprang back into action with a song and a smile; that was his thing.

It was a great and terrible relief to see Astarion. Tav could be free of all this, in service to the one he loved most.  It seemed right, poetic almost. And he was a Bard, so what better end could he ask for?

He didn’t tell them about the ritual, letting them piece it together themselves as he convinced them he was well enough to linger, to finish the job once and for all.

And they didn’t know what he was.

He was a little shocked at first, sure it would be written all over him. But then he remembered his blackened eye, swollen shut to hide the vampiric red. And Cazador’s house already stank of death and rot; what was one more corpse shambling around? It was almost funny.

He didn’t trust himself to fight, nor did they ask him to, assuming that under his borrowed clothes he was too injured to strain himself. They weren’t wrong exactly, but more important to Tav was that he held his breath against any whiff of blood, couldn’t trust himself to the temptation. Couldn’t play music when he was too afraid to inhale.

Instead, he drifted after them, quiet for once, as they picked their way through Cazador’s home and pieced together his plans. He knew his silence concerned his friends. But the only one who would have forced him to explain himself was Astarion, and Astarion was too busy being traumatized to care. A terrible thing, but useful to Tav, for the moment.

But the other spawn trapped beneath the manor… that Cazador had not told Tav about. Tav barely listened to the exchange between Astarion and his previous victims, feeling like he was adrift from his own body, which seemed so foreign to him now. He kept his fists clenched, to hide the sharp nails that he couldn’t control.

“Soldier,” Karlach said, not for the first time, when the reached what seemed to be the entrance to the ritual site. Tav blinked up at her in question. She looked worried. It’s okay, he wanted to tell her, this will all be over soon. “I think you should wait here, yeah? You look like you’re not feeling so hot, and we don’t want old Lord of Vamps to get the drop on you, right?”

“I’ll need him, when this is over,” Astarion interrupted, a hand on Tav’s shoulder but not looking at him. That was alright. Astarion was understandably distracted.

“Send for me,” Tav said, looking at Gale. “When it’s finished.” The wizard looked a little surprised— but Tav’s acquiescence at staying behind?— but then he nodded.

“The moment we’ve won, my friend,” he promised. He gave Tav a thin smile. “And it wouldn't hurt to have someone who can go for backup if things go sour, hm?” he asked, reaching out like he wanted to touch. Tav flinched away— fresh blood, too close— and Gale dropped his hand without making contact.

“Thank you,” Tav said.

He knew that they thought he was going to stay with the prisoners, in relative safety, but he crept after them instead. Crouched at the top of the stairs, he watched the fight in the distance dispassionately, all of his focus on the hateful Cazador. He wished he could tear the vampire’s head from his body. He wished he could sink his own fangs into that pale neck. He wanted to hurt Cazador worse than anyone had been hurt before. Would he cry? Beg for mercy?

But Tav truly didn’t have the strength to join the fight. Now that he had stopped moving, he felt his aches start clamoring for attention again. Not nearly as painful as they’d been earlier, but still pain all the same, aching and throbbing. His back especially hurt. Was that because the wound was magic? Or was it just his imagination?

Would Astarion kiss him, one last time? That might be nice, Tav mused distantly.

Tav, it’s done, he heard Gale's voice in his head later, and Tav shook himself from whatever reverie he’d found himself in. Huh. Vampire healing trance, maybe? Well, not like it mattered. It might be the only time he’d ever do it.

He came down the stairs. Time to face the music. Or rather, the silence. It was still as a tomb down there (ha). There was no sound other than the hiss of Astarion’s voice, explaining his plan to the others. And then Astarion whirled on him, and asked for his help.

Something warmed in his chest, making Tav realize only for the first time how cold he was feeling. He could never deny Astarion, when he asked for something. This was right. He could do this one last good thing, if it was what Astarion truly wanted. Tav wouldn’t make that call for him, had coaxed each of their other companions into making their own decisions, taking charge of their own destiny. He owed Astarion the same chance, and he wasn’t afraid of it costing him his life. His life was forfeit anyway.

“Alright, Astarion,” Tav said, soft and fond and relieved that at least his useless, cursed body could do one last thing for someone he loved. “What do you need me to do?”

Astarion had tried to save him. Astarion had shown him that there was more to Tav than just a slave. If Tav was destined to fall to the hands of fate, he would prefer those hands to be Astarion’s, the hands he loved.

* * *

He offered up the staff.

Astarion chose.

Notes:

hi, hello, i'm sorry.

Tav is not having a good time. If he seems a little melodramatic/desperate here, know that it was intentional. He's got brain worm, he's got a devil hounding him, he's got the Urges hissing in his ear, some of his best (and first and only) friends might blow themselves up at any time, his lover has been through hell and back, and now he's just spent twelve hours being tortured by an expert in pain and suffering. His hopelessness is at a peak, he's dissociating, he's afraid that he's never going to be able to resist an Urge again.

This Tavran Gregory is still mostly the TG from my other series, just... slightly to the left. And turned into a vampire, of course. There are a few key differences between this version of him and the og, the main one being that he is feeling a lot more hopeless about beating Bhaal. Also, in his 'canon' run, they faced Orin before Cazador. That is obviously not the case here.

(Yeah, I know the Volo eye probably wouldn't work like that, but I wanted it to, so. XD)

Chapter 2

Summary:

Astarion's choice.

Notes:

This will make more sense if you’ve read my other work “On Sacrifice” first.

Gale supposed that he knew a little something about ambition.

Yes, yes, a wizard and his hubris. There was some irony even in his  claim to understand. They had encountered so many novelties on this unexpected journey that perhaps Gale would be better off admitting his own lack of knowledge rather than relying on his understanding. And he did try to learn from his companions, rather than assume his own expertise could carry him through the rough tempests of their race to defeat a would-be god. A wise man benefited from the experience of others, when he could.

However, Gale had long been an admirer of ambition. Perhaps even a connoisseur, if one could himself such a thing. The ache of it still sat heavy in his chest, its cost a magical blight poorly hidden beneath his skin and singing through his blood, a constant reminder of boundaries thoroughly crossed. Not only crossed— ignored, disrespected, and violated utterly.

The Crown remained a temptation all the same. 

Thus, Gale empathized with the choice Astarion was faced with, down here in the depths, buried beneath the weight of his own agonizing past as well as the blood-soaked and dismal centuries of his vampiric ancestors’ as well. This price, Gale found too steep, but he could admit to understanding why his fanged companion would be tempted. He might even say that Astarion’s ambition, in this instance, was for a cause that others would find more palatable than his own; the vampire so clearly wanted to be free. 

Gale had studied enough history to know of terrible things that had been done for lesser reasons.

It didn’t mean that Gale thought it was right, however. The cost of so many lives was already a terrible price to pay, one that would blacken his companion’s very soul. There was no doubt in Gale’s mind that Cazador Szarr should be stopped, should be destroyed, even, but to replace him was not the answer. He had hoped to have aid in persuading Astarion of that fact, of helping him to know that replacing the monster was not the answer when facing it. To strengthen him in his moment of fear, the way the rest of them had been supported upon facing their trials.

But Gale had been expecting Tav for that. And Tav… was no longer in the room with them.

Gale should have noticed right away. One of the druids certainly would have. But there simply hadn’t been time. Astarion had assured them that Cazador would know the moment they set foot on his property, and once they’d come to stage their recue-with-a-bonus-assassination, they couldn’t turn back, couldn’t take the time to rest and heal their companion who had been brutalized in Cazador’s esteemed company over the last twelve hours. Tav had been standing on his own two feet, and had promised to keep back and let the others do the bulk of the fighting, and Gale had let it placate him.

He wished he hadn’t.

“Tav. Tavran, you can’t be serious,” Gale he tried, but it was frighteningly clear that he was. A faded, sickly, smiling thing in place of the sun-browned bard who had rolled his eyes at every inconvenience but also stopped to help every time it mattered. Who never let pain be an obstacle. Who had taught a vampire spawn compassion. Who had disdained to bow before a false githyanki goddess or the avatar of death. 

Who had refused to let Gale sacrifice himself in the bowels of the mind flayer colony.

And yet here Tav was— or at least the shape of him— utterly willing to throw his life, and seven thousand others, away. It made Gale sick. It frightened him. What had happened to their bard?

Gale watched, his fingers tightening on his staff. He was nearly spent from their recent fight; any spell he cast now would cost him dearly. However, he wasn’t certain he could let this happen without attempting to stop it. The ritual was one thing already, dreadful and cursed, but Tav’s death…

Gale hoped that Astarion would regret it, were he the cause of such a tragedy. In fact, he trusted that, in his right mind, Astarion would not wish for such a thing, no matter what it afforded him. And if Gale had to intervene to help him remember that, he would.

“Give me the staff,” Astarion barked, Cazador groaning weakly at his feet, his siblings still caught in their master’s terrible spell, motionless and helpless.

“Astarion, please, don’t,” Karlach cried, jaggedly, and Gale could see in her expression the same dilemma and doubt he faced himself.

Tav turned toward her with a snarl, startling Gale— the fangs, sharp, were unexpected on Tav’s face— even as Astarion raised the staff with a violent gesture.

And plunged it straight through Cazador’s heart, with a cry that made Gale shudder.

The ritual magic faded as Astarion sobbed, and Gale blew out a breath. His siblings dropped to the dais, freed from the spell, as Cazador died.

“Is… is I t over then?” One of Astarion’s siblings asked, eyes wide in her delicate face. Tav would have remembered her name, Gale thought distantly. Tav loved putting together pieces like that from scraps he found while casing a place for all its valuables. He was a powerful bard in his own right, but there was something to his keen insight into people; he knew how best to help or harm them with a few words, knew how to ferret out their secrets from the things they left behind.

“What does this mean for us?” another one of them asked, a youngish-looking human.

Astarion didn’t seem to hear either one of them. Instead, he turned on Tav, who was still standing beside him, looking down at Cazador’s permanently lifeless body. No doubt Astarion could empathize with Tav, newly turned.

“You horrible, miserable cretin!” Astarion hissed, and so much for sympathy, Gale supposed, a little startled by Astarion’s vehemence. It was understandable; Astarion was going through rather a lot at the moment.

“Did you really think I would sacrifice you in this bastard’s place?” Astarion continued viciously, kicking Cazador’s corpse and reaching out to shake Tav by the shoulder. “I can be better than him. I don’t need to slaughter you to prove it,” he hissed, and Gale watched as Tav just stared wordlessly back at him, expression blank. 

With a disgusted sort of noise, Astarion turned on his siblings, his normally graceful movements awkward and jerky. No doubt he was struggling to come to terms with all this, Gale thought. 

“I’m freeing the rest of the spawn. They should be allowed the same choice as the rest of us,” Astarion said, and Gale noted that a couple of the house-spawn frowned. “You should see them to the Underdark, through the tunnels. Keep them from killing too many innocents on the way, hm?” he asked with cold grin, while one of his brothers looked dismayed.

“We’ll do our best,” the woman from before said with a nod, and Astarion wrapped his hands around the staff again. Power swelled, and there was the groan and scrape of metal cages opening, echoing all through the underground cavern around them. Gale winced at the noise.

“Stay down here, or get out of the city as soon as you can,” he heard Karlach warn Astarion’s siblings as they passed. “There’s a mindflayer invasion going on, that you won’t want to get caught up in,” she said.

Gale returned his attention to Tav and Astarion, still standing over Cazador’s body. Astarion met his eyes when he felt Gale’s gaze. “Burn him, and his ritual scrolls,” he said, dropping what they’d found earlier onto Cazador’s corpse. “Best not take any chances,” he said grimly.

“Alright, Astarion,” Gale agreed, giving Tav a nervous look; the bard still hadn’t moved. He looked as though he were carved from stone. It was unsettling, for one usually so expressive.

He approached the body, fumbling with his bag. He always kept a few bottles of grease, which was better than wasting any magic for the same affect. He dumped the contents on Cazador’s remains. He hesitated over the staff, but Astarion had left it there,  impaling the vampire’s corpse when he stepped back to watch Gale work, and Gale didn’t protest or second-guess him.

Tav was still too close to the soon-to-be-bonfire. “Tav,” Gale said gently, reaching out to rest a hand on the bard’s arm. The half-elf flinched bodily, and Gale hastily withdrew his apparently unwelcome touch. Guiltily, he recalled that Tav may still be hurt. “Perhaps you should see if Shadowheart can spare a little healing. A Cure Wounds, perhaps?” he asked, gently fishing for information.

Tav met his gaze straight on, his mismatched eyes discomfiting. Yet also mesmerizing. Was that Tav’s usual charm, or a vampiric ability?  “No,” he said shortly, and moved back. 

Gale opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Best to finish up here as quickly as possible before trying to sort out the repercussions— and doing that somewhere safer than a place that was likely about to be swarming with hungry vampire spawn. He lit his makeshift pyre with a small spell and stood back with Astarion to watched Cazador Szarr go up in flames.

“And good riddance,” Karlach huffed, watching it, and Shadowheart nodded, coming to stand with them. Tav was still keeping apart from them.

There was a terribly awkward silence. Gale wanted to reach out to Astarion, to say something comforting, but that had never been their relationship. And Tav was silent, staring into the flames with an odd intensity.

“We’re done here,” Astarion said, flatly.

“How are you feeling?” Shadowheart asked, more gently than she normally spoke, to any of them, and Astarion turned away. 

“I— I don’t know,” Astarion said, and he looked lost. Gale didn’t miss the way he glanced at Tav, who wasn’t looking at him.

“I think you did the right thing,” Gale said, as gently as he could, and Astarion gave him a wounded look. Gale hoped he looked as certain as he felt.

“Well I just feel numb. I… need some time. To let it all sink it. Let’s just go,” Astarion said, voice hollow. It was a stark contrast to his anger from a few moments ago, and the raw grief before that, but Gale figured a few mood swings were to be expected in this case.

Tav finally stirred. “I can’t go out into the city,” he said flatly. His eyes looked bruised, somehow, in spite of the healing Shadowheart had give him to fix his black eye.

“Right. Two vampires to feed now?” Karlach said, as cheerfully as she could muster. “That’s alright. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Not here,” Astarion said shortly. “This place reeks of death,” Astarion said shortly, and Tav flinched. 

“I should have enough energy to get us all out of here with the fast travel wards, if you like,” Gale offered, and Astarion sighed.

The travel runes were clever bits of magic, left by some wizard— or perhaps, a group of them— that allowed other powerful wizards to use minimal magic to teleport him or herself and a few companions between set locations. Gale thought they were fascinating, and had been trying to research them in dull moments— so, he’d had little luck— but at the moment, he was just grateful that they existed. Even with his severely-dwindled abilities at the moment, he could get them all safely to their camp at the docks.

“I’ll walk,” Astarion said and turned stiffly away from them. Gale general concern spiked even more when Tav didn’t even give his customary spiel about staying safe in the city or about how he didn’t want anyone walking alone. He just kept staring into the dark with a blank expression. 

“I’ll go with him,” Karlach offered Gale and Shadowheart. “You two…Take care of that,” she said, indicating Tav with a nod of her head and a frowning expression. Gale had no doubt that she was equally displeased and discomforted by Tav’s eagerness to sacrifice himself. 

She didn’t like it when any of them were in danger, even when it was from the consequences of their own choices.

“Shall we?” Shadowheart asked Gale as Karlach and Astarion disappeared into the gloom, up the stairs and away from them. 

“Yes,” Gale said. “I find myself just as eager to get out of here and return to my cookpot. I think we all deserve a nice warm meal,” he said before he could think better of it, and Shadowheart shot him a wry look. Right. Vampires. “I’m sure we can make arrangements for those of us with unusual diets,” he added, faux-brightly. 

Shadowheart shook her head slightly, but she was kind enough not to call him out on it. Tav didn’t react at all, and Gale swallowed. He was curious, yes, about the transformation to a vampire— How did it feel? Was it swift? Did the world seem different now? Were his senses enhanced? What happened biologically to the body?— but more than that, he was horrified for his friend. Undead, when only the night before he’d been… well, alive. A gruesome and unwilling change to the body, to his entire being. They had gotten used to Astarion’s casual attitude toward his own vampirism, but to have it happen this way put the whole thing in a new and appalling light once more.

“Maybe I should stay here,” Tav said all of a sudden as Gale lifted his hands to cast for the travel rune at their camp. His voice was odd, as if he somehow wasn’t getting enough air, in spite of his lack of need for it. “At least until you need me for a fight.”

Gale and Shadowheart exchanged a glance. He didn’t seem to be joking? “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You aren’t staying down here.” 

“It might be safer,” Tav said flatly.

“For who, exactly?” Gale asked shortly, and those mismatched eyes landed on him again. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten so quickly how cavalier you were with your own life, my friend,” he said grimly, and Tav looked away.

“We can take care of ourselves,” Shadowheart said. “And we can help you with the hunger, when it comes to that,” she added. They already helped one vampire with it, after all. What was a second one?

Gale said so, but Tav didn’t seem reassured by. Instead, an odd smile stretched across his lips, and he gave a humorless laugh. “You can’t help me,” he said shortly, and Gale grimaced.

“Well, perhaps not me specifically. But we won’t let you go hungry. You’d never allow it for anyone else,” he pointed out, firmly.

“You’re all mad,” Tav said, still laughing in a way that wasn’t funny at all. He and Shadowheart exchanged glances again. Gale had, of course, never imagined that Tav would be turned into a vampire but this… was not the way he would have expected the bard to respond, if he had. He was so staunchly in support of Astarion that it was odd, to hear him sound so defeated now.

“Let’s get out of this crypt,” Gale said, clearing his throat. “Things will seem better in daylight and open air.”

“You should leave me,” Tav repeated hollowly, and Gale decided to ignore him for the moment. A little grimness was to be expected after the rough day Tav had had.

They’d have to explain to the others. Gale wasn’t looking forward to it, but maybe they would have some idea how to ease Tav’s plight, or at least distract him. They’d certainly accomplished a great many things thus far; they would work this out, together.

He cast the spell, and sent them all to their camp.

Notes:

I tried to write the next chap of this for ages and it wasn't working. then what i realized was that Astarion needed some breathing room, just like in the game, to come to terms with Cazador's death before dealing with the rest of it.

You'll have to forgive Gale for not making the twice-spawn connection; Tav hasn't confided in anyone but Astarion about his Urges or Bhaal in some time, and I think its understandable that he's a little distracted at the moment. Tune in next time to see if bringing a new, hungry vampire to a camp full of potential meals was a good idea! (It wasn't!)

Chapter 3

Summary:

They take Tav to camp. It's a bad time for everyone.

As they reappeared in their camp at the edge of the docks, Shadowheart tried to take shallow breaths to readjust to the smell. This wasn’t the nicest campsite they’d had over the course of their travels.

They’d had worse, too, of course. Their campsite at Grymforge, where they fortunately hadn’t stayed long, had been unbearably warm, forcing everyone except Karlach and Astarion to strip to their smalls to catch even the hope of sleep. And the basement of Moonrise Towers had been oppressive, dank, dusty, with the lingering sense of paranoia that they would be caught out as imposters. 

 The first one had been well enough. Until Tav had killed someone ritualistically in the middle of it, of course, though by now no one blamed him for it. 

They had barely blamed him then. He had looked too distraught to do so, and though she had mocked some of the others for falling for it at the time, it wasn’t as though she had been any different. It had been easier to blame the tadpole than to believe one of their party was a cold-blooded killer. Or perhaps just more convenient. And it wasn’t as though Tav hadn’t tried to tell them about his amnesia before the incident.

Shadowheart took a deep breath. She was letting her thoughts wander to avoid uncomfortable truths, but she understood better now, why that could not be her path. She had learned that sometimes she had to look right at the darkness, even when she no longer wanted to linger there and let it blind her.

And this time, the uncomfortable truth was the way they had failed their own companion. Their leader, reluctant though he was to claim the title. Their comrade in arms. Perhaps no one would call Tavran Gregory a light in the dark, but he was certainly a spark that refused to go out.

Until now, that is.

Now, Tav looked defeated. It almost hurt her to look at him; his skin was blanched pale, as if in illness, and his body was bruised and bleeding, a lingering gift of Cazador’s hospitality. Far from the only gift, either. She could sense the curse on him, if she knew to try. She’d always had an affinity for necromantic magics, and though she had turned away from the practice for a few tendays now, it still felt familiar to her, like an old cloak, or the way she sometimes imagined she could still feel her circlet on her brow.

She wasn’t quite sure what to expect. She suspected they’d all been rather spoiled by Astarion, though that never would have occurred to her before this exact situation. He was a vicious, bloodthirsty rogue with a sharp smile and sharper blades, but he also wore the veneer of civility as easily as Wyll, and could turn his words into weapons as quickly as Gale. He wasn’t half as charming as he thought he was, but he certainly passed for a spiteful, minor bureaucrat, at least in her mostly-ignorant opinion. He would come across as dangerous, certainly, but not more so than other petty public servants or sneak-thiefs.

Tav had never passed for civil, not under long-term scrutiny. He wore flashy clothes that didn’t match, like he barely noticed them. He moved, all the time, like a predator, regardless of context, venue, or company. He learned quickly, to present a front, yes; by the time they had reached Moonrise, he looked exactly the part of a traveling minstrel, if a touch less vain than the stereotype due to his shorn hair. But if you really looked, you could see him choosing carefully who to mimic in a room, catch him eyeing the weapons and exits, watch him relax his body, purposely, to a cajole a false sense of security.

It was a better disguise than Astarion’s, in the short-term. Tav’s command of persuasive language was better, and he had a way of looking at a person and knowing exactly what they wanted to hear… until he walked away, and they realized they’d been swindled.

Or maybe they never did. Shadowheart had ceased to fall for his charming grin, but that was certainly not the case for everyone. She had come to appreciate instead his grim frankness, the foundation of pragmatism, the way he treated the few he respected differently than the majority that he did not. For the most part, she liked his wry humor and his refusal to be told how or why he should act. She could identify the attempts at cold calculating behind his strategies, recognize when he was struggling against the darkness within his own mind, and had begun to be able to pinpoint the exact moments he gave up on control and gave in to reckless urge instead. 

(Usually when a problem required the sacrifice of his own safety. He was always quickest to give in, then.)

But she didn’t recognize anything about him right now. He moved like a wounded animal, winced at the sunlight as though it burned his eyes— even though he was standing in the shade— and cringed away from them all in a way that was completely unlike him. 

Astarion reveled in sunlight, in walking free where he’d been forbidden for so long. Tav was cowering from it.

And he cowered from them too.

The others were quick to converge; they had been sent on their own tasks, partly because they had worried that too large a party would invoke a more threatening response from Cazador, and partly because they were on a timer, as it was; Lae’zel was still missing, and they hadn’t yet found the entrance to the Bhaal Temple. They couldn’t count on Orin to be merciful; they needed to be swift and ruthless, were they to rescue her. Plus, it seemed that someone in their camp was always laid up with an injury.

It seemed, as Wyll came rushing to them, that they were already back from their attempts to finish mapping the sewers, and that poor Wyll's foot was on the mend; he’d broken his ankle in the skirmish the night before with Astarion’s siblings, and had insisted Shadowheart save her spells for the fight with Cazador. Apparently they were back earlier than she’d expected. Shadowheart couldn’t blame them; they all cared too much now, about the fate of Astarion’s monster. Not to mention their thinly controlled panic, when a second member of their party had been snatched from their midst so easily.

Tav’s reaction was immediate; he snarled, low and vicious, and dropped into a crouch, clearly startling Gale, who fumbled his quarterstaff like the novice Shadowheart knew he wasn’t. “Stay the fuck away from me,” Tav snapped in a low hiss, and Wyll drew up short.

But he wasn’t talking to Wyll. It was Yenna, tripping her way over to them eagerly, her small face suddenly pale, on whom he had fixed his eyes. One pale and blue, the other a bright, searing red.

Hungry.

Gale recovered quickest, as if to make up for his brief blunder. “Sorry, my dear,” he told Yenna, then scooped her up and neatly Dimension Doored away. Tav swayed, though she wasn’t sure if he’d meant to try and stop them, or was just feeling the pain of his injuries.

“Shadowheart, what’s happened?” Wyll asked seriously, still standing very still about ten feet away, both hands up peaceably.

Shadowheart was still holding her mace. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved about that or not.

“Cazador is dead,” she said, aiming for calm. There was no gentle way to put this news. Wyll’s hold body slumped with relief.

“Thank the gods,” he said, a relieved smile spreading over his face. “Karlach, Astarion, are they—”

“Fine,” Shadowheart said. “Well enough. They wanted some air and are on their way. But—”

Wyll was a monster hunter. She could tell he could see for himself, as his relieved smile began to fade as quickly as it appeared.

“Tav, my friend,” he said, sounding suddenly choked, and Tav flinched.

“No deal, Wyll,” he rasped, sounding awkward and pained. Had Cazador done something to his lungs as well as his back? Or— She felt a chill. Of course. His voice would be raw from screaming, after a night full of torture.

They should have moved faster, Shadowheart thought mournfully. They should have done as Astarion had begged and stormed the place immediately, even tired and unprepared. Maybe then they would have had a chance to save him.

“I— I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Wyll said, shooting Shadowheart a worried look.

Tav grinned, and it was an eerie, feral thing, his canines too sharp. Astarion had always done a decent job at the cover of (somewhat obsequious) rake, but there was no charm in this vampiric smile. It made her shiver. “You’ll have to take my head,” he said with a laugh.

It bordered on hysterical, scraping at Shadowheart’s ears.

“We’ll have no more of that, my musical friend.” Gale, stern, striding back to them from wherever he’d left  Yenna. Tav just continued to chuckle, though he pressed his palm to his face, as though attempting to stifle his humor. She normally found his laugh infectious; now it made her want to cover her ears.

There was no humor in his eyes.

“No more of what?” Wyll asked, frowning in concern.

“Tav tried to convince Astarion that it was perfectly acceptable to kill him, in order to Ascend,” Gale said brittlely, and Wyll’s eyes widened. “He did not, of course. He chose to end the curse, rather than perpetuate it.” The wizard sounded proud, as Tav flinched: a bizarre role reversal.

“You’re all fools,” Tav muttered, coldly, and Shadowheart pursed her lips.

“We should heal you,” she said, turning to the most pressing matters. “You must be in quite a lot of pain. I’m nearly out of strength, but Halsin should be able to-”

“Leave it,” Tav snapped. He was starting to shake. Pain? Hunger?  “You should pick up your blade, hero,” he told Wyll through his hand.

Shadowheart took a sharp breath, and Wyll looked wounded. “My friend, I would hope that you could trust me by now not to slay a friend, no matter what shape he bears.”

Shadowheart glanced up as the druids approached, the both of them experienced enough to walk with caution at the scene, in spite of the lack of context.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Gale was telling Tav, sympathetically, expression pained. “You have no doubt been through a most dreadful day. Let us offer you healing, and then—”

“What’s going on here?” Jaheira, sharp and brisk.

“Halsin, would you mind working some healing magic for Tav?” Shadowheart said brusquely, speaking over everything else. Surely easing the pain was the priority. Pain would only make the rest of this more difficult.

Halsin’s expression creased with concern, and she had no doubt he could already tell what he was looking at. He had admitted as much, before, being able to sense immediately Astarion’s true nature. A druid’s gift, perhaps. Still, he did not hesitate, even as Jaheira said urgently,

“Do not let him feed.” Tav cringed.

“Leave me,” he said, feebly, but Halsin shook his head.

“Come now, I can spare some blood, should it come to that,” Halsin pointed out, stepping forward.

Several things happened at once— Halsin’s hands began to glow with the magic of a Cure Wounds as he reached for the bard; Tav, meanwhile, seemed to transform before their eyes, a vicious snarl twisting his features as he turned on the approaching druid with a low growl and bared teeth. And Jaheira shouted something, briefly glowing as vines and plants erupted from the earth to tangle the bard, restraining him where he had moved to lunge for Halsin’s throat.

“Jaheira,” Wyll began, but he stopped, seeing what they all saw. Tav snapping and snarling, incoherent, clawing senselessly at the vines keeping him down.

“Do not let him feed,” Jaheira snapped. “He should drink no blood.”

“What is wrong with him?” Gale asked, concerned, his knuckles white on his staff. Shadowheart felt the same. She had flinched away from the bard, now writhing and howling like a trapped beast, gaze wild and unseeing, and she wanted to keep running. She planted her feet instead. “This.. Is this normal hunger, for a new spawn?” Gale asked, after clearing his throat.

Was this what they had unleashed on the city? Seven thousand’s worth? She saw the unasked question in his face.

“No,” Jaheira said grimly. “This is his Father’s doing.”

The lord of murder. Of course. Of course two curses could not co-exist in one body. They would either rebound or… combine into something worse than both separately.

“…Mystra wept,” Gale said hollowly, as Jaheira renewed her spell, fresh vines replacing the ones Tav had managed to tear with inhuman strength. “He asked not to be brought here. I thought- I did not think,” he said gravely, looking pale.

“We do not have much time,” Jaheira said shortly. “Were you successful in your mission?” she asked.

“We killed Cazador,” Shadowheart confirmed bluntly.

“Good. Where is the vampire lord’s body?” Jaheira asked.

“Burned,” Shadowheart said, and watched Jaheira go pale. “What?” she demanded, suddenly panicked herself.

“…Nature preserve me, I should have thought-” Jaheira sounded shaken, and that above all made Shadowheart’s knees watery. Jaheira never sounded shaken. “I have let you all down,” she said gravely. “And for that I am sorry.”

She cast again. Shadowheart flinched at the sound of Tav’s angry yowling. There weren’t words, really, just vicious, desperate noises.

“What do you mean?” Wyll asked, urgent and low. “Jaheira what do you know?”

“There is a cure, to save a vampire spawn from his fate, but it must be done quickly, before three nights have passed, before he feeds on any blood, and it… requires the heart of his sire,” Jaheira said hollowly.

Gale let out a low string of expletives that would have startled her into teasing him about a gentleman’s tongue, if she hadn’t felt exactly the same sentiment. “There must be some way to- reconstitute the corpse,” he muttered, sounding feverish. “I must consult my books— I— there must be something we can do,” he said, desperately.

“We must contain him first,” Jaheira said grimly. “My spells will not last forever.”

She renewed the spell again. Tav struggled, hissing.

“You’re hurting him,” Wyll said softly, and Shadowheart looked at the Tav was cutting himself open on thorns, scratching himself raw on the vines that struggling to wrap around his limbs. Jaheira pursed her lips.

“Do you think he would not prefer this, than to have his unholy lusts unleashed on one of his friends?” she asked sharply. “Halsin, can you bind him well enough with what we have on hand?” Shadowheart watched his face fall.

“I can,” he said, and went to fetch some of the rope and netting they had around. The one benefit of a camp on the stinking waterfront.

Shadowheart was sure he had never thought he would use his talent for traps and snares on his own companions, Shadowheart thought grimly.

She turned away from the sight of Tav writhing and snapping and ducked into Astarion’s tent. It was not a familiar space to her; Astarion liked his privacy. But there were a great many things that could not remain private in a camp such as theirs.

She emerged at the same time that Halsin returned and tried to ignore the sound of Jaheira refreshing her spell again. “Here,” she said, pressing the bundle she had liberated from Astarion’s belongings on Halsin. He blinked, then accepted them with a grave nod, understanding quickly touching his expression. 

Tav had been bound for others’ safety before. It was not something he enjoyed, nor did his lover, and the others pretended they did not know, did not see those nights where the Urge pressed too close, to save them both the indignity. But she knew there were silk ties now, kept among Astarion’s things, so that he could hobble his lover without hurting him. No doubt Halsin could not be as generous, now, with how viciously the bard was fighting— as though possessed of many Urges, not just the one— but maybe the scraps of fabric could form a barrier between Tav’s skin and the worst of the rope.

“Can you paralyze him?” Jaheira asked shortly, and Gale grimaced. 

“Perhaps once,” he said, shifting his weight.

“And I twice,” Wyll said grimly.

“I have the energy for one more spell,” Shadowheart decided, and Jaheira nodded.

“You have four minutes, Halsin,” she said. “Make them count.”

It was grim work. Jaheira dropped the vines as soon as Tav was caught in the awful, frozen posture of Gale’s Hold Person, and Halsin got to work. Gale had clearly overexerted himself, pale and sweating, but he said nothing in complaint, only letting out a tired sigh when it was Wyll’s turn to take over. 

Halsin worked efficiently but not hurriedly, and he started at Tav’s mouth. The silk first, in a broad stripe across his lower face to protect his skin, then the rope.

Shadowheart refused to let herself look away as they gagged their friend. 

Halsin was matter-of-fact, doing his best not to cause undue harm but checking the security of his knots as he bound Tav’s arms next. He did not tie the bard’s arms behind his back, which Shadowheart knew from her own experience was less secure, but she could not bring herself to complain. Not when Tav was still bleeding sluggishly from the runes carved into his flesh.

Halsin was finishing lashing the bard’s knees and ankles together when it was her turn to take over, and she prayed for strength as she shaped the spell and cast the magic on him while Halsin worked. Then the druid lifted the still-paralyzed bard in his hold, fearless apparently.

“Where to put him? I will not have him scrape himself raw on the stone,” Halsin said flatly, and Jaheira pursed her lips.

“One of the cots,” Gale suggested wearily. “They are far enough from weapons but more comfortable than the ground.”

Halsin nodded and hastily carried the bard there, laid him on his stomach, then secured the trailing lengths of rope he had left out to the wooden frame. Just in time; the magic wore off, and Tav started struggling, more weakly now but still as fervently, a mad look in his eye.

Shadowheart ducked back into Astarion’s tent as Gale crouched near Tav’s head, murmuring to him. She had seen within blankets and cushions that had not been there tendays ago; it was far more comfortable inside now than it had been when they’d first started journeying.

She picked up a blanket and a pillow and went up to join the others, standing around where they had trussed up the bard like a prisoner. Like a rabid animal. “Can you lift him for a moment? As much as the rope will allow,” she asked Halsin quietly, and he did so, so she could tuck the cushion between the bard’s body and the uncomfortable pallet. Then she draped the blanket over him.

Halsin murmured something and touched the bard’s head with a glowing hand; healing magic. He repeated it on the bard’s back, once, twice. Tav stopped squirming quite so much. Had the easing of his pain soothed him a little? Or was he simply worn out?

“I should…” Gale began, reluctantly, his expression pained.

“Look through your books, wizard,” Jaheira said flatly. “It is the best you can do for him.” She turned to them. “It may be wise to give him some space rather than tempt the hungers in his soul.”

“I will not,” Shadowheart said, surprising herself with her vehemence as she sat on the edge of the cot. “You are not alone,” she said firmly to Tav— he was in there, somewhere, and she refused to disbelieve it, even when he turned his head and tried in vain to bite her through his gag. 

His eyes were damp. She doggedly rested a hand on his head and stroked his hair, no matter how much he squirmed.

“…Very well,” Jaheira agreed. “I will help Gale. There may be something… some old research I once knew of, that may aid him.”

“I’ll send word to Rolan,” Wyll said, brow furrowed in concern. “There might be something in that grand, new library of his.” 

Halsin crouched next to the cot and watched Tav with a placid expression before looking up at Shadowheart. “Where is Astarion?” he asked, calmly, once the others had departed.

Shadowheart swallowed and stroked Tav’s grimy hair. Did he still have a headache in this form?

“He’s not alone, either,” was all she could manage, and Halsin bowed his head. Praying, maybe.

Shadowheart couldn’t find the words, herself, so this would have to do, for now.

 

 

 

Notes:

sorry :/

Chapter 4

Summary:

Astarion is having a day.

 

Astarion figured he was due a little property destruction.

He hadn’t exactly planned on it, per se, but once he’d made the seemingly endless ascent back into the manor proper, planning on going by foot through the city to their camp instead of by magical teleportation to give himself a (needless) chance to breathe, and stumbled back out into Cazador’s office— a room that had heard Astarion’s pititful screams many a time— he saw red.

The next thing he knew, he was tearing down shelves, ripping out drawers, knocking over the cursed marble busts. With vindictive glee, he dumped an inkpot, then a second one, on the rug Cazador had once made him clean with his tongue after his own blood had dripped onto it from a injury Cazador had given him, and he ripped the covers off Cazador’s favorite books— all trash— with a wild laugh. 

He tore two portraits from the walls, ripped down his least-favorite curtains, shoved over chairs, dug his blades into the upholstery, and caused quite a mess before he even thought of Karlach, hovering behind him. It was hard to forget her, and yet.

He recalled that she had followed him suddenly and spun around to meet her gaze, having no doubt that his expression was somewhat wild. “Want some help?” she asked mildly.

“…I want to burn the guest bed,” he said, feeling wound too-tight. She gave him a grim smile.

“I’d love to do the honors.”

They wreaked havoc through the manor. It was cathartic, Astarion thought someone like Halsin might say. Astarion wasn’t so sure about that, but he  did feel as though, had he not had the furniture and furnishings to take his wrath out on, he might have taken it out somewhere else. Somewhere… that could bruise and bleed. This was better, and satisfying, to see everything that Cazador had loved destroyed before him.

The ritual was the pinnacle, of course. But Astarion had spent decades on decades suffering within these walls, hating every moment of it. It felt good, to destroy some part of it.

Or at least, it had felt good, until they made it to the guest suite, and the room smelled like Tav. Astarion stumbled backwards immediately, wiping at his face as though he could get the rancid mix of fear sweat, blood, and other substances out of his nose. It never helped any of the other times Astarion had been forced to clean up after his own torture, but this… He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

“Easy,” he heard Karlach say, felt her presence looming over him. Hells below, he was shaking like a leaf. Cazador was dead, and gone, and could never hurt him or his loved ones ever again. Dead. And gone. He kept repeating it over and over to himself.

“I’m going to get Tav’s stuff,” she said, gently, because there was it, piled up in a corner, discarded like so much trash, the sleep shirt Astarion had painstakingly repaired only two nights ago. The flute, the only weapon he kept within arm’s reach at night. Tav must not have come back to this room to check. “And then I’m going to torch this place, okay?”

“Just the instrument,” Astarion managed, breathing shallowly. “Just… just his flute. The rest will be tainted. I’ll get him something new,” he said, too-quickly, but unable to slow down.

“Alright, you got it,” Karlach said, and she was as good as her word. She’d found lantern oil somewhere and poured it out on the hated bed, piling up the restraints, and the discarded clothes, the paintings hanging on the walls, the curtains draped around the four-poster bed, and all the bedding. Then she set it ablaze.

They watched the fire start to consume the bed for several long moments from the hallway. Then Astarion reached out and closed the door.

“I’m done here,” he said, and Karlach gave him a wordless nod before they started making their way to the side entrance they’d used to come in, what had only been a few hours ago but felt like tendays.

The few servants who had lingered in the house had fled before them. Astarion wasn’t sure if they could tell Cazador was dead, or if they were merely afraid of of the flaming tiefling and snarling spawn reigning destruction of the place. He didn’t care either, not until they caught a weeping servant dragging the body of another servant on their way out.

She screamed when she saw them and promptly abandoned her rescue(?) mission, dropping the body and stumbling out the way they planned to go themselves. He confirmed her abandoned burden was corpse with a brief glance, then did a double-take. Not just any corpse. Blood-drained.

And disgusting, he mused. The body had been brutalized, deep gouges shredding the shirt and the skin beneath, and scratches around the face. It had been bitten by a vampire, yes, but also thoroughly savaged as well.

An angry, new spawn could have done such a thing, Astarion realized slowly. He may not have Tav’s skill for putting together clues, but this one he could read.

“Poor fucker,” Karlach said idly, and Astarion sneered. 

“Cazador’s servants tended to be here willingly, and I remember this one particularly enjoyed helping Godey sharpen his tools,” he said sharply. “I wouldn’t weep over him.”

“Alright, I won’t,” Karlach said simply, looking at him again, and he couldn’t stand it.

“Let’s get out of here,” he snapped, and marched determinedly back into the sun.

* * *

“Hey, Fangs,” Karlach said, a long while later. 

They were standing on the roof of the Elfsong inn, where Astarion had just spent a quarter of an hour arguing with the innkeeper over the price of the rooms. Normally, that would be Tav’s job, but he had taken the initiative this time. 

He’d had enough of unknowns sneaking into their camp. And it was nice, to feel productive. 

Astarion and his tiefling bodyguard had been taking the very long way back to camp, after wrecking the place. Karlach had stopped to tell a Fist that ‘the old Szarr place might be burning down, should probably throw a few buckets of water on it’ before giving him space, following him quietly.

His rampage walking tour of the city had felt surreal. He’d had months to enjoy the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair, and the lack of tugging on his soul, as the tadpole in his head had protected him from the Cazador’s compulsion magic. And yet, it was as though he was now feeling it all anew. He would never take this for granted again, even as he mourned that his newfound and hard-won ability to walk unhindered wherever he liked would be short-lived. Without the ritual, he would have a spawn’s weaknesses again, if they manage to kill an elder brain and free themselves of this parasite.

Freedom. And all it had cost him was the sun. 

Astarion had expected to feel… Well. Something! Not this sickening churning in his nonfunctioning organs. Not the dull numbness of nothing once Cazador was gone. This is what he had always wanted, what he had long dreamed of, and yet he didn’t feel anything other than slightly tired.

Well, that was how he was feeling now anyway. The first couple of hours of his post-Cazador excursion had in contrast been… a blur. His thoughts had swirled, and he barely knew where he was going, only that he had to move. How could all of these people go about their daily lives so carelessly, so unconcerned? Didn’t they know that something fundamental had changed and the very fabric of reality? For him and for 7000 spawn? How could they laugh? How could they work? How could they whinge and complain? How could they eat and drink? How could they do anything at all without thinking of it? 

But of course that was nonsense. Nothing had changed for them. It had been oddly comforting to know that, to watch Baldurians obliviously go about their business, blissfully unaware that the man who had tortured Astarion beyond their mediocre imaginations for two centuries was gone. 

Astarion could start over. Cazador was nothing to him anymore. Freedom made him feel weightless. Yes, maybe he would soon have to return to cowering from the sun, treat doorways like unsurpassable obstacles, and avoid running water like an open flame, but he would never have to cower from a master ever again.

The conclusion had returned him to his senses. There was no point in stomping around the lower city, scowling at anyone who crossed his path and debating picking a fight with one of them for no reason at all. Cazador was gone, and they still had other problems to deal with. Problems like the army of mind flayers infiltrating the city, an Archduke with an immensely overinflated sense of ego, a potential gith’yanki invasion, or a murderous cult, still holding one of their own hostage.(How that had stung, to have one of their party taken again from their camp snatched from his bedroll.)

The new vampire spawn in their little party was a problem to be dealt with as well. 

At least Tav was a problem Astarion knew what to do about. He had no idea if his assistance would be welcome, not after what Tav’s association with Astarion had put him through at the hands of Cazador. Being made into an undead, bloodthirsty monster was certainly not something one wished to gain from whatever connections their lover had brought into the relationship. Not to mention the torture his bastard of a master had enacted on the bard in that horrid room, or in the kennels.

However! Regardless of how Tav was feeling towards him at the moment, Astarion felt a renewed surge of energy when he settled on making arrangements for the new vampire spawn in their midst. Tav had fed him, protected him, and sided with him against their wary comrades, a devil, and Cazador himself. Whatever foolish notions Tav’d had about sacrificing himself for Astarion— and oh yes, Astarion could tell that was something they were going to have to talk about later—  Tav had never once acted like Astarion‘s vampirism was anything more than an easily accommodated dietary preference. It had baffled Astarion at first, but quickly, he realized now, became something Astarion took for granted. The same sort of support, at the least, Astarion could offer in return.

Decision made, he had set off with more purpose. Karlach hadn’t done anything other than continue to follow him, without questioning or protesting, on a series of absurd errands through the city. First a stop at a butcher shop, then a tailor, then at Dammon’s forge to be pointed the direction of a good leather-worker on this side of the city, before finally making his way back to the tavern that they investigated not so long ago to bully his way into getting a suite with a decent discount so that no one had to sleep on the ground anymore. Perhaps four walls, a door that locked, and a roof were a mere illusion of safety, especially with the types of camp hangers-on they tended to have these days. But it was an illusion— delusion, even— that Astarion was willing to part with a few coins for. 

Tav had enough trouble sleeping as it was.

(Would he still sleep? How odd. Astarion was focusing on all the things a new vampire would need, and yet the thought that Tav might never again snore quietly into Astarion sternum for the scant few hours he managed to find a dreamless slumber, his body warm against Astarion‘s frigid skin, still made him catch his breath a little in surprise. It was too much to think about, he decided, shaking his head. He needed to focus on the needs right in front of him.)

And now they were on the roof. Astarion hadn’t wanted to go back just yet. Just a few more seconds of peace and privacy (mostly) to adjust to a world where of Cazador didn’t loom. To look out over the city, turning orange with the late afternoon sun over the harbor, and to know that he would never again have to hear that wretched voice inside of his head— outside of a few nightmares. As an end, it felt unsatisfactory, like he’d misjudged the last step of a stairway and tried to climb up when there was nothing to step onto. 

But as a new beginning? Well, perhaps there was something to that.

 He finally looked at Karlach when she addressed him. “Yes, my dear?” he drawled. She was looking at him seriously, and he resisted the urge to scrunch up his nose in distaste. Ugh, sentiment.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said seriously. “For what I said down in the dungeons.” His confusion must’ve shown on his face, because she clarified. “I think you did the right thing, and I think you were always going to do the right thing. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“You don’t know my mind,” he sniffed, though it lacked venom. It was merely a statement of fact. He had grown to care for his companions in his own way, it was true. The bond between them had become quite something, even he had to admit it, over the course of the journey. But a confidant? He only had one of those. And suddenly, Astarion wanted to get back to him immediately.

“Maybe not,” Karlach said with a shrug. “And you don’t need my approval or anyone else’s,” she added, which mollified him a little bit. “But I do want you to know that I’m real proud of you, whether you need it or not. And I’m honored that I got to help you destroy that bastard. All of us are.” She looked at him steadily, eyes shiny with too much of some syrupy emotion he had no interest in naming. Astarion looked at her for a long moment, thinking of all the ways they were all bound by chains of some sort. And how some of those chains still had yet to be broken while he had the undeniable privilege of being freed, and how many of his new friends had striven or were still striving to do the same.

“You have ten seconds,” he allowed her graciously and held out his arms. Her expression lit up, and she lunged forward to squeeze him so tightly that he would have lost his breath, had he needed it. 

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” she said fiercely. “Never forget it, Fangs.” He leaned into the too-hot press of her hold for just a moment more. For her sake, of course. Then he straightened up, and at his movement, she let her arms fall away and gave him his space. “Do you have any more errands to run?” she asked him with a knowing look in her eyes, and he knew that had he said yes, she would’ve joined him gladly.

Instead, he shook his head. “I’m ready,” he said, “And frankly, Tav must be starving,” he said briskly. “One unsatisfactory servant wouldn’t sate a new spawn. I’d like to get this to him,” he said, gesturing to the vials of cows’ blood he’d collected from the butcher.

Karlach dipped her head in a sharp nod. “You got it,” she said. “He’s lucky to have you, you know,” she added, and he grimaced, looking away.

“I’m not so certain you can say that, with what’s happened to him,” he said flatly, and Karlach touched his elbow, very gently, as though he were breakable. Ridiculous.

“Hey,” she said, with the same tone she used for small animals or when Tav had a migraine. “You’re not responsible for the actions of that monster, yeah? What happened was his fault, not yours.”

Astarion blew out a breath. “Of course,” he said, not fully believing it, and he was sure she heard it in his voice.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, forcibly cheery. “We always do, yeah?”

Astarion looked out at the city, at the sight of his sun on the back of his hands, the feel of the warmth on his face. Against all odds, she was right. He was proof, after all. “Well. We’ll do our best, anyway,” he said, but his heart was lighter as he turned to leave.

* * *

His newfound peace did not last past a few steps into camp. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. The air itself seemed even more sour than usual, and not because of the refuse piled up here in this abandoned section of the docks or the stink of stagnant water that permeated the place.

The first sign was the lack of Yenna rushing to greet them. She tended to linger around the camp entrance, when she wasn’t staying with Jaheira’s children, as though by her greeting alone she could check for more doppelgangers. They had assured her that their deal with Orin meant that she didn’t have to worry about getting held at knifepoint again, but she took her ‘password’ duty very seriously, always wanting to hear a secret code from them if they walked rather than teleported to the camp.

But she wasn’t waiting by the dilapidated gate that separated this section of the docks from the alleyway. And the rest of the camp was bizarrely quiet. It wasn’t as though he had expected to walk in to the sounds of Tav playing his flute, with Minsc as enthusiastic accompaniment, and they hadn’t been treated to the dulcet tones of Lae’zel sharpening her blades in a while, but there was usually at least the sounds of Gale regaling someone with his newest bit of research, or of Wyll and Halsin exchanging folk tales, or of Jaheira berating someone over… something, Astarion didn’t usually bother to listen. 

But there was none of that now. In fact, only Mizora was there to greet them at all, their unwanted guest, and she took one look at his face and burst into mocking laughter before she vanished back to the hells that had spawned her.

“Bitch,” Karlach griped. “Just ignore her,” she said. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Not sure,” Astarion mused; Halsin’s tent was the closest, but he wasn’t there, whittling away or muttering about the filth of the city or what have you. As they walked further in, there was no sign of Wyll or Minsc at either of their tents, and Shadowheart’s spot was vacant as well.

“Hello?” Karlach called, and Wyll appeared at the top of the stairs that led up to the area they all used to eat. And sleep, if it was raining, and their tents weren’t enough to keep out the drizzle.

“Astarion! And Karlach, I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, jogging down the steps to meet them. His smile looked strained. “The others told me what happened, Astarion—”

“Where’s Tavran?” Astarion demanded, interrupting him, but it seemed crucial, all at once, that he have the bard in his sights.

“Ah, resting,” Wyll said. “Wait, Astarion, let me explain first—” he said, grabbing Astarion’s arm as he tried to brush past him, and Astarion shot him a look.

“Can we walk and talk?” he asked, impatiently. “As you well know, it’s unwise to keep a starving spawn in your camp. He might bite someone.”

“Er,” Wyll said, and Astarion huffed.

“Did he bite someone already?” he asked, trying to subtly loose his arm from Wyll’s surprisingly firm grip.

“No!” Wyll said hurriedly. “We would never let him—”

“Never let him,” Astarion repeated, stung and furious. Wyll sensed his misstep and grimaced. “Unhand me,” Astarion snapped, and Wyll let go, holding up his hands placatingly.

“Just spare me one minute, friend,” he tried, but Astarion dodged around him and took the remaining steps two at a time.

What he found made him feel like ice had sprouted abruptly in his chest. Tavran was bound and gagged, secured to one of the wooden tables they’d been use as cots by his restraints. Judging by the abrasions on his skin, and the way both Halsin and Shadowheart were watching him warily, he’d fought them, fiercely.

For the length of a breath, Astarion imagined he smelled smoke.

Then he was moving. “What the fuck is this?” he heard Karlach ask, loudly, but she didn’t matter. Neither did Shadowheart, when she tried to get between him and his bard. His darling, muzzled like an animal.

“How dare you,” someone hissed, low and animalistic and furious, and ah, that was his own voice, twisted an angry. He shoved with all his might, and was viciously pleased when it made Shadowheart stumble. He reached for Tav’s bonds— the bard was thrashing again, and it hurt Astarion’s stomach to see— only to have his wrists caught in a big, warm grip.

“You will release me this instant or I will plunge a dagger into your innards,” he snarled at Halsin, who looked back at him calmly. 

“Then you will have to stab me, my friend,” Halsin said, and continued before Astarion could do more than snarl. “You can bite me, too. Bleed and hurt us,” he continued, devastatingly calm. “I would not blame you. But you must not free him until you understand.”

“I understand plenty,” he snapped, but the ground suddenly felt uneven beneath his feet. Never had the rest of them threatened to secure Astarion like some kind of prisoner or animal, no matter what his early nightmares had led him to believe they might do to a vampire spawn in their midst. They had never restrained him, and had long since stopped complaining about him biting Tav or the occasional bandit or mercenary trying to kill them. So why restrain Tav?

“I should kill you for laying a hand on him,” he spat; he knew whose knots those were.

“I ordered him bound.” Jaheira’s voice now, from behind, and Astarion sneered. 

“Fine then, I’m not picky about which druid should bleed for this,” he snapped.

“If you find it necessary after you have heard us out, then by all means, you may try,” Jaheira said, infuriatingly even.  “But you must first listen, and then decide if we deserve the sting of your blades.” 

Gods, fuck. Astarion hated the sight of Tav, helpless and bound, with his whole being. Halsin shifted, still gripping his wrists and said, “Look at his eyes, Astarion.”

He did. There was nothing familiar in the crazed expression he saw there, half-red, half-blue, or in the snarls muffled by the makeshift gag. Or rather, there was something too familiar.

“Talk,” he spat, shaking Halsin off. “And you’d best make it very good.”

 

 

Notes:

I don’t think I did Astarion’s post-Cazador struggle justice, but it’s not exactly the focus of this fic, so I decided to let it stand. and there’s only so long I can agonize over writing that I’m doing as a hobby XD

karlach and astarion both failed an investigation/perception/insight (I dont know the difference tbh and yes it irritates my dm lol) check about that servant’s corpse lol. sometimes the dice be like that fr :/

tune in next time, i'm sure it'll be all sunshine and rainbows from here on out. <3

Chapter 5

Summary:

The Emperor helps. :)

Tav had a player’s face, an entertainer’s wit, and a warrior’s strength, but Jaheira could not run the risk of trusting him, fully.

Oh, she liked him plenty well enough, from the first moment he snarked at her about aloe for his ‘sensitive’, scar-ridden skin and only feigned drinking the spiked wine. She liked that he could look her in the eye and disagree instead of talking in circles about it, that his tongue was as sharp and his wit as quick as his blades. She respected him, even, in spite of his terrible little habit of lying with the truth and his unfortunate habit of calling himself a bard. 

And his questionable taste in blood-drinking bedfellows.

But it would be foolish not to doubt him— not to wonder, to take no precautions. And if there was one thing her many years had taught her, it was that the moment she started to assume she could not be fooled, was the moment she was doomed to be made into one.

Frankly, it did not even matter if he were honest with her; the lie in his very blood could betray him. Bhaalspawn sometimes didn’t even know themselves, that they were lying, until it was too late. Until their distant and demanding father came calling, howling for obedience and blood both.

She had seen others of his kind beat the call that sang in their veins. But she had also witnessed them fall. There was much at stake, and she was too old now to be an optimist. Tavran faced odds that no other Bhaalspawn before him had ever faced before. The connection between himself and his cursed father was stronger than any she had seen in the past, and the grip of the god’s curse on his child— his own flesh, apparently, and how delightful for that old dog to be learning disgusting new tricks— was deeper than any lake and stronger than any mountain. 

And yet. 

Unwise though it may be, she had to hope. Perhaps that made her just another old fool, but if so, she would rather be an old fool in hope than one in despair— not like Ketheric, thrice a failure and the sorrier each time for it; not like that pitiful hollyphant, who’d let her own ennui keep her from trying to do any good at all; and not like Sarevok, who’d thrown away everything good he could have had to appease a thankless master who would reward him with only destruction.

Jaheira might be wrong, and her hope might lead her to nothing, but at least she could still see the dawn through the darkness, spirits help her. It was the Harper in her, trained to search for the light in the dark. Tavran made her want to look. The way he fought, in ways she both did and did not see. The way he laughed, and made others laugh. 

The way he loved. 

The way he was loved, in return. Ah, it was pure, sickening sentiment, but it was also true. She should be too old to keep being surprised when she found it in unlikely places. 

Speaking of.

“What in the hells did you do to him?” Astarion demanded, glowering at them all. He let Karlach stand at his shoulder, but shook her hand off him, and Jaheira could tell by his body language that he was ready to sink his blade— or his teeth— into the nearest warm body to get what he wanted.

A target, at least, she could give him. “It was by my command,” she said coolly; a hot head would do them no good, in this case.

“Yes, that I heard,” he said through gritted teeth. “What I want to know is why?” he snarled, and at least he asked instead of immediately finding a new, fleshy home for his weapons. That was, perhaps progress on his part. 

“He went mad when Halsin got close enough to bite, Astarion,” Shadowheart said plainly. “We think it’s the Urge.” And that was enough, wasn’t it, Jaheira saw, as recognition dawned on the vampire’s face. The bard might have thought he was keeping his dreams to himself from the rest of them, but it was Astarion to whom he crawled for help, Astarion who he let bind the beast within, Astarion that he whispered to in the wan mornings, pale faces turned only toward each other.

“His father’s call for blood,” Astarion said flatly, “With a vampire’s hunger. I see.” He looked down at Tav’s face like he was looking for something. Jaheira wasn’t sure if he found it. “That’s all well and good, but surely starving him to make it worse isn’t the answer,” he said shortly, fishing something out of the bag he carried.

A bottle of blood, she could see, and Tav must have even been able to sense it; he had been docile— somewhat— for a little while, but since Astarion’s return he— or perhaps, the thing within him— had become alert again, and now he was fighting his restraints.

“Do not feed him,” she said quickly and firmly, and even dared to put a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. His eyes flashed in the setting sunlight as he glared at her, but she looked back, predator to predator. “I know you think little of my advice, little spawn, but does it not occur to you to extend a little trust before you bite?”

“Never,” Astarion said with a sneer, his whole body tense, but he put his offerings back in their bag and closed them; Tav’s snarling grew angrier, then quieter. “Explain,” Astarion said stiffly.

“There is a ritual,” Jaheira said, carefully. “That can restore a newly turned spawn,” and Astarion seemed to be carved of stone beneath her hand, for how still he went at her words. She gave him a moment— he had had one long day, to be certain— until he shook off her hand.

“Well? Do it already, if it’s true,” he snapped.

“It requires the body of the spawn’s master, or more accurately, his heart,” she said, and watched Astarion’s eyes go round with fear and regret. “Your wizard is working on a way to restore Cazador’s body,” she explained. “But it must be done within three nights, or the change is permanent.”

Astarion blew out a harsh breath, lips pursed. “We’ll do it, if we have to resurrect the bastard to kill him all over again,” he snapped, sitting down beside his bard and ignoring the way Tav made a hissing noise.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that, Astarion,” Wyll said, ever the voice of reason. Jaheira felt sorry for him some days, for always offering the comfort, but it wasn’t this old woman’s place to ask him if he ever sought any in return, so matter how young he looked to her eyes.

“And what, he has to starve until that point?” Astarion demanded, but there was something about his eyes: relief. Hope.

“Unfortunately,” Jaheira said, nodding, pleased that he was coming around. “If he tastes any blood, the ritual will not work.”

She was not expecting the way Astarion’s expression immediately changed again— to horror, instead of the hope she had thought to cautiously offer. “Oh, fuck,” Karlach moaned, low in her throat, reaching for Astarion. “Bloody hells, Astarion—”

“I know!” Astarion snapped at her, looking paler than usual. “Damn you!” He brushed away her arm and jack-knifed to his feet, sweeping away from the place they had laid Tav to his uneasy rest. Or his uncomfortable confinement, if Jaheira was going to be honest with herself.

“What’s wrong?” Wyll asked quickly, putting a hand on Karlach’s arm, and she made a pained noise and tugged him into a hug he clearly wasn’t expecting, muttering something against his shoulder than made him pale as well. “Ah,” he said feebly, and Jaheira felt her heart sink.

“He fed already,” she said, bluntly, not letting the despair touch her— not yet. That would be for later.

“Yes, he bloody well did,” Astarion snapped. “In the manor, starving and scared and hurt and alone, and with not a clue that he was damning himself all over again!” he shouted. “Gods damn it all!” He kicked a pile of armor that Tav had been collecting to sell or cannibalize and it fell down with a crash.

Astarian looked like he was about to tear into something (or perhaps someone) and Gale was coming around the corner, likely due to all the ruckus— and then Tav made a thin, howling sort of sound. It was different than the rest of his angry noises. It was… pained.

The sun was setting low over the bay, halfway below the horizon now, and just low enough to cast a few rays of orange light into their camp, into the normally-shaded area they had been forced to secure Tav into. A ray of it was touching his bared back and his skin was starting to sizzle.

Tav was burning.

* * *

What a perfectly dreadful day.

“What the devil—” Astarion muttered to himself, eyes wide, as he watched Tav’s skin start to blister and sizzle in the sunlight. Then he started to shout. “Shade him, now!”

Shadowheart managed to get a blanket over him, and Karlach and Wyll move to hang a piece of old canvas sheet across the opening where the light was coming through, enough to keep the sun off until it had set fully. Jaheira drew Gale aside and murmured something to him in an undertone, and Astarion was sick of every last one of them. 

He leaned over Tav’s head instead, murmuring sweet nonsense to him that usually worked when the bard was half-asleep and delirious from pain and nightmares. It didn’t seem to soothe Tav now, whose struggle had renewed to the point of rubbing himself raw on his restraints.

“What the fuck is this?” Astarion demanded. “What in the fresh hells is happening here? He has a bloody tadpole, he should be protected from the sunlight!”

“The tadpole must no longer be offering him protection,” Gale said, looking wan and crushed; Jaheira must have told him the news; Astarion looked away from him.

“That doesn’t make any hells-damned sense,” Astarion snapped. “I’ve walked in the sun for months now, with nothing at all to show for it but the occasional sunburn, why is the sun hurting Tav now?”

“Maybe it’s… malfunctioning, somehow,” Shadowheart said, leaning in closer than most of the others had dared. Tav snarled at her, but she didn’t look impressed. 

“You should give him the astral tadpole,” the Emperor said suddenly, ever the unwelcome and always-late party guest.  Astarion watched his companions grimace alongside him at the press of his thoughts.  “He is vulnerable, without it.”

Jaheira looked at him sharply.  “I presume you are hearing from your ilithid friend,” she said, as though the words were poison in her mouth; the woman had disliked the voice in their heads ever since she’d learned about it, and Astarion doubted her opinion had improved after the little rescue mission for Minsc. He gave her a curt nod.  “What does your mind flayer want?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“He wants us to reconsider his earlier offer,” Gale said, holding his temple. “To help withstand the sun.”

“What, his old worm isn’t good enough?” Astarion demanded. “My little passenger is doing just fine,” he pointed out.

“Why say that now?” Jaheira demanded, and Astarion looked over at her, catching something in her tone. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why offer it now?” Jaheira said, frowning. “Why did he wait this long? Why does he not wait longer, to let Tavran make his own decisions?”

“His original tadpole is dying,” the Emperor admitted, and he sounded almost reluctant, if that was something mindflayers could do. Well. They could fake it, Astarion supposed.

“What do you mean, dying?” Astarion demanded, knowing that his voice slid upwards in pitch but unable to help himself. “They don’t just die.”

“When he was turned, Tav briefly died as part of the process,” the emperor’s voice intoned in his head. Astarion saw Gale’s expression change, and knew it meant that the wizard had understood something before he had.

“And?” Astarion demanded, though whether he was speaking to the Emperor or to Gale he couldn’t decide.

“Without a living host, the tadpole was vulnerable,” the mindflayer explained.  “It tried to leave, to find a new host, on orders of the Absolute.”

“Like with the poor sod we met outside of the owlbear cave,” Karlach pointed out, and Astarion grimaced; he and Tav had found it amusing at the time, to watch the thing try to wriggle away at an impressively fast speed, but it seemed less humorous now.

“I tried to prevent the orders from reaching it, but without a living host to feed on, for the hours that Tavran was technically dead, the conflicting commands only weakened it,” the mindflayer said. “It has rejected its host and is trying to find a new one, but it is close to death.”

“Good gods,” Gale said, looking a little sick at the thought, and he had a point. The little worm squirming  around — decaying— on top of everything else that was going on in Tav’s mind right now must be… unpleasant.

“Well un-reject it,” Astarion snapped.

“Surely that can’t be good for him,” Halsin said with a frown, peering at Tav.

“It is not so simple,” the mind flayer said, patronizing as ever.

“Just tell us how to fix it,” Astarion interrupted again, before anyone else could offer their unhelpful two cents. “I don’t want that thing dying and rotting while it’s trapped inside his skull.”

“The Astral Tadpole will-"

"A different solution," Astarion bit out through gritted teeth.

"...You will have to give it an exit,” the Emperor said.

“An e— I’m not going to carve a hole in his head,” Astarion snapped, and Shadowheart put a hand on his arm, her expression pinched.

“You don’t have to,” she said, and tapped her head, next to her right eye.

“…Gods,” Astarion said, suddenly feeling sick; he knew it was only in his head, as he was typically incapable of feeling nausea, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

“Allow me, friend, I have some experience with that,” Wyll offered and Astarion sneered.

“I can do it,” he snapped, but Wyll ignored him to crouch down by Tav’s head.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Wyll said, calmly. “But you don’t have to. Allow us to support you, as we have all helped one another before, yes? I’m afraid I do have to ask you to hold him still.”

Shadowheart leaned on Tav’s shoulders, and Astarion took a deep breath that did nothing at all for him before pressing down on the bard’s head. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he heard himself say, uncaring who could overhear him, as Tav made guttural noises of frustration and panic. “Let’s get that nasty wriggler out, shall we?”

Astarion hated this, hated to be the one to force Tav to feel pain and fear, hated that the others were witness to a moment that would mortify and humiliate his darling, if once he was aware enough to remember it. But he couldn’t bring himself to watch, either, as Wyll removed Tav’s only remaining blue eye—blue because it was artificial already, because it couldn’t be touched by the rot of a vampire— to let the vile tadpole wriggle free in its death throes. Instead, he leaned close to murmur comforting nonsense against Tav’s ear, hoping it could somehow reach him, and closed his eyes against the sight of his rightful penance— the remaining blood red eye glaring hatefully out at them.

“It’s finished, Astarion,” Shadowheart said eventually, and he sat up slowly. Tav's eye was replaced. Wyll was holding a twitching tadpole between his thumb and fingertip, mildly disgusted.

“He’s free,” he said, but what should have been a victory felt hollow and useless.

“How convenient,” Jaheira scoffed. “The cub's tadpole just happens to be the only one that can be safely removed, is that it?” she asked, and Astarion’s worm squirmed with the Emperor’s irritation.

But Astarion wasn’t afraid of angry voices in his head any more. “She has a point,” Astarion said stiffly. “I don’t suppose you can get our tadpoles out the same way?” he demanded of the Emperor.

“This tadpole already thought it inhabited a dead body, and was following a previously-given protocol,” the emperor reminded them. “I cannot give new orders.”

“No,” Jaheira agreed, when they relayed the information. “Only choose when it is right to shield us from those orders, and when not to.”

Her words rested uneasy in the air. She was right, but could they afford to agree with her? “If you believe I am not doing my utmost to defend you from the Elder Brain—” the mind flayer began, and there was something low and dangerous in its mental tone.

“We do believe it,” Wyll said hastily, because somehow had to smooth ruffled tentacles, and it wasn’t going to be Tav. “Honestly. We’ve all just had a very trying day. We would never have been able to help Tav just then if you hadn’t told us what was going on,” and he was so good at sincere and grateful. “Thank you.” 

“…You are welcome. I understand how you feel; this day did not go as I expected either. You should regroup, and rest. Consider the Astral Tadpole and all it has to offer with clearer heads,” the Emperor suggested. Fortunately, Astarion was used to hiding his mental responses from Cazador, so the Emperor probably didn’t hear him cursing in his head. “The astral tadpole will improve his condition, protecting him from the sun while also expanding his potential in other ways. It is the right choice.”

“It’s not a choice I will be making for him,” Astarion snapped. “And even you, I’m sure, don’t want a half-bhaalspawn, half-vampire, half-mindflayer—”

“That sum is illogical.”

“—Roaming free, fangs-out and with psionic powers to boot,” Astarion finished, ignoring the unhelpful commentary on his metaphors. Yes, fine, he didn’t have a bard’s way with words. “Who knows if the tadpole truly would return his self-awareness. It didn’t seem to do much for his Urges before,” Astarion pointed out.

“The astral tadpole is different, and better,” the Emperor insisted. “It would make him greater, unlock abilities beyond those of mortalkind.”

“That may be,” Wyll said, “But we cannot make that decision for our friend. He is owed the choice, just as you offered it to him before.”

“Very well,” the Emperor said, and in Astarion’s opinion, he didn’t sound very much like he meant it. “But know this— it may be his only choice, if he cannot master the other powers fighting for control of his body. You should consider it.”

“We will consider it,” Gale said firmly. “We just need a little more time.”

“Yes, very menacing,” Astarion muttered, and Gale coughed.

“Until later then,” the Emperor— and what a pompous, cliche title, honestly, he and Cazador and Gortash should all make a club— and they all held their breaths until the ilithid presence receded from their thoughts, and their worms calmed down again like the sun going behind a cloud, even if it gave the impression of being a bit miffed as it faded away.

“Bastard,” Jaheira muttered under breath, and Astarion could only agree.

“We need him,” Astarion said shortly, and looked down at Tav’s cracked and wounded skin. “He needs healing.”

“Not of the magical sort, I’m afraid,” Halsin said wearily.

“It worked just a few hours ago,” Shadowheart said, frowning. “Why not now?”

“The lingering Netherese magic may have shielded him for a time,” Gale said grimly. But if the worm is gone now…” He trailed off, nudging the dead thing with the toe of his boot where Wyll had dropped it. "He'll have a vampire's weaknesses."

“Gods,” Karlach swore, and then added something much more creative that Astarion agreed with wholeheartedly.

“A potion then,” he snapped. “We must have some around.”

“I’ll fetch them,” Wyll said, and Astarion didn’t watch him go.

“You should feed him,” Jaheira said wearily while Wyll was gone, and Astarion shot her a look. “There’s no sense in prolonging his torture, now,” she said. “And perhaps it will bring him some clarity.”

“Yes, fine,” Astarion said, feeling brittle and snappish.  He accepted the healing potion Wyll brought back and ignoring any of their murmured, apologetic encouragement as they left one by one. He uncorked the healing potion and poured it on Tav’s burned and blistered skin. 

“I know, my dear, I’m sorry,” he said as Tav hissed around his gag and squirmed; healing potions, when applied this way, were more effective, but more uncomfortable. He had no idea if Tav could hear him in there, but he had to hope that he could, and he rested a hand on the back of his darling’s head in the hopes of soothing him, even if it was only subconsciously.

“That’s it, my sweet,” Astarion murmured nonsensically, watching the burned skin clear up with some relief; it was unpleasant, to see his future written out in injuries on his darling’s flesh. How ludicrously unfair, that he had gained so much, and Tav lost it.

“I will feed him what I brought,” Astarion said brittlely, not looking up at anyone. “You should all give us some space. Perhaps he won’t be as reactive to me, as I have no living blood for him to take,” he said with some bitterness. The others probably exchanged more of those damned knowing looks, before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“We will be within shouting distance, if you need anything at all,” Gale said solemnly, and Astarion could not make himself thank him, but he did manage to nod his head.

They moved away, but he felt someone lingering as he watched Tav fight weakly at his bindings. Jaheira. “I am truly sorry, Astarion,” she told him, when he glanced over at her.

“Sorry doesn’t help him,” Astarion said sharply, and cruelly too, maybe. Tav had always dutifully softened Astarion’s sharp edges enough that they didn’t irreparably cut, but now he felt his words leave his lips as easily as he drew his blades from their sheathes.

“No,” Jaheira agreed simply, instead of rising to the bait. “But perhaps you can. You must fight— both of you.” Her tone left not doubt in his mind; their options, should Tav fail to take control, were limited.

Astarion looked away, seething, and waited for her light footsteps to recede. Then they were alone again, on this stinking dock, tucked away from the fading light of the setting sun, and Astarion felt like he was in a bizarre dream, one that had been both his wildest fantasy and a nightmare he had never before imagined.

Cazador was dead. Astarion was free. But his dear one was trapped, in a fight against his own instincts and the vampiric curse. “My dear,” he said quietly, kneeling down to try and look Tav in the eye. He looked for something familiar there, and didn’t find it. 

“You must be very hungry,” he said lightly. “Let me help you, sweetheart. This will clear your thoughts right up, I’m sure,” he said, and hoped it were true, hoped that Tav was somewhere in there, and could hear Astarion’s tone and reach back. “I have things I want to say to you, after all, and I’d rather like for you to be present,” he said, and wondered if he wasn’t already talking to a ghost.

“Mind your fangs, love,” Astarion said, when Tav tried to bite him, and tipped the contents of the first bottle into Tav’s mouth.

 

 

 

Notes:

This chapter did not want to get written and didn't go where I thought but I no longer wish to look at it 😌

 

Tune in next time for Tav POV and some truly incredible decision-making.

Chapter 6

Summary:

A breather, of sorts.

The wretched thing was sore. The wrists, ankles, and thighs felt rubbed raw, and the jaw was tight, like it had been clenched too hard in sleep. The head hurt and the throat hurt and the teeth hurt, and the back felt like hot-pokers-and-sharp-knives and the rest of the body felt too-cold.

But none of that compared to the bone-deep hunger that gnawed and clawed and chewed, that was eating the thing up from the inside, scouring flesh, tearing into organs. Please, please, it was so hungry-

Then it caught scent of-- something. It was snapping and snarling, its teeth good and long and sharp, ready to tear, ready to take it, ready to earn it. The wretched thing wanted it, had to have it, would kill anyone for a little relief, father, please—

“Easy, my sweet,” said a lilting voice, and even through the haze of thirst and need, it could pick out something familiar. The voice was... worried? Yes, worried. Mm.

Yes. He knew worried.

But worried— once so important, once more important than anything; he, blinking awake, fighting the wretched thing for control, remembered as though from long ago that worried had once been his sole concern, his guiding star— was still second to starved.

The good-smell (death-smell) was on his tongue then, and this wasn’t right, he hadn’t had to claw and bite and earn this, but it was so good, and he drank anyway. Who was he? Where was he? Was it poisoned? Why the kindness? Nothing mattered, but that for each second he swallowed, the hunger abated, just enough to take the edge off the pain, to lower the boiling in his veins to a simmer.

There were hands on the body (his body? Yes. No.) (again, binding his limbs, pressing him down and open, no choice, no way to fight, no chance to win—) but he let it happen, as long as there was this: blood on his tongue, on his teeth, swallowed down.

He would take the pain. They could keep hurting him, as long as they kept feeding him, too. 

No, snapped another voice in his head, so loud, louder than his worst nightmares had ever been. Destroy them. Take what you need. Don’t roll over like a dog. You are greater than they could ever dream, you are meant to be the end of all!

Yes. What it wanted more than the sweet, cloying blood-smell life death-taste was to take it. It wanted to glut itself. It would drink and drink and drink and never be sated. 

No. No, he couldn’t—!

His feast was right here, already on offer, and even the rabid need that roiled in his body, aching to bite, aching to conquer, couldn’t turn down a free meal. It wasn’t satisfied, to be certain; this blood was lukewarm, not-fresh, not soul-given.

But it made the hurting ease, just a little. Oh, thank the gods, the pain. The relief made the wretched thing’s howling easier to bear.

“That’s it,” he heard, and there was more, but it was just a blur of useless sound. He arched his back and met resistance again, not as much as before but enough to keep him down, and some part of him keened at the agony of being trapped. Or maybe all parts of him, in tandem. Not one of them wanted to be restrained, not one of them sat easy under the leash.

Cazador had used iron, augmented by his magic, to keep him still, keep him docile. The would-be master was there now, looming— no. Wait, no, he was gone, he was ash, he was—  The only trap now was familiar: his body holding him still when he wanted to move, silencing him when he wanted to speak, killing his darlings and making him watch, making him like it, making him—

“Fuck, shit!” There was something jarring about that voice on those words, though he didn’t remember why. “Bloody, thrice-cursed— Yes, let’s just re-traumatize someone who already has plenty of reason to not want to feel powerless and vulnerable,” the voice continued in an irritated pitch.

 The hands, though. They were… gentle. They did something at his shoulder and he could move a little more all of a sudden. Then they cupped his jaw, propped his head on something soft, and brought him another bottle. He squinted, painfully, in the fading orange light of sunset. He knew that face, he thought blurrily. He recognized that nose, those pointy ears, that wrinkled brow. ‘Darling’ came to mind first, but that wasn’t quite right. He closed his eyes again, swallowed.

“Astarion,” he croaked, and with it came a wave of other things, threatening to drown him— shame, fear, anxiety, he had to help him, he was running out of time before he made his way down, down into the sewers and to his grave, he had to-

Wait. No. Worried had already been helped. The wretched thing had done his part. Yes? No. Maybe? Why couldn’t he focus? Why couldn’t he just—?

“Easy, my sweet,” Darling-Astarion cooed, and that made the sickly, simpering part of him— small and fragile-feeling in the back of his thoughts, trying not to draw attention from the stronger hungers clawing at each other inside him— want to cry. He wasn’t Astarion’s sweet, not anymore, that frail part of him said, cringing and sorry about it. “I know it hurts,” he heard, and then he stopped trying to listen. The words didn’t matter. The blood Astarion was pouring into his greedy mouth was what mattered.

Each swallow made the hungers quieter. There was an air of menace about the sensation somehow— could a feeling be menacing?— that it was only temporary, but the pathetic slivers of his consciousness beat them back anyway, even though they would surely only rise to overwhelm him once more. If he could- if he could just-

Someone was humming. And the wretched thing paused, cocking its head, and then finally settled down to sleep— not forever, lurking always— and Tav opened its eyes.

Astarion was the source of the sound, his voice a little higher-pitched than Tav’s own, a little off-key, and very quiet, as though he didn’t want to be overheard, but he was humming all the same. His head— Tav’s head, bard, once-loved (still-loved? the thought made him shudder)— was resting on Astarion’s thigh on top of a folded blanket, he noticed. Astarion’s fingers were in his hair. There was a bottle at Tav’s lips, almost-empty, and he wanted to whine but some part of him knew he shouldn’t. 

“Oh, there you are,” Astarion breathed, and the humming stopped, and he cupped Tav’s face. He looked so sad. Tav was sure he could figure out why if he thought about it a little, but he was so tired.

“There’s no more, I’m afraid,” Astarion said when the bottle ran dry, and Tav wasn’t ashamed that he licked up what he could from inside, even though a part of him thought maybe he should be. “You’ve used up what I thought would be a week’s supply at once,” Astarion continued conversationally, and Tav turned his head to press his face against Astarion’s leg, not biting down but needing to put pressure on his too-sharp canines. He cut his own lip open and lapped it up; it was no good to waste it.

“We’ll just have to get you some more,” Astarion said, forcibly cheery, as he kept petting Tav’s hair, like Tav deserved it. “Whatever it takes, my dear. Are you with me, Tavran?” Astarion asked, and Tav managed to make himself nod.

“Thank the gods,” Astarion sighed, shakily. “Can you look at me?” Tav did so reluctantly— his teeth were free, that was bad, he might bite, except biting was good- no. Bad biting. “I’m going to untie the rest of you.”

“Don’t,” Tav breathed, and his voice sounded odd to his own ears. His throat hurt, though it was easing up after his meal. “I’ll just get hungry again.”

Astarion’s whole face seemed to tense up at that. “When did you… get back?” Tav asked, a little confused. It had still been before noon the last time he… remembered anything. Now, it was nearly dark. 

“A little while ago,” Astarion said. “I… had some thinking to do. I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he said, low and pained.

“Wasn’t alone,” Tav managed. Why was his voice so raw and rasping?  “What happened.”

“Karlach and I ran a few errands,” Astarion said lightly, his fingers rubbing at an ache just above Tav’s false eye. How did he know? “When we came back, we found that the others had some… trouble convincing you not to make a meal of them.”

Tav grimaced, feeling his stomach turn at the memory. “I tried to kill Halsin,” he said flatly.

“Well, who hasn’t found him murderously annoying from time to time?” Astarion said lightly, and Tav shivered.

“That’s all I remember,” he said. “I told him not to get close, and then—” Nothing.

“…That’s a rather lot of time to lose,” Astarion said gravely, because he knew how many nights Tav had succumbed to bad dreams and corrupted desires, and it never had a grip on him longer than a few hours at a time. The worst had been that night in the Shadow-cursed lands.

He didn’t want to think of it.

“You’re okay?” he asked instead.

Astarion barked a humorless laugh. “Am I-? Of course you’d ask me that now,” and it stung a little, but no worse than anything else.

“It’s okay if you still need some time,” Tav said, looking away, and Astarion made a weird noise, low in his throat. Tav wondered a little, deep down in the part of him that was almost too tired to muster the curiosity, at how he could hear it vibrating through him, like there was a new range of low notes that he didn’t so much hear with his ears as feel in his chest.

“I’m not having this conversation like this,” Astarion snapped, and Tav held his breath so that he didn’t protest when Astarion got up from under him. He could give Astarion that much at least.

He closed his eyes, though, so he didn’t have to watch him walk away.

Instead, then was a slicing sound, and the rope pinning him to the frame of the cot suddenly fell away. Something in him snarled in triumph, and he rolled off and onto his feet before he knew what was happening, teeth— fangs— bared in a snarl.

But there was nothing to fight, just Astarion, blade set aside, his hands up palms out. “Easy, darling.”

Tav— no, the thing? No, it was just Tav’s real self, lurking beneath a veneer of music and magic— hissed at him, but the sound startled and horrified him enough that he faltered. His palms stung, and he realized his nails had lengthened and he’d sliced himself open. He made a hurt sort of sound and then Astarion’s hands were on him.

He swayed into them, even as the thing growled angrily. How dare Astarion think to control him, to gentle him. “H-help,” Tav said feebly, and Astarion gripped his chin.

“You’re still in there, my sweet, I can see you,” Astarion said fiercely. Tav wanted to cry. He snapped his teeth at him instead. “Tsk, we ask before we bite, pup,” Astarion said firmly. “Well. Before we bite me, anyway. I’m less concerned about—”

“Gag me,” Tav managed, and Astarion’s eyes widened a little before they narrowed.

“Absolutely not, you hate that,” Astarion said fiercely, and Tav’s face felt wet.

“I don’t want to hurt you. He’ll make me hurt you. He’s always wanted me to hurt you.” He could tell his words scared Astarion, and even though it made the dull thing in his chest that was once a beating heart feel like one big bruise, he was also glad for it. Astarion should be afraid. He had just earned his freedom back, his chance to live his life on his own terms; Tav would rather die than be responsible for taking that away from him. “I can’t fight it anymore, I’m not strong enough.”

“Ssh, don’t say that,” Astarion murmured, and the tender touch to his cheek made Tav shudder all over with revulsion and relief both. “Oh, my dear, he has his hooks in you, doesn’t he,” Astarion said, and Tav gritted his jaw so that his fangs wouldn’t answer for him. His mouth was bloody; he’d cut his tongue on his own teeth.

“You must fight him,” Astarion said, low and fierce. “My dear, I’m not going to let this be the end of you.” For the first time Tav wished he had learned how to use his tadpole after all, so that he could speak without opening his dangerous mouth.

“Tired,” he grunted. “Tired of fighting.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Astarion said gravely. “Don’t give up just yet, my dear. We will help you through this.”

“How?” Tav rasped, seeing no way out. If Astarion could, he had better vision than Tav. “I don’t— I can’t fight him like this. The hunger, it’s— he uses it.”

“You’re fighting him right now,” Astarion pointed out, scowling at him. “Are you not?”

“I don’t have to hold a blade, right now,” Tav croaked. “I’m meant to duel her, Astarion, how can I-”

“Ssh, hush,” Astarion said, and Tav realized he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He let Astarion reel him in and hold him close. “Don’t fret about that right now.”

When else? Tav wanted to asked wretchedly, but he fell quiet when Astarion clearly didn’t want to hear it right now. 

“You smell different,” Tav said, burying his face in Astarion’s neck. The whiff of undeath was stronger to him now, and more bitter than it had been before; improved senses, or just how undeath smelled to a vampire??

“So do you,” Astarion said quietly, and Tav winced.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t apologize,” Astarion snapped. “I only meant— it’s different, that’s all.”

Tav had a feeling there was going to be a lot of that, if he survived to figure it out. “We’re gonna have to get more blankets, now that I can’t keep you warm at night,” Tav said. “And. You’ll be hungry, and I-” He was startled when his words were interrupted with a wet sort of hiccup.

“Sweetheart,” Astarion said, sounding weirdly distressed, and his fingers brushed dampness off Tav’s cheeks. Could vampire spawn cry? Apparently. “My dear, whatever it is that’s new or strange, we will weather it together,” he promised firmly. “I understand this must seem— awful. Believe me, I know the feeling of losing one’s self to an unwanted transformation. But I don’t l-  care for you just because you warm the tent at night, or because I can slake my thirst at your throat. You understand that don’t you?”

Tav nodded because he knew that was what Astarion wanted, and said nothing. In spite of having just fed, he felt a bone-deep exhaustion. Astarion must have noticed. “Look at you, barely able to keep on your feet. We should put you to bed.”

“Not safe,” Tav muttered. “Should put me back.” Astarion made an irritated noise.

“I’ll keep you in my tent. I won’t be tying you up like an animal for everyone to gawk at.

Tav frowned. “What if I-”

“I’ll keep you from doing anything foolish,” Astarion promised. “Come along.”

“Astarion…” Astarion stopped and met his eyes.

“Do you trust me, Tavran?” he asked, and Tav nodded slowly. “Then come along.”

Tav kept his eyes down and held his breath, unable to bear the thought of seeing— or smelling— his companions in this state. His limbs felt oddly heavy, moving them without oxygen, but he still refused to inhale until they were in Astarion’s tent, with the flaps all closed.

Astarion’s tent smelled like stale blood; it always had, faintly, but to his vampire’s nose it was like a bouquet of fresh flowers or a the leftover aroma of one’s favorite meal. Tav knelt down and then buried his face in the blankets— he had given Astarion so many new ones, after catching him with just that rag— and only barely resisted the urge to squirm, bathe himself in the smell.

The urge was purring. Tav ignored it, for now.

“Feel better, my dear?” Astarion asked— he was stripping out of the shirt they’d found for him a Cazador’s, and gods, he would need new armor after Cazador had magically disposed of his for his perverted ritual—, and Tav peeked at him with one eye.

“What happened to my tadpole?” he asked.

“Ah, I was wondering if you’d noticed,” Astarion said, kneeling down beside him. Tav pushed away the intrusive thought that his neck was at exactly the right angle for slashing with his new teeth.

“I can’t— it was angry before, or something. But I don’t feel it.”

“It was dying,” Astarion said flatly. “It’s gone, my dear.”

Tav blinked at him. “What?” Surely he’d heard that wrong.

“Wyll took it out, and it came. Apparently there was a mix-up in its orders when you— Well. If only it were that easy for all of us to be rid of the damned things,” he huffed, but Tav had gone unseeing, remembering.

“Cazador talked to it,” he said, and Astarion went abruptly still next to him. “I— he knew it was there, somehow, but he couldn’t— He was so mad, he put magic in my head, through my eye, and it felt like he was pouring acid in my brain, and the tapole just kept squirming which hurt more, and—”

“Alright,” Astarion said, and he settled down to wrap Tav in a careful embrace. He realized he was shaking again. “Alright.” Astarion sounded shaken, too.

“Maybe he damaged it,” Tav said, tiredly. He couldn’t even feel the joy he had expected to feel, once he was free of the tadpole. He just felt hollowed out. Empty. A home for monsters.

“It’s gone, darling, and I’m glad you’re free of it, no matter the circumstances,” Astarion murmured, and Tav dropped his head against his shoulder

It was uncomfortable curling up with Astarion, Tav wasn’t going to lie to himself. It wasn’t all because of his new body, though, he didn’t think. Part of it was due to the fact that he was still feeling the echoes of what Cazador had done to him— had it only been last night? Gods. 

On top of that there was the way his body ached from fighting the restraints his friends had put on him. He knew it had been for his own good, and didn’t blame them, now that he was clearer of mind, but it didn’t take away from the fact that he felt like a used dishtowel, and his wrists and legs especially burned where he’d rubbed himself raw again the bonds, and his back was a damned mess.

Was the ground harder? Were the blankets scratchier? Could he always hear the rats skittering in the trash or Gale’s muttering to himself? 

“I booked us a room at the Elfsong,” Astarion murmured to him in the dark. Tav didn’t even need a candle to be able to see his face in the closed tent. “Tomorrow, once you’re… feeling better, we can move in there; sleep on actual beds,” he said.

Right. Once Tav was feeling better. A polite way of saying when ‘simply breathing in too deeply around a living being didn’t make him want to rip their throat open’. If that could happen at all. 

Tav didn’t answer, just buried his nose in Astarion’s throat as deep as he could. He didn’t smell the same, but he smelled alright, and it was familiar, at least, if more intense. Not quite as tempting as, say, Halsin’s throat had been.

(He pretended his mouth didn’t water at the thought.)

“Try to get some rest,” Astarion murmured into his hair, cautiously rubbing Tav’s hip; he probably didn’t want to touch Tav’s back, Tav realized belatedly. “I will keep watch tonight. Nothing will take you from this tent.”

Tav didn’t know why, but the words made a sob bubble up from his throat. He tried to stop it, because it wasn’t fair, not when Astarion had just faced what had surely been the hardest and most important day of his life, to make him comfort Tav. He took a breath, trying to calm himself, but found it only gave the cries fuel; his next exhale was wet.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he rasped, choking around the words. He should just stop, and hold his breath, so that his sobs and his words didn’t have the air to materialize.

“Tavran,” he heard, and then there were hands cupping his face, tilting his head back. “Darling, may I kiss you? Is that something that would bring you comfort right now?”

Tav had to paused to think about it, holding his breath to keep from weeping but eventually he nodded. “Please,” he murmured. “I— can we try—”

“Yes,” Astarion murmured, and leaning in.

Tav opened up for him because he didn’t know what else to do— didn’t know how to kiss around the fangs in his mouth, or how to handle the fact that Astarion’s lips no longer felt faintly chilled. But there was something about the touch that was still familiar, even after all the rot that stained him. Astarion was sweet, and gentle, and Tav closed his eyes and let him kiss him like he was something precious— until the Urge perked back up, alerted to the merest whiff of pleasure.

The monster in his blood was always eager for a lust to corrupt.

“Stop,” Tav rasped, because of course even the littlest bit of comfort wasn’t allowed to him, and Astarion obeyed immediately. His brow was furrowed. That worry, again.

“No good?” he asked lightly, something guarded in his expression.

“Too good,” Tav murmured. “I can’t— It’s too much.” Astarion’s features softened a little.

“Alright, darling,” he murmured.

“You should tie me up,” Tav told him. Astarion frowned.

“I don’t see why that’s—”

“Please, Astarion,” Tav said quietly, unable to look at him.

“…Yes, fine. If that’s what you want. But only your hands. That’s enough to be getting on with, and I’ll wake in plenty of time if you’re going to need more than that.”

Tav couldn’t bring himself to protest; it was bad enough to watch Astarion lean over his wrists and lash them together, first with silk and then with something sturdier. They both hated this, but they’d gotten good at the routine.

There was a stake around somewhere, for securing him further, but instead of using it to pin Tav to the floor of the tent, Astarion tipped him over onto his side, tucking cushions beneath him with a tenderness that made his chest tight. Then Astarion looped Tav’s arms over and behind Astarion’s head, and let Tav lean against his front in the sort of intimate embrace they might have used on a good night, as if Tav’s wrists weren’t securely knotted together.

“Astarion,” he protested, trying to resist the urge to relax gratefully into the hold. “It’s not safe.”

“Let me hold you,” Astarion coaxed, and Tav closed his eyes against the temptation, but he didn’t fight it, either, as Astarion pulled him closer so that he was half sprawled across Astarion’s chest just the way he liked.

Suddenly he found himself clinging, tangling his legs with Astarion’s and shoving close, desperate. “That’s it, my sweet,” Astarion cooed as Tav pressed his face to Astarion’s throat, gasping pointlessly for air. There were soft, kind touches to his hair, to the back of his neck, petting carefully over the side of his throat where Tav knew he had a scar to match Astarion’s own. Tav whined, wanting the comfort, wanting to feel real, and Astarion answered by petting a hand down the side he wasn’t lying on, a firm but gentle touch.

“Is that alright?” Astarion checked, lips against his crown, and Tav nodded, not trusting his voice. “Good,” Astarion said, sounding pleased, and he kept up the petting without Tav having to ask.

Thank the gods Astarion was still willing to touch him, even after Tav had been twisted into this new, monstrous shape.

His body, even fueled by a week’s supply of blood, was tired, and this posture— these pillows, this tent, the press of Astarion’s body— was familiar even to this rotten form, telling his confused mind that he was safe, comfortable, cared-for. His eyes were drifting shut without his permission. “Don’t let me hurt you,” he mumbled into Astarion’s neck.

“I’ll keep us both safe, don’t worry,” Astarion murmured. “You just get some rest, hm?”

Tav meant to say something else, but apparently the slumber of the dead didn’t count as real rest, and he couldn’t fight the call of sleep long enough to form the words.

He squeezed Astarion close, then slipped away.

Notes:

I'm sure Astarion won't regret not securing his mad love better in the morning. 😌

 

(you can thank wolf2407 from the TG discord for the fact that Tav came out of his blood-rage enough to get a little tiny bit of comfort in all the hurt. she rolled in his favor ;) )

Chapter 7

Summary:

New Camp Event Unlocked!

Gale’s tent was the closest to Astarion’s. Wyll and Karlach had exchanged glances after Astarion had herded the poor bard to bed, and together, they quietly shuffled the wizard and his bedroll over to where Shadowheart and Wyll had set up their tents. Better to be safe than sorry. 

Gale looked like he would protest, sputtering a little that he was ‘perfectly capable’ of defending himself should the worst happen, but Karlach just shook her head.

“You’re exhausted, pal,” Karlach pointed out kindly. “You fought a fucking vampire lord today, yeah?”

“So did everyone else,” Gale huffed, and Karlach shook her head a little. “And what about Wyll?” he asked; their warlock had broken his foot in the fight with the Astarion’s sibs, and it had been the reason he hadn’t been able to go with them to storm the Szarr Palace, no matter how much he’d wanted to; they didn’t have the time to waste, and he had agreed that Shadowheart should save her energy.

“Halsin and I managed to take care of it,” Jaheira said simply.

“The rest of us have a little something extra to prevent a vampire from biting,” she pointed out, rapping her knuckles on the metal in her sternum. “Fringe has got her cleric-y powers, and I’ll melt anyone who tries,” she said wryly.

 Gale frowned. “The orb surely imparts a less-than-desireable taste to-” he pointed out, and Shadowheart interrupted with a hand on his arm.

“Gale,” she said, and something about her tone made Gale stop yapping to look at her. “The Urge goes after people Tav likes the best,” she said, very softly, and he went still as Karlach let out a heavy breath. 

Shadowheart hadn’t put up her tent near Astarion’s— and therefore Tav’s— since the time the whole camp had awoken to Astarion sitting watch over a firmly bound bard the first time, Karlach realized abruptly. Karlach had never stopped to think about why that was.

Karlach hadn’t been there right off the nautioloid, after all. She had showed up after Shadowheart had already decided to trust Tav with her secrets, after the two of them had formed the basis of their relationship on a shared struggle with forgotten pasts. They had smirked and drank wine and murmured under their breath together and had left Karlach feeling a little like she was in school all over again— for as briefly as she had attended— on the outside of something she didn’t understand, until she had gotten to know them better.

Shadowheart was the first one who had stopped flirting with Tav, too. It shouldn’t surprise Karlach that she saw this first, as well. Sister wasn’t as blinded by darkness as she had pretended to be.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Gale said, clearing his throat. “He went after Halsin,” he pointed out, then shot the druid a look. “No offense intended,” he added, “But your relationship is… not exactly an intimate one.” Karlach grinned weakly; it was true that Tav was oddly skittish around the druid.

“True enough. But I was nearby,” Halsin said with a shake of his head. “And unarmed, as well as far less of a threat to him than the rest of you. And he was hungry.” Fair enough, Karlach supposed. Halsin had spent a long time out of combat as leader of a peaceful druid grove, and his default strategy seemed to be turning into a bear about it, when it happened to him. That worked fine though— he knew more about healing than most of them did, and it was a luxury, to travel with people who could heal hurts instead of just dealing them out. 

Sometimes, you needed more than a big axe to save the world.

“From what we’ve observed, he’s most vulnerable to his father’s call at night, in his sleep,” Jaheira pointed out gravely, and Karlach figured she’d know, what with her experience with Bhaalspawn. “It is wise to take precautions.”

“You really believe he’s still a threat to us, after Astarion got through to him?” Gale asked, pursing his lips. They’d all eavesdropped from a respectable distance until it was clear Astarion had brought Tav back to his senses; it had been a relief, to Karlach anyway, to hear Tav’s normal voice again. 

“A Bhaalspawn is always a threat,” Jaheira said bluntly.

“Shouldn’t someone look after Astarion, then?” Gale demanded.

“I’ll stay close,” Karlach promised.

“As will I,” Jaheira said. “I have been keeping watch for you at night already, have I not?” she asked. When it became clear that none of them could manage a watch shift with their busy (ok, panicked) days— nobody was getting enough sleep, ever— Jaheira and Minsc had taken on the role of, well, camp keepers. They kept an eye on their supplies, planned meals, and watched over them during their rest. It had been Jaheira’s warning shout that had woken them all when the vampires had shown up the night before, her blade that had killed Aradin before he’d been able to do much more than shout arrogantly at Aylin, Jaheira who’d been on her feet right after Astarion when Orin had revealed herself to Tav.

“We’ll make it easier on him by giving him some space,” Karlach pointed out. “We’ve all seen him try to sneak out of camp when it was bad, yeah? Keepin’ away from other people?” Wasn’t a great strategy, in Karlach’s opinion, since one of them always ended up following him anyway, to keep an eye on his back for him, but it was clear Tav wanted to protect his friends more than anything.

When he was in his right mind, anyway.

Gale sighed, briefly pinching his brow. “Yes, alright. I don’t want to cause a fuss,” he said.

“I promise I don’t snore,” Shadowheart said primly, and went to help him get set up. They couldn’t move his whole tent— it was full of books— but they could do enough to make him comfortable.

“I’ll be nearby, if you need anything at all,” Karlach told Jaheira  seriously. “I’ll be closest to their tent. Shout for any reason.”

Jaheira smiled a little. “I hope your strength won’t be needed, girl, but I know I can rely on it.” Karlach felt absurdly torn over the compliment— proud, that Jaheira thought highly of her, and disappointed that she might have to use her strength against one of her friends. 

“Go to your rest,” Jaheira told all of them. “I will keep a sharp eye and ear on the shadows tonight.”

* * *

A burst of panic from her tadpole woke her, with the impression of fear and pain, and then the abrupt, sickening stillness of a companion suddenly going down in a fight. In fact, she was so sure there was a fight to be had that for a moment, she was confused that she was in the wrong place. Why would she be in her tent, in her bedroll, if there was a battle to be had?

Then she heard a panther snarl.

Hells, they needed to move their camp somewhere it couldn’t keep being invaded at random at night, Karlach thought blearily as she rolled immediately to her feet, engine pumping madly in response to the sudden rush of adrenaline. She snatched up her weapon and rushed out of her tent, but she didn’t see anyone or anything out of place.

Except the shadowy figure of Jaheira’s wildshape, crouched low outside of Astarion’s tent, growling.

“Fuckfuckfu—” Karlach muttered to herself, sprinting the short distance over to her and the tent, but a figure burst out of it before she finished— Tav, hissing instead of making any sort of person-noise, his red eye gleaming unnaturally in the faint glow of her weapon. He caught sight of them both and grinned, fangs bared.

His teeth were bloody.

“Get up!” Karlach’s bellow rang through the camp and through the tadpoles alike. “Tav’s loose!” It seemed cruel, to phrase it like that, but that’s what fit. Gods, what had happened to Astarion? His end of the worm-connection had gone abruptly quiet.

Tav launched himself at Jaheira in a blur of violent movement, but at least she was wild-shaped for now; she could be hurt, but that form could take some damage before she would be permanently injured. She had to trust Jaheira to handle herself for a moment, hesitating only briefly before ducking past the tent flap.

The tent floor and walls were wet with a dark substance, and the place stank of freshly-spilled blood. She was used to gruesome sights, and though she could stomach violence in most forms, it still hurt deep in her mechanical chest to see a companion suffering. He was pinned to the tent floor like an imp skewered by a hellwasp’s stinger by a wooden tent stake, blood trickling out of his mouth as he feebly fumbled for the weapon impaling him.

“Oh gods, oh fuck—” She dropped down and clutched his shoulder as he choked and whined with pain.“Shadowheart!” she yelled. “We’ll get you fixed up, I promise,” she swore to him, not even sure he could hear her; he looked barely conscious.

“Here, I’m coming,” Karlach heard, and she practically fell out of the tent to meet Shadowheart outside, the cleric’s hair wild and her hands clutching the sun-magic mace.

“Astarion’s in a bad way, Tav staked him,” she said bluntly, and Shadowheart paled. “We’ll buy you whatever time you need,” she promised, knowing that one of Shadowheart’s better healing spell took a while to cast.

“Right,” Shadowheart said, drawing herself together. “Here, take this,” she told Karlach and pressed the weapon into her hand firmly.

“Got it, go,” Karlach said, and twirled the mace once in her hand as Shadowheart ducked into the tent, adjusting to its weight in her hand. She had no idea how to use its enchantments, but luckily it was already glowing; the inherent power in the weapon resonated oddly with the infernal engine in her chest.

She’d hate to use sun magic on Tav; she’d seen the way his flesh had cracked and smoked in the evening light the night before. It had to hurt; she knew something about burns. But she would do it, if it meant keeping any one else from getting hurt. 

Tav and Jaheira were grappling a few feet down. Tav was trying to buck her off, biting and scratching, and she had her jaw closed around the base of his neck at the shoulder.“Tav, calm down!” she cried, but Tav ignored her, swiping at Jaheira’s side with hands that sprouted some deadly looking claws. The motion was awkward— his hands were bound— but faster than they both expected, and Jaheira snarled as the hit landed, her blood spattering the ground.

“Jaheira, look out!” she shouted, and aimed Nyrula at him. She didn’t want to injure him badly if she didn’t have to, but maybe knocking him of his feet would knock some sense into him. The spellpower gathered in the weapon, shaking up her arms and then she was flying forward, trident-first.

Jaheira leapt out of the way, and Karlach swerved at the last second to hit the ground with the sharp end of the spear with a jarring scrape of metal instead of piercing Tav through, but the resulting blast of air tossed him through the air with a dull boom, followed by a wet sort of crack as he slammed back-first into stone wall of the abandoned chapel past her tent. 

There was a slick sound as Jaheira slid out of her wildshape, panting. “Quite a knock to the head,” she mused, wiping blood off her mouth with the back of her arm and drawing her scimitars.

“He fuckin’ tried to kill Fangs,” Karlach bit out, the flames of her engine flaring hot enough to steam, and Jaheira gave her a sharp look.

“Can Shadowheart—”

“She’s with him.” But there wasn’t time for anything else, Tav was picking himself up off the ground, and he was still snarling like a mad thing. 

Karlach approached with the mace held up and out, warily, and he hissed at her but shrank back. Apparently he wasn’t completely without sense in there, after all. “Tav you need to shake this off,” she warned. “Trust me, you don’t want to bite me,” she said, only because his head had cocked when she spoked. Could he hear her in there? Gods, she wished she’d pressed more when Astarion and Tav had been short on the details about the urges that gripped him. “I’d burn you going in and out,” she said, circling to keep herself between him and the rest of the camp.

He snapped his teeth at her like a hell-hound, but seemed wary of the mace, crouching without coming closer. “Tavran Gregory,” Jaheira said sharply. “You must fight this.”

A weird look crossed Tav’s face, and then he shuddered all over. “Do you think he can hear us?” Karlach asked, and then she heard Gale call “Impo Te!” behind her, and Tav went comically still, eyes wide and staring.

He looked scared. How could he look so scared when he was the one who’d started all this?

“What’s going on?” Gale demanded as he came up beside them, hands and eyes glowing as he focused on the spell.

“Tav’s lost control,” Karlach said, watching the bard carefully.

“Are you hurt, Jaheira?” the wizard asked, and Jaheira shook her head.

“I have fought worse things than one angry vampire spawnling,” she said. “Come cub, you are in there, I know,” she said to Tav, and Karlach had to admire the way she approached Tav with seemingly no fear. “You must focus. You must defeat the call in your blood. For the love of your friends, if nothing else.”

“Jaheira,” Karlach said, worriedly, inching closer.

“He has fought it before,” Jaheira said. “He must do it again.” Then she hummed something, a little rough but clear and familiar; it was Tav’s song tag for Astarion, first, then the one for ‘help!’ that he used in fights across long distances or loud battlefields that meant the previous tag needed a healer’s assistance; they all had one unique to them, had all been unwittingly trained to respond to them by Tav whistling at them for a tenday in camp until Karlach had caught onto what he was doing and told him to use his words, that it was a good idea, that he didn’t have to trick them into it. 

Jaheira kept humming as she took another step forward, running through each of their song tags— and Karlach didn’t know she’d been paying that close attention; Tav was childish about his signal for Jaheira and she never responded to the hilarious awkward honking noise he somehow managed on his flute to represent the Harper— from Lae’zel’s brief swipe of two notes to Gale’s extended six-beat phrase. When Gale’s spell ended, Tav was staring at her, and he made no move to attack.

“That’s it cub,” Jaheira said encouragingly, and Karlach held her breath as Gale held his hands at the ready, hopefully for another paralysis spell if it were necessary. “We can outgrow the teething, hm?”

“Let me see him!” came Astarion’s strident tones from somewhere behind her, and something unclenched in her, at hearing his voice.

“Hold, Astarion,” Gale said. “He might—”

“He’ll need to see that I’m alright,” Astarion said, and when Karlach dared to glance behind, she saw Shadowheart leading him as he moved gingerly toward them. Their cleric had the foresight to get him into a clean shirt, at least, before letting him come over.

The unholy gleam was coming back into Tav’s eyes— eye?— and a low, near inaudibile rumble started in his throat. “Jaheira,” she barked in warning, and Jaheira cast, summoning the entangling vine to trap his legs before he could step away from the wall. 

“No!” he said, which was the first time he’d spoken when he was like this, and Karlach hoped it was a good sign. “Bite and rip and feast— it hurts,” he managed, struggling feebly against the grip of Jaheira’s spell.

“Yes, I’m sure it does,” Jaheira said. “But we can’t help you unless you take control of yourself.”

“Just calm down,” Astarion said, voice unsteady, and Karlach was proud of him, for trying to do what was right after what had happened to him. Gods, none of this was fair to him either.

Tav jerked awkwardly, limbs seeming to follow competing internal orders, but he stopped hissing. “Look, he’s fine,” Astarion insisted in a high-pitched voice. “He’s snapped out of it, now,” he said, but Karlach wasn’t sure she believed him.

She gave Shadowheart her weapon back before turning to their bard. “Tav,” she said, approaching slowly and carefully with her arms up, palms out. “You in there, soldier?” Tav snapped at her, then reach up to cover his own mouth with his hands, looking appalled; so some of him was in there, after all. Just maybe not in control. Jaheira’s vines dissolved away.

“He’s fine. Just sit down, and we’ll have a reasonable conversation about this—” Astarion began, but Tav’s legs buckled underneath him. She blinked at him as he looked just as surprised as her to find himself on the ground, and then the beastie in him was set to furious snarling again, and he lunged at her.

“Stop!” Astarion said, voice reedy with panic, and Karlach braced herself but Tav never came. Instead he collapsed all over again, slumping against the ground. He was still for a moment, then started making a terrible noise and clawing at his own face and neck.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “We have to get him bound more securely,” she said grimly. “Else he’ll hurt one of us, or himself.”

“Just let me talk him down,” Astarion said, finally shaking off Shadowheart’s bracing grip and kneeling in front of Tav. Brave of him, after how Tav had woken him this morning. She and Jaheira both hovered, ready to step in if Tav went after him, but trying not to get close enough to set Tav off again. “Tavran, look at me,” Astarion said, and Tav turned his head at an awkward angle and blinked blearily at him.

After a beat, he shook his head slightly as thought to clear it, and then gave them a confused look. It turned to fear again, and he pressed himself back against the stone behind him. “Stop me,” he rasped, breathless like he was having some kind of panic attack, though Karlach wasn’t really sure how that worked with vampirism.

“Astarion,” Jaheira said. “Tell him to hold his hands out to be re-tied,” she said, and odd look on her face. Astarion frowned. “It’s what he asked for, did he not?” the Harper asked archly, and Astarion sighed.

“Alright my dear, you heard her. Hold your arms out for us, if you would.” Karlach watched Tav offer up his wrists, scraped and bruised from tugging at the ropes binding.

“One moment,” Gale said, and cast his paralysis spell again.

“He’s cooperating,” Astarion snapped at him.

“Extra precautions don’t hurt him,” Karlach said gently, and Astarion sneered. He took a knife from Jaheira, however, and carefully severed the knot binding Tav’s wrists. He had managed to do quite a lot of damage even without his hands fully free, Karlach thought grimly, and though she let Astarion handle it— he looked like he might bite, himself, if anyone else touched Tav— she kept a close eye to make sure the bindings were tight.

Tav didn’t say a word as his hands were re-secured behind him, or as Astarion then bound his knees and ankles together. In spite of what he’d said a moment ago, Tav still didn’t seem fully aware of what was going on. His eyes were fluttering, and tremors wracked his body. “Is he…?”

“Daylight will help,” Astarion said shortly. “It always does.”

“Well, let’s make sure he’s not in it, at least, when it comes,” Gale said. “Do you need me to stun him again?”

“I can carry him over to cover,” Karlach offered, but Jaheira shook her head.

“Best not tempt him to bite any throats,” she said. “Astarion do you think you can gag him?” she asked, expression oddly blank.

Astarion scowled. “That seems unnecessary,” he said, voice thin and sharp.

“You may think so, but do you believe, when he is back in his right mind, that he would thank us for allowing him to bleed any of us further?” Astarion winced at that.

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Here,” Wyll said, appearing with more rope, and Astarion scowled at him.

“And where have you been?” he snapped. Wyll didn’t take the bait.

“Mizora,” he said flatly, voice grim, and the fight went out of Astarion.

“Well,” Astarion muttered. He hesitated, then reached out to touch Tav’s jaw very briefly. “My sweet, I’m going to have stop those teeth of yours for a little while, until you’ve mastered yourself.” Either Tav heard him or the thing inside him did, because he started to fuss again, fangs flashing in his mouth. “Enough of that. Hold still,” Astarion said crisply, and Tav did, suddenly motionless for most of the time that it took to secure a gag around his head.

He was struggling weakly by the time Karlach went to pick him up, but whatever great strength he’d been using before to fight them seemed to have drained from him. Or maybe he had turned it inward. She did her best not to burn him as she hauled him up to the shaded portico in the middle of their camp, avoiding the mess of Astarion’s tent as best she could.

Wyll dragged over one of the hay bundles they’d used to make passable mattresses and draped an old blanket over it for Karlach to prop Tav on, up against one of the pillars. Tav was starting to get worked up, by then— spurred by the closeness of the living maybe?— so they backed up for Astarion to secure him to the pillar himself, and Karlach pretended not to notice the way Astarion’s hands shook, or the way he murmured a litany of apologies as he finished the task.

“What happened, Astarion?" Wyll asked, not unkindly, once Tav was firmly tethered in place, though Astarion clearly took it as a criticism as his narrow face narrowed further in anger.

“He’s faster and stronger now, more than I expected,” he snapped, getting to his feet abruptly and wincing at the movement. Shadowheart wavered, stepping toward him and then holding back. “I was mid-trance,” Astarion said defensively.

“We’ll need to secure him better in his sleep from now on,” Jaheira said plainly.

“He’s still in there,” Astarion said, fiercely. “He’s fighting it!”

“No one’s saying he’s not, Astarion,” Jaheira said calmly. “But he still hurt you. Clearly the Urge is with him, not only when he’s hungry but when he’s asleep, too.”

“It always is,” Astarion snapped, then looked like he regretted saying anything. Jaheira didn’t look as surprised as Karlach thought that warranted, merely raising a brow at Astarion. “He’s just… usually better about resisting it,” he muttered.

“Clearly the vampirism makes him more susceptible to certain commands,” Jaheira said. “Those of his father or otherwise.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean, Jaheira?” Karlach asked, confused.

“Did you not think it odd, the way he obeyed Astarion just now? In spite of not being fully in control of his person?”

Astarion frowned at her; then Karlach watched as his expression turned to horror. “You knew I was— commanding him,” he accused Jaheira, and she shrugged.

“I had what you would call a hunch,” she said. “He is behaving as though under your compulsion.”

“I would never—” Astarion began, affronted, and Jaheira shook her head.

“Peace Astarion. I do not accuse you. He bit you earlier, did he not? You are not his Sire, but perhaps the taste of another vampire’s blood has… an influence on a spawn,” she said. “It would not surprise me, were that the case.”

“There are all sorts of rumors and conflicting records about vampirism,” Wyll, their resident monster-hunter piped up.

“You could test it,” Gale said cautiously, and Astarion glared at him.

“Absolutely not,” he snapped. “I’m going to go find some clean pants while all of you think of something better than having me order Tavran about like— like some kind of dog,” he snapped.

“You need more healing,” Shadowheart said softly, and it must have been true, because Astarion didn’t protest when she joined him as he stalked away.

“He does seem… better than yesterday,” Wyll said thoughtfully as they stood there and watched Tav fidget and glare at them.

“Yeah, I guess?” Karlach said, squinting at the bard. He wasn't all… vampire-d out, with the fangs and the eyes and the claws. Not right now, anyway.

“He did ingest a significant portion of blood yesterday evening. Perhaps that helped,” Gale said thoughtfully.

“Do you think he’s hungry again already? Is he like… a super vampire? Why’s he gotta eat so much?” Karlach asked.

“I think it’s more likely that this particular fit is his father’s influence. Bhaal finds his Bhaalspawn in their weakest moments. And what Tav has described to me, about his dreams, about the way it comes to him in his sleep…” She trailed off before shaking her head. “Well. It is a burden beyond any I have known for any other Bhaalspawn,” she said grimly. “Perhaps something about the transformation has made the division between himself and the rot of his maker weaker.”

“You think Bhaal is possessing him more easily because of his undead nature?” Gale asked, crouching down to get a better look at Tav without getting closer. 

“Do you have another explanation?” Jaheira asked.

“I admit, he doesn’t tell us much about… his visions. Or his, er, urges,” Karlach said. “Not recently anyway.” She wondered, a little guiltily, if their reactions to the reveal of his former association with Gortash had influenced Tav’s lack-of-openness. “Astarion seems to know about it.”

“Whatever the case, is clear he can still fight it,” Jaheira said firmly. “We must give him whatever tools we can to help him.” She sighed. “Including keeping better watch on him in his sleep. Every act of violence he commits will only tempt him closer to the destiny Bhaal wants for his spawn. The fewer opportunities he has to succumb, the better.”

She clapped her hands together as if brushing them off. “Now. You lot should get a little more rest before the sunrise, if you can,” she said. 

“I’ll stay,” Karlach said simply. “I don’t mind catching the sunrise,” she said. “Go on,” she encouraged Wyll and Gale.  “You’ve only got an hour or so now.”

Wyll squeezed her shoulder and didn’t argue, and he towed a reluctant Gale back over in the direction of their bedrolls, the two of them conversing low and quiet as they left.

“How soon you think he’ll come out of this?” Karlach asked Jaheira in an undertone, and she made a thoughtful noise.

“I think he is already almost there,” she admitted. “I hope that Astarion is right, and with the night’s end, he will return to his senses. Though I do not think he will feel the better for it,” she mused wryly.

Karlach pursed her lips. “Not if he remembers hurting Astarion like that,” she agreed, grimacing. “Gods, what a clusterfuck,” she muttered, as she settled in to wait for the day.

Jaheira laughed, without humor, and joined her on the bench, eyes sharp on their bard. “Ah, cub, a crude sentiment, but I can think of none more accurate. But the dawn will come, that I promise."

Karlach watched Tav twitch in his bindings and hoped Jaheira was right.

Notes:

look the stake was right there

 

I learned my lesson from "On Darkness" to not try to estimate chapter count eheh. This keeps getting longer.

Thanks to silverkleptofox for taking an offhand comment I made once about Tav's musical habits and creating the musical motifs mentioned here that he uses for the companions in battle. Very bard-coded!

Chapter 8

Summary:

The aftermath of Tav's midnight snack.

 Wyll had missed most of the excitement. 

Mizora had been lurking around his tent— and when he’d first woken at Karlach’s cry, he’d been confused by the fact that Mizora was actually there; he’d spent so long accustomed to her simply taking up residence in his thoughts. Had she gotten jealous that now that his pact was broken, he could choose with whom to share his innermost self with? Could that pettiness be part of the reason she lingered in their camp to gloat? Probably not; it would be ridiculous for a cambion of the hells to care what her mortal peons got up to— and he’d gritted his teeth through her usual combination of insults and innuendos for the sake of protecting his friends from her. Usually if she had her fill of belittling him, she would go back to the hells awhile and leave them alone.

So he had done his best to keep her away from the others, forced to trust them to handle the crisis on their own. They all found Mizora’s presence uncomfortable, to varying extents— Tav in particular took to very loud, very off-key playing any time she tried to join their campfire with her smirk, and Wyll was secretly grateful for the unconventional show of support— and he felt responsible that her presence plagued them. Especially Karlach, who needed no further reminders of the ruin the Hells had wrought upon her life.

It was uncomfortable, letting Mizora prowl around his person, prodding at his weak spots with words meant to cause pain, but it was at least a familiar game, and one he could try to spare his companions. And he didn’t think she needed to know everything about the happenings in their camp.

He’d misdirected her, managing to toe the line of being boring enough to dismiss and sharp enough to let her think she’d succeeded in getting to him, without giving away what had happened to Tav. It didn’t seem like something that was his business to share, nor did he think any attempt at interfering on her part would result in any particularly good outcomes.

Her interference rarely did, after all. And even then only by accident, or for the sake of some future devilment. At least he could try to keep her in the dark a little longer

But just as her occasional night-time visits had always left him unable to sleep, when they pressed on him in his thoughts, his conversation with her had soured the comfort of his bedroll, even when he laid back down after Tav had been secured for the rest of the night. Sleep did not find him again, and eventually he shook off the memory of her mocking laughter and gave up for the time being.

He left his tent at the first hint of sunlight on the horizon and went to join Karlach, ignoring the mild ache in his newly-healed ankle as he crossed their camp. He was glad, that Jaheira had stayed with her; Karlach been very upset about the whole affair, more than Wyll had really expected from her usual insistence on optimism. It wasn’t that she was a fool; it was simply that she’d decided she’d had enough negativity to last her a lifetime, and chose to grasp each day by the horns— as she would say— instead of dwelling on it. It was a perspective he could appreciate, but it meant that her grim attitude toward Tav’s current state was unusual.

“How is he?” he asked quietly as he approached them, and Karlach sighed.

“Quieter now. Has been for a while,” she said, and Wyll glanced over. It was discomfiting, to see Tav trussed up so thoroughly, but they had paid the price of too much lenience already. At least, Astarion had.

Wyll should have known better, as the one— aside from Astarion of course— with the most experience with vampires. Astarion’s oversight he could forgive; it was obvious to Wyll that his slip-up had been due to an over-abundance of affection, and Wyll could not begrudge him that tenderness after a life so clearly bereft of it. But Wyll should have been more forceful himself, even if it bought him Astarion’s wrath, for the sake of protecting him.

Tav was slumped back against the pillar, silent and still beneath his bindings. Astarion had taken off the gag once Tav been properly secured, refusing to leave it any longer than necessary, and no one had stopped him. Was Tav finally asleep? Or  just lying in wait? Wyll hated to think it of a friend, but he had met many a predatory being who were clever enough to lull their victims to a false sense of security. And if Tav was anything, he was clever. 

Was the power possessing him clever as well?

“I hope he’s at least getting some rest,” he murmured, and Karlach huffed, steam venting from her shoulders.

“I guess. It’s weird, though, innit?” she said, gesturing at him. “He looks… so small like that, when he normally looks so big.” She grinned humorlessly. “And so loud.”

It was true; quiet wasn’t usually a word Wyll used to describe Tav. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Tav could be quiet— in the night at a campfire after shared nightmares, listening in wordless companionship to memories reluctantly dredged from the past to offer the comfort of a willing ear. Or when he was stepping after Astarion, light-footed, to scout out dangers up ahead without drawing their attention. Or when he was slipping something he hadn’t paid for into his pockets.

Otherwise he made his presence known. Humming, tapping, plucking his viol or idly running a scale on his flute. Talking, talking. A bard with no stories, with no history, and yet he could weave webs of words like no one Wyll had ever met.

(“You should be the bard,” Tav had told him once, smiling crookedly at him across the campfire, something odd flickering in left eye that they had all learned to ignore until Astarion went on the alert. Considering the fact that the vampire was sprawled comfortably by the fire, head resting on Tav’s thigh, Wyll figured they were safe enough for now. 

Wyll had just finished telling a— somewhat embellished— story of the founding of Baldur’s Gate, a way to while away the tired hours between dinner and rest. “You have stories to tell as well, my friend,” he’d said kindly, because it was true, and Astarion snorted.

“Any stories Tavran tells are invented on the spot,” he had said wryly, and Tav had tugged on one of his curls.

“True,” he had admitted with a shrug. 

But Wyll had looked around at the farmyard Tav had talked a surly homesteader in Rivington into letting them use for free for as long as they needed; at the food in their bellies that he had bartered down to half price for (and donated half of to the tiefling kids when he thought no one was looking) with five minutes and a winning smile; and at the prickly vampire he’d coaxed into lounging like a housecat expecting pets, and thought that Tav’s way with words was perhaps better than he knew.)

“Yes,” he agreed with Karlach now, a beat belatedly as he shook off the memory. “It is a little odd. How are you both holding up?” 

“As well as can be expected,” Jaheira said with one of her wry smiles.

Karlach sighed and with it her engine flared slightly. “This was a rough one,” she said, more grim than usual for her.

 “A peaceful night it was not. But we will learn from our mistakes, and not make them again,” Jaheira said, lightly. Wyll was always pleasantly surprised by the way the Harper could find hope in a hopeless situation; it was not without the weight of past experience, but she never let that hold her back from seeing the chance for goodness in the future. Wyll aspired to be more like her.

“And Astarion?” he asked, keeping his voice down.

“Haven’t seen him or Shadowheart,” Karlach murmured back. “I think he was hurt worse than he was letting on. You know, not just in the bleeding sort of way,” she said.

“Of course,” Wyll said. “It’s good, that Shadowheart’s with him,” he sighed.

“Yeah,” Karlach said distractedly, and he glanced at her, turning his head so she could meet his good eye. 

“What’s troubling you, Karlach?” he asked, and she sighed.

“I’m worried how he’ll be, when he… wakes up,” she said, jerking her chin toward Tav. Wyll frowned.

“Is he hurt?” Karlach made a face.

“Maybe? I tossed him pretty good into the wall. Once somebody can get close enough, maybe a potion— but that’s not what I mean,” she said, speaking in a quiet undertone that was unusual for her.

She glanced at him, then at Jaheira on the other side, then squared her shoulders. “Neither of you were there, when we got to the Szarr place yesterday. It was… rough.”

“You all looked like it had been quite a fight,” Wyll agreed cautiously.

“No. I mean, yeah, it was, but that’s not all,” she said. “Astarion was miserable, and Tav was… not himself. I couldn’t figure out why until Astarion was trying to decide whether or not to do the ritual,” she said quietly. “Tav wanted to let him.”

Wyll frowned, but it was Jaheira who put it together. “That would have killed him for good,” she said flatly, and Karlach nodded.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Astarion snapped right out of it, of course. But… I dunno. I get the feeling Cazador broke something in our bard,” she said so quietly it was nearly a whisper. As though if she avoided putting it to words, it couldn’t come true.

“I can’t even imagine what Tav went through. Or what Astarion had to face, by going back there and reliving all those memories,” he said quietly. “It can’t have been easy.”

“Of course not,” Jaheira said, shaking her head. “And it will continue to be difficult. The best we can do is remind him that all is not lost, not yet.”

“Which one?” Karlach asked.

“Both of them,” Jaheira said with a nod. “If this old woman yet has the strength in her to dare to challenge gods, I hope you do as well,” she told Karlach, raising a brow, and Karlach smiled weakly. 

“Sure thing, Jaheira. For as long as I can.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Jaheira agreed. “Now. It seems our twice-spawn is waking, and perhaps it would do him some good to hear a friendly voice.”

Karlach looked back at him immediately. “You’re the talker, Wyll,” she said cheerifully, and he smiled a little. 

“Well. I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

He turned toward Tav, who was indeed stirring with a quiet groan. He didn’t get too close; it was clear that Tav didn’t do well with nearness, particularly of those with drinkable blood. Instead, he crouched down several feet away, so that Tav wouldn’t have to strain his neck to look up at him.

“Good morning, Tav. You’ll have to tell us if anything hurts in particular,” he said, keeping his voice quiet and steady. “Halsin was making more healing potions, last I saw him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it kept him up through the night; he’s determined to see us well-stocked, you see.”

Wyll was mostly talking in the hopes that it would help Tav orient himself and keep him calm. The bard looked around blearily, blinking at Wyll almost like he didn’t recognize him, then down at himself, as though he was surprised by the ties he was in.

“Why… why do I have cat hair in my mouth,” he muttered, and Jaheira barked a laugh. Tav looked miserable, but clear-eyed, though Wyll thought it was probably best not to untie him until they were more certain, or there were more hands ready to keep him still.

Tav blinked and shook himself a little— and then his eyes widened in horror and his expression shifted to match. “Astarion-” he choked, panicked.

“Here,” Astarion said curtly, coming from the direction of his tent across the way to join them. “Against your best efforts to the contrary.” Ouch.

Tav winced at the words, and Wyll watched Astarion grimace with regret. Astarion heaved a dramatic sigh and knelt next to Wyll, a little closer to Tav. “I’m fine now, my dear," he said in not-quite-apology.

“I don’t remember all of it,” Tav said, sounding shaken. He was cringing away from them both into the pillar, though they had kept distance. “I was asleep, and the next thing I knew, Karlach had thrown me into a wall.”

“Sorry about that, soldier. Had to knock some sense into ya,” Karlach said, but Tav didn’t seem to hear her, eyes locked on Astarion.

“I dreamed- I dreamed I hurt you,” he rasped.

“Not a dream,” Astarion said flatly. “But it was nothing permanent.

“Nothing—” Tav made an awful sound and tried to curl up on himself, but he didn’t have much freedom of movement. He made a retching noise, and Astarion tutted. Wyll looked at Astarion’s face; his jaw was far tighter than the dismissive noise would have led him to believe.

“Remembering a little more now, are we?” Astarion asked, voice thin. In answer, Tav started to weep. Wyll had seen the bard in all sorts of horrible pain, but he had never seen him cry like that.

“Shit,” Karlach said quietly behind him, and Astarion beside him twitched forward. 

“I want— I need to-” Astarion said, suddenly fumbling his words.

“Show me your eyes, Bhaalspawn,” Jaheira said firmly, but Tav didn’t look at her, head bowed as he sobbed. “Tavran,” Jaheira said, no less firmly, but more softly. “Look at me.”

Tav took a hiccuping breath and lifted his chin, blinking at Jaheira with watery eyes. The red one was bloodshot, but Wyll could not, at the moment, see any shadows lurking behind it.

Jaheira studied him for a long moment before jerking her head in a nod. “Alright, Astarion,” she said, and the elf shot forward. “Leave his hands and legs tied,” Jaheira warned as Astarion cut Tav free of the layers of rope pinning him to the pillar.

“Fine,” Astarion snapped as he knelt next to the bard, then to Tav, a little sharply, “Are you going to bite me again?”

“I don’t kno-ow,” Tav sobbed, and it was painful to watch; Wyll felt like he was intruding, but none of them wanted to leave Astarion alone with Tav again, he was sure.

“Tell him not to,” Jaheira said, calmly, and Astarion shot her a frosty look and clearly wrestled with himself for a long moment.

“Do not bite me,” he finally snapped at Tav, who slumped a little and nodded. Astarion made an irritated noise, then tipped Tav awkwardly to the side, cradling him against his chest.

Shadowheart and Gale arrived while Astarion was still ignoring them, holding Tav from the bard’s side and murmuring into his hair as Tav cried into his neck.  Wyll had stood up and backed off to give them a little space, letting Jaheira stay and watch over them. “Is he hurt?” Shadowheart asked quietly, and Wyll glanced at her. Her hair was plaited, though not in its usual fashion, but he’d compliment it later. 

“I’m not sure. This is more about remembering last night, I think,” he said.

“Enough of this,” Astarion said, at more normal volume. Wyll glanced back over to see him wiping Tav’s face with his sleeve. “You asked to be restrained, and I didn’t listen,” he said. “There’s no reason to blame you for something you clearly had no control over,” Astarion said, and as he did so, he looked around at them, challengingly.

“You should have listened,” Tav said, hollowly, calling Astarion’s attention back. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t see how his next words struck Astarion like a blow. “I needed you to listen, and you didn’t.” Tav sounded defeated as he added, “And now I know how terrible and how perfect it feels to hurt you.”

Astarion, for a moment, lost control of his usual mask and looked horrified and sick. Jaheira cleared her throat and took over, maybe to give him a moment to compose himself. “Can you tell us what it’s like?” Jaheira asked, calmly. “When you lose control?”

“Hungry,” Tav said after a long moment of silence.  Something about his voice when he finally spoke made something turn over in Wyll’s stomach. “It feels like being starved for days, with nothing to eat or drink.” He bowed his head. “And then the Urge comes.”

“What happens then?” Jaheira asked.

“I— normally I fight it. It hurts me, twists up my insides, throbs in my head, makes me want things I’ve never wanted before, but I can stay awake enough to beat it, and if I can’t, Astarion ties me up,” he said. He looked up at Jaheira, haunted.  “It feels good, to give in. All the pain stops, the headache, the sickness, the dizziness. As soon as I feed it the violence it wants. It’s always been like that,” Tav said wretchedly. “It’s like a weight being lifted, like the best sex you’ve ever had. It’s— ecstasy,” he said with a shudder. “A little part of me wants it back as soon as it’s gone, no matter how disgusted I am with what I’ve done,” he admitted shamefully.

“But it’s different now?” Jaheira asked, still so calm, and Wyll focused on keeping his stance loose, his expression friendly and understanding. 

“Now I can’t even— I can’t remember giving in. I am myself, and the next thing- nothing.”

“The vampiric nature has changed your instincts and your desires,” Gale pointed out after clearing his throat, clearly trying to sound normal. “That part of you probably isn’t used to fighting. Or perhaps Bhaal’s Urge is feeding into those primal desires.”

“I thought when I first woke up here that those parts of me were fighting. But they’re not. They’re just… teaming up. To kill me. Where do I go, when he takes control?” Tav asked, looking frightened and small, nothing like ferocity of before the dark hours when he’d tried to hurt them.  He swallowed thickly, avoiding eyes. “I can’t fight them both at once. I was made to bend and bow to him.”

“Maybe the tadpole was protecting him somewhat as well,” Gale offered quietly. “The Karsite Weave is powerful, and not intended for this plane. It could have interfered with Bhaal’s power. He is not omnipotent, after all.”

“The worst part is that he loves me,” Tav said, eerily distant, and Wyll’s stomach turned over again. “Cazador— that didn’t feel like love. But Bhaal…All the pain stops, the hunger stops, the fear and the sick and the worry.  It’s all pleasure,” he rasped, closing his eyes. “A reward.”

“That isn’t love,” Astarion said sharply, and Tav winced visibly. “You know that.” He sounded desperate, and Wyll knew he wouldn’t unless he was struggling emotionally; Astarion didn’t like to share his feelings, not the real ones.

“It seems your Urge is triggered more often by your hunger, whatever form it takes,” Jaheira said, business-like, and Wyll was grateful for her; he felt a little ill himself, and Karlach looked like she was ready to burn down a building in her grief. “Which is amplified by your vampiric need for blood.”

“I guess so,” Tav mumbled.

“So we will keep you fed, work on your control, and restrain you when necessary,” Jaheira said, and Tav shook his head.

“I can’t control it, you don’t understand—”

“I understand that you are hurting, and scared,” Jaheira interrupted, voice kind but still firm. “But we are not willing to give up on you just yet, cub. Do not be so willing to give up on yourself.”

“I think there’s something we can do, to help you,” Shadowheart added quietly. “Go on, Astarion.”

Wyll noticed for the first time that she had a puncture mark on her arm— vampire bite.

Astarion grimaced, but didn’t argue. “We noticed during your little episode that you responded to me, when I gave you commands.” Tav’s brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed.

“I remember, I think,” he said. “It was nice,” he added, almost wistfully. Astarion looked about as disturbed as Wyll felt at that comment; usually Tav hated nothing more than being told what to do.

“I think it has to do with drinking my blood, that it may make you susceptible to my will,” Astarion said shortly. “And if there’s a chance it could help you be able to walk and move freely, it may be worth testing,” he said reluctantly.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” Tav said. “Astarion, please, don’t let me hurt you,” he begged, and Astarion hid his face by kissing the top of Tav’s head.

“Alright, darling,” Astarion murmured. “I promise.”

* * *

So it was decided. 

They couldn’t all take a day off to linger in camp. The Absolute’s threat was still very real, and they still had many other things they wanted to accomplish. Tav had pushed and pushed for them to deal with Cazador as soon as possible, but they had collected other missions as well, in the name of gathering allies and preparing themselves for a war with an Elder Brain.

Karlach, Minsc, and Shadowheart, they settled on, would do some shopping to stock up on needed supplies and then look into the flyers they’d found claiming to be a support group for hag victims, as a lead on the missing girl they had learned about the other day. Wyll and Gale would stop by to visit Rolan to ask him to keep an eye out for any texts pertaining to vampires, and then they would track down a few leads about Dribble’s body to see if Orin had left clues at her murder scenes about the location of the Bhaal Temple, which they still had been unable to find. (Karlach had seemed cheered that the two of them would have to figure out how to carry corpse-pieces without her help, for once.) 

Halsin would work on healing potions and poultices that would work on a vampire, now that he couldn’t be healed by magic. And Jaheira would stay at camp— and keep the sun-mace—  to monitor Astarion and Tav, who would test the limits of Astarion’s control on the bard.

They set Tav free after breakfast. He had fed from old blood Astarion had in his stores, and then from Astarion’s neck, the overabundance an attempt to keep him from getting hungry enough to wake the Urge. Astarion had tried to crack jokes about being the one on this side of the bite, but Tav had just looked miserable when he was finished and hidden his face in Astarion’s collarbones. He didn’t immediately attack anyone, once loose, though Jaheira was ready with the Lathandrian weapon, and Astarion ready to issue a command to stop him, which Wyll chose to take as a good sign, even though Tav looked twitchy and more anxious than usual. He was pacing in the limited area of shade, even though he was clearly sore and limping. 

“Sit down,” Astarion had barked at him, as they all got ready to leave, and Tav had dropped like a stone with a blissful look on his face.  Astarion, on the other hand, looked immensely disturbed.

“I don’t like this,” Karlach said as the four of them headed into the city; their paths wouldn’t diverge until they reached the main thoroughfare. Minsc had gone a head, chatting with Boo about something.

“None of it is ideal, to be certain,” Gale said. “But I think we are all doing our best with what circumstances we have.” Karlach huffed out a cloud of steam.

“Maybe. But Tav’s not himself, even when he’s not gnawing on his friends or bathing in their blood or whatever,” she pointed out, and Shadowheart pursed her lips.

“He’s had an awful few days,” she said, touching Karlach’s arm. “Give him time.”

Then Wyll’s tadpole pulsed. “You could give him the Astral Tadpole, and I could manipulate it to quiet his mind,” the Emperor said.

“Yeah, good morning to you too,” Karlach groused, rubbing her temple. “What, like make him a thrall?”

“Is it any different than what your friend is doing to him now?” the Emperor asked mildly, and Wyll grimaced.

“Yeah it’s different,” Karlach burst out. “Astarion loves him.” Wyll glanced at her, and she folded her arms mulishly. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it.”

“I do not experience love in the same way you do,” the Emperor allowed, surprising Wyll a little; he usually was all in favor of ilithid superiority. “But I have come to care for Tavran, in my way.” It was only because Wyll was looking at her that he saw Shadowheart’s face go suddenly and eerily blank. It matched the way he was desperately trying to silence his own thoughts inside his head so as to avoid sending them to the Emperor. “I would elevate him, not diminish him.”

“We certainly can’t ignore a possible solution,” Gale said carefully, in a tone that said he was forcing himself to sound polite. “We will tell Tav that he has that option, when we return to camp tonight,” he said.

“Very well,” the Emperor agreed. “See that you do. I am unable to reach him myself, unless he holds the astral prism, now that he has no tadpole.”

Wyll waited until his tadpole stopped squirming in response to the Emperor’s presence, then waited a little longer, just to be sure. He could usually tell when the mind flayer was watching them, but not always. The others seemed to have the same idea; they walked for a few minutes in silence.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “If he offers anything like what I suspect happened to Duke Stelmane,” he said, low and serious, “I wouldn’t wish it on Tav. Not even to save him. That’s no way to live.”

Shadowheart met his eyes and nodded. “Tav asked me something the other day about… about a dream he had with our friend, that no one else had,” she said, vaguely, but something about it put Wyll’s back up. “I don’t know if we can be sure he has Tav’s best interest at heart.”

Karlach scowled. “Then we won’t do it. We can find some other way to help Tav,” she said. “Right?”

Gale gave her a tired smile. “I like to think we’re a clever group, Karlach,” he agreed. “I’m sure we can figure this out, together.”

“I wish Lae’zel were with us,” Wyll admitted, though he hated to make the moment even more somber, with the reminder of their friend, trapped in Orin’s clutches. “I feel like she would know just what to say to snap us all out of our ‘miserable and pathetic self-pitying’,” he said with a wry smile.

Karlach snorted. “Gods, the time she told Astarion that, I thought he would rip out her throat with his teeth.”

“I think that was the point,” Gale said thoughtfully. “She wanted him angry, not hopeless. Anger is about a wrong that you wish to right, and feeling it means that you haven’t given up on the possibilities.”

“But hopelessness,” Wyll picked up, “Tells you there’s nothing you can do about it. An interesting way to look at it, Gale. I never thought of anger as tied to hope before.”

“Well, if one of you can bring the hope,” Karlach said with a wry smile, “I’ve got plenty of anger to spare.”

 

 

Notes:

I cut a fair amount of Wyll POV from this to keep the chapter relatively the same size as the others, so we might see him again at the beginning of the next chapter before switching over to someone else.

 

Thank you again to anyone who has left a comment, you rock <3

Chapter 9

Summary:

Some experimenting with Tav's leash.

Wyll couldn’t keep it from Mizora forever.

She had a tendency only to show up in camp when he was around, but sometimes she made her presence known there otherwise, as well. Luckily, he didn’t have to spend time worrying about what she was up to unattended, in that place that for most of them was the closest thing to home they had; there was almost always someone there, Jaheira, Minsc, and Halsin or some combination, plus whoever’s turn it was to rest and recover from an exhausting fight or injury. Sometimes Gale spent most of an afternoon poring over a book, now that they’d ‘borrowed’ some tomes from sorcerous sundries. Sometimes, after late nights snooping in places that weren’t as available to them during the day, Tav or Astarion or both would be lounging in camp somewhere, half-asleep during the morning hours.

In any case, there were many eyes to watch what Mizora might get up to. So when he made it back to the camp that afternoon with Gale, after having found three disturbingly choreographed murder scenes and re-meeting a certain blood trader by chance (and refusing to tell her where her ‘prize bleeder’ from Moonrise was; Wyll didn’t want to know how she’d react if she found out Tav was a vampire now, so they didn’t mention it) to find her in the camp, he wasn’t surprised, but he was a little disappointed.

Ah, well. He’d done his best to spare his companions her presence. She would go where she pleased, and they had all made it clear that they weren’t going to let him blame himself for it. (Anymore, anyway. Tav had been in quite a strop about it at first,  many tendays ago when she’d made an appearance in their camp after he’d broken his contract, but looking back, he had had rather a lot of interrupted nights of sleep in a row, at the time. That would make anyone cranky.

She looked rather smug when he returned, but Wyll could tell, after so many years in her company, that she was irritated she hadn’t noticed what was going on sooner. That cheered him a bit. “Want me to distract her?” Gale asked under his breath; he took a different approach to irritating Mizora away than Tav did, though no less effective, in lecturing her on the variety of spell ingredients one could find in the Hells and the history of their usage until she got tired of his explaining her own home— which she hated— to her, and disappeared again for a while. The offer made Wyll’s chest feel warm and comfortably loose.

“Thank you,” he said. “But no. I’ll hear her out. Best not to let it fester.”

Gale patted his arm in awkward support. “Right. Give a shout if you need to, ah, tap out, as Tav says,” he said, before heading for the cookpot.

“Well, well, pup,” she said when he got close. 

“What do you want, Mizora?”

“Can’t a lady want a chat every now and then?” Mizora drawled.

“A lady? Mm, if I see one I’ll ask,” Wyll said mildly, and she sneered.

“Your poor companion turned undead,” she said, ignoring him otherwise. “That’s not a very good track record, you know. Two vampires, a tiefling destined to explode, a half-devil. Your father and that gith of yours likely dead, both kidnapped right out from under your nose,” she tutted. “For a monster-hunter, you’re not doing a very good job of hunting the monsters.”

Wyll pursed his lips. “Your feedback is noted,” he said tersely. “But I don’t consider my friends to be monsters.”

“Mm, well, appearances can be deceiving,” she said. “I made him an offer, you know,” she said, studying her nails. “He’s not nearly as handsome a pup as you were, but he’d make a fine hunting dog, all the same, blood-drenched as he is. He’d fit right in with Zariel’s hell hounds.” Wyll gritted his teeth through it.

“He’d never accept such a thing,” he said, and she laughed at him.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think he’s closer to it than you think. Practically reeks of desperation.” She tossed her hair. “Just my type. I’ve admired him for some time, you know,” she said, with a little smirk, but that, Wyll could laugh at.

“Mizora, I’m afraid you don’t live up to the competition on that front. His lover has far better hair,” he said pleasantly, and she scowled at him before disappearing in a cloud of sulphur-scented smoke. “And good riddance,” he muttered, and then went to check on his friends.

Gale had joined Jaheira in the bit of refuge from the sun they had for a vampire. It may be wise of them, should Tav prove himself ready, to move indoors somewhere, if only to provide the vampire with a safe place to move about, when sun was out.

Apparently Gale had volunteered to help Astarion and Tav practice letting Tav get close to a living being. Gale was sitting on one of the low, wide work tables they had occasionally been using for a cot and tried to look at ease while Tav slowly approached him. Astarion was watching with a frown; Jaheira was nowhere in sight. Perhaps Gale had relieved her of vampire-sitting duties.

As Wyll joined them, he watched Tav approach Gale, trying not to let his nerves get the best of him. Maybe he was just used to Astarion, or maybe the tadpole had some kind of effect, but Wyll’s skin didn’t crawl for him the way it did for Tav, his heart didn’t pound uneasily at the sight of his red eyes the way it did at the mismatched gaze of their bard. Gale was clearly also working not to react, his hands clenching in his robes, then relaxed, then flexing.

Tav was moving cautiously, like he could tell Gale was nervous, as he approached from the side, coming up along the front of the table and leaning in until he was sitting next to the wizard. Gale was rambling on about their dinner plans, likely just to fill the silence, and Wyll felt himself holding his breath as he watched the two of them sit together.

Astarion seemed to be waiting for something, tense as a coiled spring, and he was was justified in his wariness a moment later. Tav’s eye suddenly flared with an unnatural light, and he hissed, gaze focused on Gale’s neck. “Tavran, come here,” Astarion said loudly, and Tav stumbled off the bench with jerky movements to return to his side. Gale, for his part, didn’t react with any panic, though Wyll could sense the threads of a spell he had readied fading as Tav moved away.

Astarion pulled Tav back another few feet and Tav snarled at him before shaking himself all over. Abruptly, the glow faded from his eyes and he cringed. “Sorry,” Tav said miserably, and it was so unlike him to apologize.

“I remain un-punctured,” Gale said cheerfully. “So I’d call that a success. Though not very subtle.” Astarion still didn’t look pleased, however.

“We’re done for now,” he said, and Tav turned his back to Astarion, wrists behind him; he wanted to be retied, Wyll realized. Astarion made a terrible face, but he followed Tav’s wordless request to bind his hands.

“It seems to be working,” Wyll offered, as Astarion finished. “Tav listened when you called him out of it."

“It’s not—” Astarion stopped, then made a frustrated face. “It’s not so simple,” he said. “I can sense it, a sort of link between us, when I give him an order. Last night was— well, I was a bit distracted. But today, the more we practiced, the more I could feel it,” he said.

“A link? Like a telepathic bond?” Wyll asked.

“Of sorts,” Astarion muttered. “It’s… not strong. Nor does it last very long. He had to have more of my blood at noon for the effect to continue.”

“His commands are louder than everything else, for just a moment,” Tav spoke up. “I can fight them, but it’s easier not to.” He smiled wryly. “The Urge doesn’t like it, though,” he mused, and Wyll ignored the chill he got, when Tav spoke of it like a living being with opinions and thoughts of its own.

Wyll wanted to ask Tav if that mean that obeying Astarion’s orders hurt him, but he wasn’t certain Tav would answer truthfully.

“Fascinating,” Gale said, leaning in, and Astarion glared at him.

“Not fascinating,” he hissed. “I refused to become Cazador in the first place! Or do you not remember me throwing away my chance to walk in the sun,” he snapped, then whirled around to stomp off.

“He’ll be back,” Tav said quietly into the ensuing, awkard silence. His voice sounded rough, as if he’d been shouting. He’d sounded that way since they’d brought him back from Cazador’s, now that Wyll thought about it. “I think he needed something to yell about. He’s too worried about hurting me.”

“Of course he is,” Wyll said, frowning at him. “He cares about you.”

Tav met his gaze for a moment, and for a beat, Wyll was certain Tav was— somehow— going to disagree with the statement, as though he had somehow missed the evidence of Astarion’s feelings that were as obvious as that the sun was yellow and the grass green. 

Wyll was perhaps inexperienced in the ways of the heart, but Astarion and Tav were far from subtle.

But in the end, Tav just looked away. “I hurt him first,” he said hollowly. “It’s deserved, whatever hurt he has to inflict to keep himself safe.”

“Or,” Gale said, clearing his throat. “How about we try not to hurt anyone,” he pointed out. “And we all put our not inconsiderable talents together to find a solution that works for everyone.”

“This isn’t easy for him,” Tav said wearily. “And me feeding from him doesn’t work to feed either of us. It drains him, and vampire blood doesn’t do much for the hunger.“

“Well. There’s an item I can certainly work on,” Gale said. “A steady blood supply should be a challenge that we can help you tackle.”

“Maybe,” Tav said dubiously, an odd expression crossing his face. “I’m not… People taste so much better,” he said with weird, wistful tone. “Right from the vein,” he continued, voice getting rougher. “Ripped open and racing pulse, emptying, staining teeth and tongue. A sweet sacrifice,” he sighed, and Wyll found his hand going for his sword hilt.

“That’s enough, Bhaalspawn,” Jaheira said, having come up behind him. Tav paused from where he’d slowly been advancing on them; Jaheira was holding the sunlight weapon, and he sneered at it but backed off.

“Who are we talking to now,” Wyll asked her cautiously, but Tav laughed, a sound like his voice was scraping over broken glass.

“It’s all me,” he said, and Wyll genuinely couldn’t tell if he was back to himself or not.

“He’s been having… violent fantasies all day,” Jaheira said. “And sharing them. Halsin can’t even get close to him; Tav’s fixated on him,” she said grimly.

“Pure, clean, untouched by rot,” Tav hummed. He was moving back to his spot near the pillar in the shade, taking a seat awkwardly before rocking back and forth. “Devil-blood and poisoned blood and ilithid-touched, already decaying. Not as sweet, I would feast so well on his carcass.” He looked at Wyll and said without smiling, “Put me down before I take him for myself.”

“Easy cub,” Jaheira said. “You won’t hurt anyone else, that’s what we’re here to ensure.”

Tav leaned back with a sigh, his back arched awkwardly to accommodate his bound wrists. “There’s nothing but his chant,” he muttered. “Music has already died, and the rest will follow.”

“Well that’s ominous,” Gale said, clearing his throat. “Why don’t I give you something else to listen to, hm? This roast just needs to simmer, I’d be happy to read to you.”

“An excellent idea,” Wyll said; there was something still niggling at him about what Tav had said, but he would have to work it out later. “I’m going to check on our other fanged friend,” he said, and left Gale and Jaheira to watch over Tav for the time being.

Astarion was out at the water’s edge when Wyll found him. He was standing on the little dock that might’ve once served the public, but had since been abandoned like the rest of this corner they had set up in, rank with trash and stagnant water. Wyll loved the city, but he had to admit that not all areas of it were very sweet-smelling. He suppose that was a benefit of not being able to breathe. 

At least the view was nice. 

“How are you holding up my friend?” he asked. For a moment, he thought Astarion would ignore him and not answer. 

“I should be reveling,” he said finally. “For what time I have left.” Astarion gave a bitter smirk. “Cazador is dead. For a brief shining moment, I can stand in the sun, thanks to these tadpoles. Ironic isn’t it, that the thing meant to turn me into a monster is keeping me from being one.”

Wyll thought of Tav, trapped in the ravages of his own mind and body, betrayed by both, without the ilithid, ironic protection to defend him from the worst of their combined rages. 

“And yet, unless we find the way to do the impossible, I could still be turned into a mind flayer by the end of it,” Astarion continued. “And Tav,” he said darkly, “Could still be killed by one. Or worse.”

Wyll sighed heavily. He knew what it was like, for death to not be the worst possibility. “I’d say our chances of succeeding the impossible are quite good,” Wyll said. “Considering our record thus far.”

Astarion finally turned to look at him, and it was bleak. “Lower without him,” he said flatly, and Wyll couldn’t disagree; Tav had been the lynchpin of everything they had accomplished, it was true. Wyll had sometimes wondered if his lack of memory had allowed him to see more clearly than the rest of them. 

“We still have him,” Wyll said firmly. “We won’t lose him. Not to a mind flayer or anything else.”

Like Tav earlier, Astarion didn’t seem to believe him. Wyll didn’t force him to do so, merely standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they watched the sunset together. None of them were alone; Wyll had to choose to believe that it meant something, for all of them.

* * *

Shadowheart, Karlach, and Minsc had returned by the time Wyll and Astarion came back to the cookfire, and the sun had long since set. Minsc had taken his portion of roast and left the pagoda that had become the unofficial limits of Tav’s unfortunately necessary detainment, worried that Boo might become a vampire’s meal. Halsin too only came long enough to serve himself some dinner and add some more potions to their general supply, and Wyll watched Tav’s eyes track him hungrily until he was out of sight again, and the bard seemed to come out of his fugue-state.

Shadowheart delivered some animal blood from the butcher’s for Tav. His hands were unbound again to give him the dignity of feeding himself, and they all pretended that Shadowheart wasn’t standing by ready to coerce him with the mace, should it come to that. Jaheira took her meal to eat with Halsin— it seemed unfair to deny him any company at all— and the rest of them gathered around the fire on the far side of Tav, not because they wanted to keep a distance from him, but because he’d asked them, quietly, not to get too close.

“You got it soldier,” Karlach said, forcibly cheery. “You just let us know whatever you need to make this easier,” she said.

They ate in relative silence, Astarion sitting closer to Tav and the rest of them all sitting on the same side of the cookfire, helping themselves to Gale’s roast and the filling, savory porridge Jaheira had cooked up to go along with it, to fill their bellies. Adventuring was hungry work.

“We found the House of Grief,” Shadowheart said quietly when most of them had finished. Wyll looked up at her. “It felt familiar,” she said. “That must be where I’m from, and where I can learn what happened to my family,” she said. She winced and looked down at her hand for a moment; it must be paining her.

“Then we must go there. Tomorrow, even,” Wyll said, and she looked a little relieved. He hoped she wasn’t surprised that they would willingly help her, even without Tav at the helm to encourage them to do so. It was nice, to have a direction; they’d met dead ends everywhere else, so far.

“I doubt they’re going to be real thrilled to have you home, based on what that arsehole in Rivington told you,” Karlach said. Shadowheart gave a thin smile.

“Yes, it seems likely we will encounter resistance. Luckily,” she added, with a wry tone, “We have some experience now, fighting overly-zealous cultists in their home territories,” she said wryly, and Karlach snorted.

“Damn right,” she agreed. “And some experience kicking Sharran ass,” she mused.

“Ketheric barely counted,” Shadowheart sniffed.

“We won’t let you down,” Wyll said. “Or make you go alone. And if it is a battle we face, then our blades are ready.”

“It will be dangerous,” Shadowheart said, with a faint frown. “Though I have little memory of it, I know that it… was not a kind place. And that though they hide in the shadows, they are strong in number and in deed,” she said. “I fear I cannot help with any further recollections, however,” she said, with a frustrated frown. “My memory is… unreliable.”

“Ah, well, we’ve gone into other dark places blind before, if you’ll pardon the pun,” Gale told her. “We won’t let that stop us, not when it’s so important.” She gave him a small smile, and was about to answer when a different voice interrupted.

“Bring me.” Wyll glanced over. Tav was watching them, from where he had finished draining three bottles of blood and had taken to sitting utterly still in the dark; it was hard for Wyll to forget he was there, his presence like a prickling on the back of Wyll’s neck. 

 Wyll exchanged glances with the others. “You sure about that, soldier?” Karlach asked, frowning. She leaned toward him, without getting up. “Won’t all that violence make you a little… blood mad? More than usual.”

Tav shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s like you said before— aim me at the right people. You want the Sharrans dead, you take me with you. Just make sure Astarion is there, and the sun mace, if you need to take me down afterward.”

The thought was both interesting and a little horrifying, and Karlach seemed to think so as well. “Mate, it might be better for your, uh, mental state if you just relax in camp,” she said, cautiously. Tav blinked at her.

“I don’t see how. The longer I go without killing someone, the louder the Urge is anyway,” he said.

“You never told us that before,” Gale said with a frown.

“None of you ever listened properly when I tried to tell you,” Tav said, and there was no accusation in his tone whatsoever— he just sounded tired— but Wyll still felt it bite. “Except Astarion. Jaheira knew,” he added, flicking his gaze at her as she walked up, back into the firelight

“I did not need to be told,” Jaheira said curtly. “A perk of experience, if you can call it that.”

“It would be a simple way to allow him to feed on, ah, fresh subjects,” Gale said. “If the affair comes to violence, of course. He needs to eat, there’s no getting around that.”

“I don’t know if it’s wise,” Jaheira said. “But I can see no better path, either. We certainly should not leave him unattended here, without Astarion to step in when necessary. What do you wish to do, Shadowheart?” she asked.

The cleric looked at Astarion, sitting a little ways out of the firelight. Wyll wasn’t sure he’d been listening to anything at all; he’d been doing some sort of mending on a shirt in his lap while they’d all prepared supper and eaten around the fire. “Astarion,” she said, and his eyes snapped up, almost glowing in the firelight. “Can you control him?”

Astarion pursed his lips. “I— I suppose if he were to drink my blood before the fighting began, I could— I don’t think it would be perfect.”

“Would it be enough?” Shadowheart asked simply, watching him, and Astarion held her gaze for a long moment before giving a heavy sigh.

“It will be, if it has to be. As long as all of us know not to be surprised by him. He’s strong, but even Cazador couldn’t stand up against all of us,” he pointed out, and Shadowheart nodded, clearly accepting his word on the matter.

“Then I’d be happy to have you,” she told Tav quietly, looking over at him next, and Wyll remembered the way she had admitted that morning, how Tav had confided in her about something that he hadn’t told the others, the way she had stayed with Astarion long after the rest of them had gone back to bed, when he’d been hurt that morning.

“I can at least hurt your enemies,” Tav said with a wry twist of his mouth. “If I’m no good for anything else.” He gave an odd sort of twitch, hands spasming where they were resting on his knees. “A veritable feast.”

“I don’t doubt they will respond with violence, especially if I confront them about my parents,” she admitted, and Tav grinned.

“I look forward to it,” he said hungrily, curling his fingers in toward his palms; they were, Wyll noted, growing claws.

“I think it’s time to secure our bard again for the evening,” Jaheira said, eyeing Tav’s hands, and Astarion grimaced. 

“Why?” he asked. “It’s barely past sundown. He won’t sleep yet for hours; this is the only time he can walk freely, and he’s just eaten. This is the least dangerous he’ll be,” he said defensively.

“It’s alright, Astarion,” Tav murmured.

“It’s not alright,” Astarion snapped. “You shouldn’t be penned like an animal, like livestock for the slaughter,” he snapped. "It isn’t right.”

“Astarion, you can’t trust me like this. None of you can trust me,” Tav said, and Wyll heard the echo of an ache in his voice. “I understand.”

“Well I don’t,” Astarion said snippily. “You were just as much a Bhaalspawn a tenday ago as you are now. We know what to expect now, surely it can wait a little longer.”

“Maybe I am, but I’m less of a person, too,” Tav said humorlessly. “I’m just his plaything.” Wyll watched Astarion wince, but Tav was rubbing his face. “A shadow with teeth and claws to be directed. I don’t deserve to be free,” he said flatly, and Astarion drew himself up with a sneer.

“Well, you should have told me how monstrous you found vampire spawn sooner, my dear,” he said acerbically. Tav looked taken-aback. “So be it— someone tie him up,” he snapped, and strode away from the firelight.

“Astarion…” Tav tried, wounded, but Astarion didn’t turn around. 

“Keep your mouth shut until they’re finished,” he fired off, a little cruelly Wyll thought, and Tav’s jaw clicked shut as obviously as a firecracker in the ensuing silence. “Wouldn’t want you biting anyone, like the mad dog you are.”

Tav’s hands were shaking, but Wyll didn’t point it out as he and Karlach moved without needing to speak about it to get Tav re-tied. “C’mon soldier, the sooner you’re secure, the sooner you can speak again, hm?” They hobbled him first, then helped him sit on the straw mattress they’d dragged over, tucking a pillow behind his back between his wrists and the stone. It had to be an uncomfortable way to spend the night, sitting with his hands bound behind him, and Wyll was sorry for it.

Once the rope was taut around his chest and the pillar both, Tav slumped a little. “Thanks,” he muttered, avoiding their eyes.

“Don’t thank me for that, mate,” Karlach said.

“Do you need anything else to keep you comfortable?” Wyll asked, as Karlach reached out to squeeze Tavran’s shoulder; Wyll had seen her do it dozens of times. Tav didn’t like unexpected touch from anyone except Astarion, but he allowed certain gestures from those he trusted, and who had talked about it with him first. 

Tav didn’t answer, his head turning immediately toward Karlach’s arm. Wyll was worried by the speed of the movement, expecting violence and tensing, but all Tav did was rub the side of his face and his ear against it, seeking warmth. Karlach held very still, neither of them daring to react, until Tav’s fangs flashed, growing in his mouth. An automatic reaction to being near a vein, perhaps. Karlach jerked her hand back quickly and gave him a smile. “Oi, that’ll hurt you, soldier,” she said, and he blinked a couple times, seeming to come back to himself. 

“Right,” he said, miserably, looking away and Wyll couldn’t tell if it was out of shame for the need or shame for his lack of control. He and Karlach both backed up a little, so as not to tempt him.

Karlach sighed and got her feet. “I’m gonna track down Astarion. He owes you an apology,” she said.

“He doesn’t,” Tav answered. “But. I don’t want him to be alone. We’ve had too many nighttime visitors as it is,” he muttered darkly. Wyll met Karlach’s eyes for a moment, then she squeezed his shoulder too.

“I’ll come with you,” Shadowheart volunteered. “Though, it’s my turn for the dishes-”

“I’ll handle it, girl, go,” Jaheira said, waving them both off.

The two of them took off after Astarion in the dark, and Wyll moved to assist with the washing up— only fair, since he didn’t cook. “Let me,” he told Jaheira and Gale. “Keep Tav company.”

“As best we can,” Gale said grimly, and Wyll followed his gaze over to the bard one more time. He looked like a corpse, with his eyes closed, but for the way he occasionally twitched in his bonds. He was, very faintly, humming to himself, but not with his usual skill, nor was it any song Wyll recognized.

He wasn’t ashamed that a shiver went down his spine as he turned away and collected the dirty dishes to clean. Sometimes, it was smarter to feel fear than to not.

* * *

“My poor master,” Fel crooned, and at least one thing could be said for the awful little butler; he never touched Tav, always too obsequious in his demeanor to ever dare.

Their camp was quiet. Tav supposed that was his fault; Gale had given up watching him a while ago and returned to his books, leaving only Jaheira and Wyll, conversing in undertones on the other side of the little covered courtyard he’d been secured in. Tav could have heard what they said if he focused his new, sharper, hearing, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was cold, colder than he could ever remember being, and his hands had long gone numb, and his teeth fangs ached, and his head hurt, but he said nothing. A blanket wouldn’t help him, and the more handicaps he suffered the better.

He didn’t look at Fel. It wouldn’t matter if he did or not; at least this night, there was no chance of Tav hurting something he loved, not with how firmly he was bound, no matter was ominous portents the gremlin wanted to spew.

Of course, having his attention or not never stopped Fel from delivering his monologues. “You still have a chance to serve your vile father, even though your perfect form has been defiled,” Sceleritas sighed, sounding both wistful and conciliatory. “You truly are magnificent in every shape, m’lord.”

“What the fuck does that mean,” Tav demanded in a mutter; he was never sure if Fel was really there, and didn’t want to give his companions any more excuses to look at him like he was insane. Even though they’d be right. 

“Your father has a gift for you, if you defeat Orin. He is willing to take you back into the fold, help you leave behind this cursed shape,” Fel said, and Tav narrowed his eyes.

“Leave it behind, huh. This have anything to do with that nasty beastie I saw in my sleep last time?” He shifted a little; his wrists ached, and he could smell the empty bottles from here, that had held his supper.

He was hungry again.

“Oh yes, perfectly, gloriously disgusting,” Fel said cheerily, clapping his gnarled hands together. “You will be able to feast on great swathes of blood, with his help,” Fel said. 

Jaheira glanced his way— he could see it out of the corner of his eye— and Tav held perfectly still, staring with half-lidded eyes into the embers of the fire, until she returned her attention to Wyll.

“I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he just reject me outright? I’ve failed to become… whatever it is he wanted from me,” he muttered, trying not to move his mouth too much.

“That’s true, the call to blood is all that’s left, my wretched master,” Fel said thoughtfully. He was behind Tav’s pillar now, and it made Tav uncomfortable, to be unable to see him. “As undead, of course, you will no longer be able to serve your father in the other ways he had planned for you, but to tell the truth, if I may be so bold, I never thought you needed to debase yourself in such a way.” He was coming around from the other side now, grinning his wide grin. “If you became all-powerful, why should you need a successor to bring in the red dawn when you can do it yourself?” he asked, leaning in close. “I still believe in you. Your father still offers you that chance.”

Tav leaned away as much as he could, feeling ill. What was the bloody point of vampirism, he thought bitterly, if it didn’t excuse him from nausea? “Your father loves you too much to let you go, even with a few new additions,” Fel hummed happily, tapping a claw on one of his own teeth. “Rejoice master! Your birthright is not yet lost! You can feel it, can you not, how much closer your curse brings you to his dread domain?” he asked, practically salivating.

Tav looked away. Yes. He could feel it. He could feel it in the way his mind slipped from him, the way he hungered constantly for living blood, the way he couldn’t control his tongue or his thoughts or his hands.

“Go away, Sceleritas,” he sighed. “I’ll have new slaughter for you in the morning, leave me to my rest now.”

“Very well, master. But don’t forget, your father does not take kindly to attempt to usurp his command of what belongs to him,” Fel said ominously, and Tav’s eyes snapped open.

“What does that mean? Are you threatening Astarion?” he demanded.

“Tav?” he heard. “Everything alright?” but the voice sounded far away, and he couldn’t look away from Sceleritas. The imp grinned and held a finger to his lips before vanishing, and Tav snarled in frustration.

At least, he tried to console himself, Astarion was safe from him this night. Tav never, ever wanted to wake again to find he had nearly killed his lover. What if Jaheira hadn’t responded as quickly as she had? What if his Urge hadn’t bored of an undeath death so soon? What if Karlach hadn’t awoken?

He started to shake and couldn’t stop, squeezing his eyes shut as tremors and pain wracked his body. His insides roiled, warring with both disgust and delight at the thought of the perfect slaughter he could have brought about in this camp, if only that pesky tiefling hadn’t shown up with the cursed mace.

The Urge seemed to purr in the back of his mind. Tav wasn’t sure if he was imagining it lately, or if it truly had grown a voice. It could all stop. The pain, the cold, the hunger. He knew what he had to do.

Tav bit down hard on his own tongue instead, and his vision went wavered and then went black as he shivered quietly in his bonds, waiting alone in the dark for the dawn.

Notes:

<3 <3 <3

Chapter 10

Summary:

A vampire's picnic and a Bhaalspawn's feast.

Notes:

The final section may be a little confusing to read, but it's supposed to be. :)

Shadowheart could tell that Astarion knew he was being followed.

He might have even allowed it. It was hard to sneak up on Astarion without his knowledge, if not quite as difficult as telling when he was doing the sneaking. He’d gotten quite good at that over the past months of their acquaintance, as deadly and quiet as the shadows the Sharran teachers had always wanted her to emulate. And once he’d learned how to use magic items to his benefit, he had all sorts of tools and tricks to make himself less noticeable.

She’d once thought it odd, that someone so prone to drama and theatrics was so good at making himself unseen, but now that she knew more, she knew better.

(She refused to find it cute that Tav and Astarion often made a game out of sneaking up on each other, by the way. It was childish, and foolish, and not at all sweet to see two people who had had so much stolen from them rediscover play and innocence, couched as it was as ‘training’ or ‘exercise’.)

His choice of destination was odd. He’d slipped out of their camp and crossed the city, even though they had all decided jointly that it would be unwise for any of them to travel alone un the city. (Perhaps that was why he allowed them to track him, in the end.) The streets were dark, and there was a curfew being enforced by the Fist and the Steel Watch, but it was easy enough to them to avoid patrols. 

“Huh,” Karlach said beside her when he went around a certain corner, and Shadowheart glanced at her. “I think he’s going to the graveyard.”

Karlach’s assumption seemed to be right; Astarion was waiting for them at the gated entrance the cemetery. He gave a pinched scowl at their approach, but he didn’t try to make them leave. “What’re we doing here, Astarion?” Karlach asked conversationally, and Astarion made a face at her. 

“You’re keeping watch while I pick the lock.”

A few minutes later they were going toward an older section of headstones. Shadowheart was glad that they didn’t go in the direction of Allister Marnley’s grave; she’d been trying not to think about it, ever since they’d walked past it a few days ago after visiting Karlach’s parents. Astarion seemed to know where he was going, but he paused at the end of a row and seemed to hesitate. “I wanted to bring Tav here,” he said, and he sounded subdued. “It was— I’ve never shown anyone else.”

“Not where I’d go for a date,” Karlach mused, and ignored Astarion shooting her a narrow glare. “But Tav would follow you anywhere.”

Astarion looked away. “Yes, I had gotten rather used to that idea,” he muttered, and led the way down the row. The moon was high, and Shadowheart couldn’t help but thank it for providing light so that they didn’t trip over some of the worse-off grave markers, ignoring the way her hand seized and ached at the blasphemous thought. She wasn’t certain yet, what she felt or thought about Selune, but she was done worshipping darkness.

Astarion stopped in front of a certain stone and wavered for a moment— it was unlike him to hesitate— before kneeling there in the dirt and grass in front of the stone and brushing aside the vines that had grown up over the stone. She saw the elvish script, and it took a moment for her to parse.

“Whose grave is this, Astarion?” Karlach asked, voice lowered respectfully, but Shadowheart touched her arm and shook her head before kneeling beside him.

“Ancunín, hm?” she asked softly. 

 “I wasn’t sure it would still be here,” Astarion murmured.

“Are there any of the family still in the Gate?” Shadowheart asked. She was careful not to say ‘your family’. She knew a little something, about the loss of self, and the desire to reclaim it on one’s own terms.

“…No, I don’t believe so,” Astarion said. “I don’t remember them,” he admitted. “But I don’t see that Cazador could have taken me from a family that was prominent or active in the city. Elves have long memory; it would have been too much of a risk.” He grimaced. “That’s what he always taught us, when we found victims, anyway. We had to be sure it was a traveller or an orphan, or otherwise earn his wrath if he had to deal with outside inquiry or go to great lengths to stage an accident and pay for a funeral,” he said. He huffed. “Of course, his irritation makes much more sense now that I know that he would have had to take the time to collect them from their graves.”

Karlach dropped down next to them with a grunt. “He was a fucking wanker, and I’m glad he burned to a crisp,” she said bluntly, and Astarion gave a wan smile. “Do you wanna look for your family, Astarion?” she asked seriously, and he shook his head.

“Not why I came here,” he said, and ran his fingers along the inscription of his date of death. “I clawed my way through six feet of dirt at this very spot. Cazador defined my life— and my death— for so long. And now he’s gone, and I’m still here, and I… I can start afresh. I won’t let him define me anymore.”

“Hells yeah,” Karlach agreed, and Shadowheart felt a brief swell of fondness for her sincerity; she loved so big, for someone without a heart in her chest. “You wanna take the stone down?”

Astarion cocked his head. “Down? No,” he said. “I want to fix it. Whoever was buried here isn’t me anymore,” he said. “Who I am now… he isn’t in the dirt anymore. I just have to decide what I want and who-” He cut himself off, and Karlach nudged his shoulder.

“Who you want?” she asked, knowingly, and Astarion rolled his eyes. You wanted to bring Tav here for a confession?” she asked.

Astarion tutted. “That’s none of your business,” he huffed.

“I think you should tell him,” Karlach said seriously. “It might mean a lot to him, you know, to hear it.”

“It’s up to you, of course,” Shadowheart said, leaning forward to brush off some debris from the gravestone. “But you deserve whatever happiness you can make. Both of you” 

“I-… Well. I’ll settle for us both remaining alive and free,” Astarion muttered. Shadowheart sat back to look at him again.

“I have to believe he can pull through this, Astarion,” she said quietly. That there was a point to his suffering. That it didn’t all have to end in loss; it was a new way of thinking, for her, but she found herself desperate for it to be true.

Maybe she was fooling herself. She supposed she’d find out tomorrow, one way or another.

“Don’t waste time, that’s my advice,” Karlach said, rolling her shoulders and looking up at the sky. “Never know how much you got left, you know?”

“It isn’t fair,” Astarion said harshly, his hands curling into fists where they rested on his thighs. “Cazador spoiled the one thing I wanted to take with me from that wretched existence, the one thing that made any of it bearable,” he said, stiffly.

“Hey, Tav’s still here, Astarion,” Karlach said, gently reproving.

“And you can honestly say that he’s still the same?” Astarion demanded. “He isn’t— he doesn’t look at me, the way he used to,” he said.

“And maybe he won’t, again,” Karlach said bluntly, and Astarion flinched minutely. “But maybe you can still find a way to live with that, find a new way to look at each other. Isn’t it worth trying?”

“Right again,” Shadowheart said, offering Karlach a small smile. “Our barbarian has some wisdom to offer, this night.”

“It’s all the city air, getting to my head,” Karlach said with a lopsided grin. “Look, the way I see it, we kill that bitch Orin, take out the Elder Brain, and you take your boy far away from here, to live somewhere quiet. Eat a few bandits, enjoy the open sky at night— or maybe head to the Underdark, no worries moving around there, and Tav likes those mushroom-folk. Not a bad life.”

“Oh, is it that easy?” Astarion asked sarcastically.

“Nah, not at all,” Karlach said. “Nothing that matters is, s’what my dad used to say.”

They were all quiet for a moment, before Astarion shook his head slightly. “Whatever the future holds, tomorrow we find out what happened to your parents, and find some more blood for my insatiable bard,” he told Shadowheart, firmly, clearly wanting something else to focus on. “That’s enough planning ahead for me, for now.”

“I don’t recall having many friends among the Sharrans,” Shadowheart said tipping her head toward him; there was someone who had braided her hair for her, the way Astarion had that morning, but she had nothing solid, no face to put to the name. All she had were the friends who were with her, here and now. “It seems like blood loss should be something they welcome with open arms,” she said serenely.

“Ha!” Astarion said, and Karlach squeezed her shoulder. “We’d be doing them a favor, is that it? Just helping them practice what they preach.” He sounded amused, less raw than before, and it would do for now.

“Just point out the ones you hate the most,” Karlach said cheerfully. “Let our vamps have their fill.”

“I hope it’ll be that easy,” Shadowheart agreed, feeling light in spite of the naive simplicity of that plan. 

She supposed that was the core of everything she had done to leave her faith; Shar had wanted her to be alone, uneasy, needful of her teachings to rely on her. But Shadowheart had disobeyed by allowing others into her heart.

Maybe she always had. Maybe the Mother Superior had been right that Shadowheart was never quite cut out to be a Justiciar. Good, she thought grimly, and ignored the way her hand flared up in a painful shock at the heretical thought to the best of her ability.

She’d rather be herself, and have the chance to discover who that was. She’d rather hope for others to have that chance too, no matter how painful it was.

“Let’s get back,” she said, getting to her feet. “The others will be worried. Unless you wanted to stay here?” she asked Astarion, who shook his head.

“Maybe some other night,” he said. “It’s a little morbid, to visit one’s own grave, but I think Tav might find it amusing, when he’s ready to go out.”

“That’s the spirit,” Karlach said. “Don’t give up on him, alright? It’s too damn sad, otherwise.”

Shadowheart wasn’t sure that was the problem, exactly, but she didn’t say anything. They could only face one day at a time, that had been clear since the first moment off the nautiloid. There was nothing to do about the future except to greet it each morning when it arrived, and Tav would have to decide for himself, whether that was worth fighting for.

She had decided to fight. She hoped that he eventually did, too.

* * *

“Is there any way to do, ah, reconaissance?” Wyll asked the next morning, from where he was carefully oiling his armor. He didn’t take very good care of his camp clothes, Shadowheart had noticed before, but he was meticulous with the gear that might have a chance to keep him safe. A wise strategy.

It was very early. Shadowheart didn’t know about anyone else, but she hadn’t slept well, and it hadn’t been solely due to Tav radiating malice and unease from his corner of camp. They’d gathered for breakfast around the campfire, and she didn’t know if they were really doing Tav any favors by trying to include him by staying relatively close. Was it crueler to tempt him or to leave him alone?

“Without getting their attention? Doubtful,” Gale mused from over his porridge. “From what we’ve been told, they’re expecting us.”

“Sharrans are known to use espionage tactics themselves. I have a feeling they would recognize it if we tried such a thing on them. I think our best bet will be simply to go together, and be ready if things should head south,” she said, rubbing her palm. “I don’t have very many memories of the Mother Superior, but I know she is… harsh, and strong. I wouldn’t want one of us to be discovered on their own.”

“Very well,” Wyll agreed easily.

“Well I don’t like it. I still think I could try to go in, get the lay of the land, so to speak,” Astarion huffed.

“We don’t wanna send you in somewhere like that without backup, Fangs,” Karlach said, and they all sat with the unspoken implication for a moment; Tav was Astarion’s usual backup, and they couldn’t trust him to do it with the way things were.

“You may be at home in the shadows, Astarion,” Shadowheart said after a beat, “But the House of Grief is Sharran home territory. I think we would be safest to stay together,” she said simply, and most of the others nodded. Astarion pursed his lips, but he didn’t argue further, and that was likely the best they were going to get from him.

“How are we getting there?” Tav asked, and it was jarring for this to be the first time he spoke in a meeting like this; normally he led them, offering banter if not ideas and poking holes in everyone’s strategies with useful or less-than-useful hypotheticals: sometimes serious, sometimes for his own amusement. He liked having a plan, even if it was a simple as ‘we turn invisible and blow everything up’.

But today he hadn’t contributed once. He had merely sat, squinting even in the shade, and stared at them without blinking or smiling or making any snide commentary at all. When she glanced at him, even when he seemed to be meeting her eyes, it was as though he was looking far away.

“Getting you across the city, you mean?” Gale asked. “I think we can take a route in the sewers, as unpleasant as it is. And lend you a few sturdy cloaks,” he offered with a smile that Tav didn’t return.

“How does Sharran magic work?” Wyll asked after a beat. “Will they they have countermeasures for undead?” he asked, frowning in concern. He was right to wonder; it would be a death sentence for a vampire spawn to walk into a den of clerics, under usual circumstances.

“Not all of her followers study magic,” Shadowheart mused, frowning, wishing she could remember more than great swathes of blankness mixed with sorrow and frustration that summed up most of her memories. “I remember… learning the art of physical disguise, interrogation… things a cleric wouldn’t necessarily need to know.”

“Followers of Shar often utilize the Shadow Weave for casting,” Gale began, looking eager, and Karlach interrupted him. 

“Short version, Gale, we want to move soon.” He shot her a look, but acquiesced. 

“It is of course inferior to Mystra’s Weave, but it does have a few unique properties. It augments necromantic and illusion magic, but it is more difficult to channel for healing and impossible to make light spells of any sort.”

“Well, sounds like they shouldn’t be too much trouble for vampires, then. That’s good, right Tav?” Karlach asked brightly, and Tav blinked.

“Astarion’s protected already by the tadpole,” he pointed out, sounding disinterested. “And I can’t die.”

An awkward silence fell. “You what, mate?”

“Can’t die,” Tav said. “Gave up the right to choose in losing my life-spark. I belong to him now, until he says otherwise. Like the other undead servants.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Astarion demanded, and Tav looked past him.

“Sceleritas told me.”

Shadowheart glanced at Jaheira, who shook her head with pursed lips; no one had been in their camp last night who shouldn’t have been.

“You’re a vampire,” Gale said. “Surely you have a vampire’s weaknesses. You burn in the sun, after all.” Shadowheart watched uneasily as Tav cocked his head, looking intrigued by the idea.

“Let’s not test it,” Wyll said. “At least we don’t have to expect any of that kind of magic from the cloister; so there will be no dying for anyone today,” he said.

“Right,” Karlach said uneasily, and Shadowheart watched her shoot Tav a worried look.

“If they’re familiar with necromancy do you think they’d have information on Tav’s condition?” Gale asked. “Rolan said he’d peruse Lorrokan’s collection, though he doesn’t put much faith in the man’s idea of what sort of books were valuable. The Sharran temple in the Shadowlands did have a rather impressive library.”

“A library full of bullshit,” Karlach said wryly, and Gale inclined his head toward her.

“From a certain perspective,” he said diplomatically, “Yes, most of it was. But there can always be a gem of knowledge found in even the most barren of deserts. Perhaps we can find out why Tav’s, er, appetites are plaguing him so excessively.”

“Well, I suppose there’s a chance,” Shadowheart said. “But I don’t know that they’d be able to explain why his experience with undeath is so different than Astarion’s.”

“It’s not about being undead,” Tav said, looking into the distance. His gaze was somewhat jarring, half-sinister-red, half-unnatural blue, if only because it was so new. “I don’t think so, anyway. I… he uses other Bhaalspawn who are dead, but not in this way.”

“How do you know that?” Astarion asked sharply, and Tav’s brow furrowed.

“I remembered, I think. I’m not sure. There’s something— something there,” he said, grimacing. “He has no use for the dead; they’ve failed.”

“Then why hold onto you?” Karlach asked, frowning. “Shouldn’t he have let you off the leash, just like the tadpole did?”

Tav looked at her helplessly. “I don’t know. It’s worse now than it ever was, because I— I get so hungry,” he said, and suddenly he looked so pathetic that Shadowheart wanted to go to him and offer her arm to bite. Karlach clearly had the same compulsion, jerking toward him with an stiff gesture that Shadowheart stopped.

“Easy,” she murmured. Vampires had a way of calming and charming victims; now that Cazador was dead, and the tadpole gone, she wouldn’t be surprised if Tav had discovered some of those powers. Because of his divine heritage? Or simply because he was a spawn set free to become a master in his own right? 

She didn’t say it out loud. If Tav hadn’t noticed he was doing that, it might be better for his mental state to continue being unaware. They were all capable enough adventurers to recognize and resist that sort of charm, if they needed to, and she could tell them in private— or at least, out of Tav’s hearing— about her suspicions if they weren’t.

Especially if Tav was already struggling with that terrible, dark feeling of his lack of worth in his own life. Tav was a bard who had deliberately avoided most magics that influenced and charmed others. Shadowheart hadn’t understood, at first, but now she respected the line he had drawn in the sand, and she wasn’t sure how he would react to the possibility that he could now do it without trying.

“All new spawn are starving, miserable creatures,” Astarion said flatly. “Tavran’s bloodlust is perhaps higher than might otherwise be expected, but he may yet grow to learn control of it, as I did.” He got to his feet and crossed over to the bard, who was only secured by his bound hands at the moment, and offered his wrist to Tav’s mouth. “In the meantime, I’ll help him control it,” he said, and only winced a little when Tav bit down eagerly.

She had watched Tav feed Astarion a few times— all of them had. Privacy was rare in a camp like theirs. It always had seemed intimate, even after it had stopped feeling wrong, and looking at the tenderness in Tav’s face when he offered and the gratitude in Astarion’s, looking at they way they had curled close, sharing space as well as blood, had always made her uncomfortable.

This wasn’t like that at all. “That’s enough,” Astarion said firmly after only a few moments, and Tav tore his teeth out with an irritated growl, a dazed sort of look on his face as he watched Astarion with an insipid, expectant gaze, nothing but hunger in his eyes. Astarion stepped away from him, and Shadowheart held out her hand expectantly. He offered her his arm with a pinched look and she healed the deep, tearing wounds; they looked the way Astarion’s bite mark on Tav’s neck had the first time he’d fed (angry, deep, uncaring) and nothing like how they had since (almost delicate, if a wound could be, and careful).

“Up you get,” Astarion told Tav, helping Tav to his feet once his arm was healed and freeing the bard from his rope. “How are you feeling?”

“Strong enough to help,” Tav said, posture wavering; for a moment, Shadowheart thought he was unsteady, then she realized he was fighting with himself to get both closer and farther away from Astarion’s touch.

“Good,” Astarion said briskly, rubbing at the rope-burn on Tav’s wrist. “Are you sated enough to keep your fangs for enemies?”

“I will obey,” Tav said, which wasn’t an answer, and also unsettling to hear from his usually-contrary mouth. Judging by the unhappy curve of Astarion’s lips, he thought so as well. Tav extracted his arm from Astarion’s grip. “Leave it,” he said, then added more gently when Astarion frowned, “The hurting helps me feel real, helps keep me in check.”

Karlach muttered something low that sounded like a curse from another plane and Shadowheart couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. “Well boys, your ready?” the warrior said anyway a moment later, forcing cheer in her voice. “Let’s go kick some Sharran ass and get you something fresh to eat.”

* * *

There were so many delicious morsels for you to taste in this dark place.

You relished the press of dark magics around you, like a familiar coat. (He used to be able to feel it within, rather than without, like a forgotten dream, but this was fine, too, because of all the necks, bared for the slaughter.) Your blades were quick and your fangs quicker.

One of the bloodbags turned on you, but more fool they! They weren’t wearing enough armor to deflect the new strength of your arm. Cut from collar to navel, crack the sternum and shred abdominal muscle! You relished the spray of warm blood, chasing away the chill that lingered on your skin.  (Why was he cold? Wasn’t that wrong?)

Ah, just look at that heart beating past the ribcage; beautiful. Delicious, as it stops!

You licked your blade clean and ducked under the next blow, sneering at the pathetic attempt from bloodbag’s friend. Eye socket, unprotected: a quick strike— from your wrist, not your shoulder, better for accuracy, my Heir— and the eyeball burst. Find the gaps in armor, yes, onetwothree! He was so hungry—


The swords got stuck in a ribcage so you abandoned them, leaping at the next pretty victim. They weren’t expecting it, going down under your not inconsiderable weight— you could be more, you could be better!- and the perfect sound of vertebrae cracking met your ears. (He was used to better music, wasn’t he? No, shut up, this wasn’t—) Wrench the helmet to the side, bare the throat, and drink and drink and—

“Stop!” The shout was a nuisance, prickling on his skin. He twitched, lifted from his fresh meal, licked his lips.

An order.

…Hm. No, thanks.

He swiped at the next lump of flesh to amble toward him and had a choice to make: new kill (fresh for father, if they stopped breathing you were allowed to start again, that was how it worked) or make use of the meal in front of him. Would be a waste, and you could just as easily kill the other for dessert.

Thank you, Father! It was delicious, the body cooling beneath you, the last dregs of their blood filling your mouth. He could bite, chew— no. He spat it out. Not as good. Not like it used to be. 

Eugh. Sorry sweet corpse. You’ll have to be find a new way to enjoy Father’s blessing now.

The fighting had stopped. A pity. But there was a body still twitching nearby when his victim’s heart gave out, and while it was lovely to peel remaining flesh from bone, it was a wasted opportunity for fangs to sever artery; he dropped knee-first into soft gut, heard a rib crack, leaned down and sank his teeth into flesh. Nn, delicious.

He was so full. A relief. More than that— a joy. He tore through flesh with his claws and relished the easy give, the warm splatter, heat on his tongue and heat in his loins. Yes, Father, thank you, he’ll be a good, obedient son—

No. He didn’t want to be good. He blinked in confusion. He wanted to be—

There is only the end. Let it please you. Let it sate you. Nothing can love you like—

“Tavran Gregory, stand up.”

He was moving before he realized it, straightening, leaving his meal behind, even though the voice was tremulous. Scared. Weak. He could take it, he could make it truly know fear—

“Good boy.” A shudder— revulsion mixed with pleasure, eyes lidding. He liked that, he needed it— no. No! You hated it! Wrong voice. Wrong master—! “Can you look at me, my dear?” The voice was still anxious, shaky, trying to sound bigger than it was. Pathetic.

He opened his eyes anyway. He was. It was dark, but he could still see. The floor nearby by covered in scattered corpses, fools who thought they could best him. The room was rank with the sweet smell of fresh death and gore, and he took a deep breath, shivering delightedly. Oh, yes.

“Step over here, if you would,” the voice ordered, and he cocked his head. Who dared think they could command him? But something hooked deep in his belly, tugging. It didn’t hurt, not as badly as he suddenly knew it could, and more out of curiosity than anything he stepped forward.

“Is he—?”

“Go with Shadowheart,” the voice said firmly, and he turned on his heel. “Not you, Tav. Hold still for me, please. That’s it, my dear.” 

He swayed a little in place. Something was clawing at his insides, howling. Something else was purring happily. Stay. Listen. Obey. He liked that. It made him feel good.

No! You are not made to bow to lesser beings! Kill him kill him killhim-!

“Wait,” came another voice, lighter, sweeter, he would like to find her veins and— “Tranquillum.”

The world dimmed and shrank. He felt suddenly like there was nothing at all that mattered. He wanted nothing, he felt nothing. It would be so peaceful, if he could just leave it all behind, forever. Take him to the sunlight, let it all just end—

“Tavran, darling, please, snap out of it, you’re frightening me,” he heard, and Tav snapped back into his body, and then some. He keened as the ever-present ache returned to his limbs, the vicious snarling of his Urge— or the hunger? He couldn’t tell the difference— biting at him. His head, throbbing. No, he wanted the horrible, terrible nothing back, please, please—

His insides twisted at the plea in his thoughts. Punishment? Grief? His mouth tasted like blood, his hands and armor were tacky with it, and the whole room smelled of gore. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten here. What was— where was he?

His eyes were closed. Why? He opened them. He was in a dark place of some kind— a temple?— and Astarion was with him. Otherwise they were alone.

Except for the dozens of bodies strewn on the floor.

“What happened?” Tav asked. He couldn’t read Astarion’s expression.

“What do you remember?” Astarion asked carefully. He was keeping his distance, Tav noticed. Tav didn’t blame him, but it still made him ache.

“I— coming out of the sewer,” he said. “And then—” Nothing. Well, a few flashes. People screaming, blood welling under his blades, under his teeth, filling his mouth. It had seemed beautiful.

He looked around at the ravaged corpses. Something shivered with delight in his belly, and another part of him was repulsed. Horrified and euphoric, both. What a combination. 

There were so many of them, he realized dizzily, so many throats torn, limbs cleaved, bodies ruined and relished. A slaughter beyond imagining.

“I did all this,” he said, not really a question.

“…I tried to stop you,” Astarion said after a long pause. Tav looked at his hands; they seemed foreign, like they weren’t a part of him. He had used them, once, for playing music, for delighting children. Had that only been a dream? He wasn’t sure.

He wanted to lick the blood off his hands, and savor it. He wanted to cut them off and never look at them again.

“Come here,” Astarion said, and he did, easily, letting the command wash over him like a forbidden pleasure, now that he was sated— but now he knew also he could simply not, and that meant no one was safe.

The grim look on Astarion’s face said that he knew it, too.

“I’m sorry,” Tav said, dropping to his knees in front of him. “I wanted to listen, I—”

“Ssh,” Astarion said, expression strained, his hands trembling a little when he reached down to cup Tav’s face, and Tav’s groan of pleasure as he buckled under the implied order was obediently silent. “Just rest a moment, my dear,” and Tav sighed, and leaned his forehead against Astarion’s hip, ignoring the part of him that raged at the order, ignoring the part of him that felt sick at how good it felt to let someone else make the choices.

Ignoring the little voice in his mind that whispered that his compliance was temporary, that Astarion’s will wasn’t strong enough to keep him down, and he’d proven it thoroughly.

His options were shrinking. Dread was heavy in his throat. But bloated with the blood of dozens of corpses, shivering with corrupt pleasure, and his mind eerily quiet, Tav could pretend to be tamed, for a little while longer.

 

 

 

Notes:

Oh no, your Bhaalspawn slipped the leash! Who could have guessed that would happen!

 

As always, thanks for your comments, they always keep me motivated. <3

Chapter 11

Summary:

In which there are reunions and last straws.

The sunlight, even secondhand, from the shade, itched and stung, and Tav wanted a dark place, a quiet place. He almost knew where, but it was gone from him like so much smoke when he tried to grasp at the memories. At the same time, he was cold, and he ached, and his head hurt relentlessly.

He wanted Astarion’s hands to touch his face gently, his hair, his ears. He didn’t deserve them. He wanted to tear and claw and bite him, too, for daring to command him, peel back his skin, investigate how those undead organs would survive if exposed slowly to light and heat and—

No. That wasn’t right. He bit back the bile as the world briefly swam before his eyes. He was better. He had to be better, otherwise he’d be of no use to anyone. No use to Lae’zel, trapped by his murderous kin because of his own failings. No use to Astarion, who had tried to treat him like a person, like something worthy of care, and had gotten brutalized for it.

“Okay, well that was a fucking disaster,” Karlach hissed. She probably thought he couldn’t hear her, since she was standing in the sun with the others a good distance away, but they kept forgetting he was stronger now. His senses were sharper. Not his vision, not in the daylight, but everything else seemed enhanced.

And changed. Things that had once delighted him turned his stomach now. A fitting punishment.

They were talking about the House of Grief, how Tav had slaughtered his way through the worshippers without pause or mercy. He hadn’t even noticed until they’d made it back to camp that Shadowheart had found her parents, had saved them, had chosen pain over loneliness.

Lucky for her, that she had a choice.

“We can’t keep civillians here with him in the camp,” Karlach was saying quietly.

“Well what do you suggest? I won’t send them anywhere that will put them in more danger, and my— my mother is confused. Seeing me is the only thing that calms her down,” Shadowheart said.

“Perhaps you and your parents should go to the Elfsong,” Wyll recommended gently.

“I don’t think separating is a good idea,” the cleric argued. “There’s the prism to consider, as well as the fact that Orin or Gortash could have people lurking in the wings, waiting to harm one of us if they can.

“If Astarion’s commands are not enough, it is only a matter of time before we will only be able to control him physically,” Jaheira said, and Astarion made an irritated noise. 

“You talk about him like he isn’t in there at all,” he snapped. “But he is. If you just give him more time—”

“Time you don’t have,” Jaheira said bluntly. “If we all move to the Elfsong, perhaps we can find a room to secure him in. Or if necessary, we can keep him in my basement, but I’ll need some time to adjust the wards.”

“There’s always the Emperor’s hideout,” Karlach suggested.

“He doesn’t need to be isolated,” Astarion snapped. “Perhaps he lost control today, but there was no damage done but to those who wanted to damage us first,” he pointed out.

The whispered discussion continued, but Tav tuned out the circular argument. He hated it. He hated them. He hated himself. The Urge? Or just his rotten insides baring their truths in the light of day? Was he always made up of hate? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. He felt that whoever he’d been even a tenday ago was far off, and a lie.

“You look upset.” Gale, cautiously, giving him a wide berth even as he approached. Smart. Don’t get  caught between the wall and the monster, wizard, or you’ll get eaten up. 

“Upset?” Tav echoed. “They’re right.” Gale glanced in the direction of their whispering comrades and his brow furrowed; he probably couldn’t hear them at this distance. Tav would have been more interested in testing the limits of his improved senses, if he weren’t so distracted by the way he imagined he could hear the fresh blood pumping in Gale’s veins if he just focused enough. Tempting, always tempting.

“Right about what?” Gale asked him, and Tav gave a humorlessly smirk, pacing the edge of shadow underneath the pavilion.

“They want to keep me locked up tight. Somewhere safe. Caged.” Gale’s brow furrowed further, and Tav laughed bitterly. “Don’t tell me you don’t agree. It would be fair, after what happened. After everything. I bet Dammon could make chains strong enough to hold me,” he said with a grin.

Gale gave him a censorious look, but he couldn’t fool Tav and his enhanced sense of smell; he was nervous. Good, purred a little voice in the back of his head that Tav feared was really just himself. “Now, I’m sure you just misunderstood. They want to find a way to give you better surroundings than a pile of old crates in a scrap of shade,” he told Tav, and it was a nice sentiment.

“You buy your cat lots of little fancy cushions, don’t you Gale,” Tav mused, and Gale huffed at him.

“Tara is a tressym, and I don’t know why that matters.”

“You can keep pets in the lap of luxury,” Tav said, doing another circuit, feeling restless. Stepping closer— to weak flesh, to pumping heart, prime for the plucking out— was tempting, but the threat of the painful burns the sun brought were enough to quell even the slavering beast in the back of his thoguhts. Also, he truly wasn’t hungry, for once. 

“But that’s not how you keep a street dog for blood sport,” Tav continued. “You teach them how to hurt, but it’s all they know, so they have to stay chained up, because they’ll bite even their handlers.” He hummed to himself, tuneless, just like everything else had become since Cazador’s blade had first touched him. “Do you like your fingers, Gale?”

Gale shot him a look but otherwise ignored the comment. “You aren’t a dog, of any sort, just as Tara is a friend,” he said sternly. “You are Tavran, our friend. Bard,” Gale added, and something in Tav’s chest ached.

“Am I?” he asked. “Aren’t I changed beyond recognition? Where’s the music, Gale?” he asked bitterly. 

“Talk me through it,” Gale said, coaxingly, and Tav sneered at the coddling. “What do you mean?”

“Magic doesn’t come to me anymore,” he said stiffly, his pace becoming jerky.

“It’s understandable that you would have some difficulty adjusting-”

“There’s nothing, Gale,” Tav said, and Gale stopped, and looked at him for real. Tav was miserably grateful; he felt like no one had met his eyes properly since he’d come to Baldur’s Gate, for one reason or another. No one except Astarion, who could barely stand to look at him at all now, or Jaheira, who always seemed to be looking for something else in his eyes.

He and Gale had their moments of friction, but at least he could say this for the wizard: he was never afraid to look.

And now, the normally-talkative wizard waited, watching wordlessly. “Magic is— was— it was everywhere. It hummed, it sang, it played. I could close my eyes and hear it singing in Shadowheart’s prayers, in Wyll’s weapon, in your chest.” He watched Gale frown, but still refrain from interrupting, for which Tav was grateful. Words had used to come easier to him, hadn’t they? “I learned Misty Step from listening to you, you know,” he said, slowly picking his way across his shattered thoughts. “Do you know what that spell sounds like?”

“I assume you don’t mean the incantation,” Gale said wryly, and Tav shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” Tav said hollowly. “I can only hear him laughing, now.” It had a beat, but no tone, only that earth-shaking, low-rumbling dirge of death echoing in his empty skull. He didn’t tap along, but it was there, thudding beside his pulse. One-two three-four.  A death-summons.

“I didn’t use any magic at all, in the Sharran enclave, did I?” he pointed out, when Gale just looked at him. The query was genuine; large swathes of that morning’s memory were simply gone.

“You don’t, usually, when you’re in the middle of an Urge,” Astarion pointed out, coming up behind Gale and looking grim. Gale startled, but Tav had noticed him approaching from the moment he moved toward them. “It’s all biting this, knives that, ‘I’ll wear your insides as a ceremonial robe’, that sort of thing,” he said flatly, and Tav pursed his lips.

“I can’t cast,” he said bleakly. “I’ve tried all afternoon.”

“You don’t have your hands,” Gale said. “Surely that’s—”

“I don’t need my hands,” Tav reminded him, interrupting, suddenly feeling more tired than frustrated. “I’ve never needed my hands.”

It was a relief, a balm, though a small one, to see his own grief reflected in Gale’s face; Astarion simply looked away. “I cannot imagine being unable to feel the Weave,” the wizard said solemnly. “I know you and I have disagreed in the past on the finer details of magic, but believe me when I say I have no doubt that it is a terrible loss for you to withstand,” he said, and Tav shuddered. He had felt lately like any emotion threatened to boil over into something uncontrollable— a side-effect of vampirism?— and he worked to push down the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I appreciate that,” he said hollowly, because what else was Gale meant to do? At least he had listened, even if he couldn’t fully understand. 

“I won’t say that it will get better,” Gale added after a long pause. “I know how you feel about platitudes. But if there is a way to restore your magic to you, we will find it,” he promised, and Tav let one corner of his mouth twitch upwards.

“Probably better that you don’t,” he said. “I’m dangerous enough as it is.”

Gale frowned at him. “We’re all dangerous,” he pointed out.

“Not in the same way,” Tav pointed out, grimacing. “I won’t have a choice, if I lose to him.”

“Which you won’t,” Astarion said, stepping bravely into the shadows with him, though he wasn’t nearly as tempting as Gale was, right now. The only pleasure from killing him would be in the destruction; his blood was not as satisfying as mortal blood. Still better than anything else, though. But if he just looked pathetic enough, Astarion would offer it to him without being asked.

A fool, his thoughts whispered to him, and he ignored it. “You’re fighting, aren’t you?” Astarion asked, and even dared to lay a hand on his face. Tav leaned into it and fought back the desire to bite his fingers. “My sweet bard is still in here,” Astarion said firmly, and Tav frowned.

“What if he’s not,” he said flatly. “What if I’ve changed too much?” He could see Gale wavering from the corner of his eye, not wanting to witness a private moment but clearly loathe to leave Astarion alone with him. Tav didn’t care; his worst nightmares and humiliations had been bared to the entire camp. He had no secrets left to protect.

“Let me get to know you again, then,” Astarion said, and there was a hint of desperation in his eyes. Tav didn’t know what Astarion wanted him to say, but he was clearly hoping for something. “Can you do that for me, darling?”

Tav wondered if there had been a future where going to his knees for Astarion had been a choice made without death looming over both of them, if it had been a give and take of equals, if Astarion would have knelt with him, or sometimes knelt for Tav instead. Where his service would have been allowed as an expression of tenderness instead of another act of violence between them that lacerated both of them. But there was no point in asking what-ifs; the play was already written. The best they had now was to pretend that the acting didn’t make them both hate each other a little more with every scene they recited.

“Command it and I’ll try,” he said, and a shadow crossed Astarion’s expression. For a moment, Tav thought he would refuse, and then he gripped the back of Tav’s neck in a mockery of the soothing gesture that used to put Tav to sleep on long, uneasy nights.

“Drink then,” Astarion said, and Tav sank his teeth into Astarion’s delicate, pretty wrist, and pretended it was only the monster inside of him that moaned at how good it felt when Astarion flinched. “Three swallows, my dear,” Astarion said, but his voice was hollow now. It didn’t matter; Tav let the order fill the holes in his useless brain and ignored the parts of him that raged in disgust. He swallowed greedily, thrice, then let Astarion pull away. “Behave for me, won’t you?” Astarion asked in that distant voice that said he was hurting and wouldn’t show a soul, and Tav tipped forward and nosed Astarion’s neck. 

“Miss you,” he murmured, drunk on the abundance of blood he’d had, on the euphoria of being given orders he didn’t fight, and even in his state he knew it was cruel of him. “Tell me to be good,” he said, because he knew he couldn’t earn it himself anymore. Astarion was as rigid as stone in front of him.

“…Be good, Tavran,” Astarion said without any inflection at all, and Tav let himself slip into the pleasure of it, let it wipe his naughty thoughts away, let it make his body loose in case Astarion had use of it. All Astarion did was hold his waist, but standing quietly still for him so he could made sparks of pleasure roll through Tav, a mockery of the tenderness he’d once felt. A forced reward, but at least a peaceful one.

It wouldn’t last. Tav could see Sceleritas scowling out of the corner of his eye already, from where he stood next to an oblivious and clearly uncomfortable Gale, could feel his guts roiling in anger and despair at feeling his will stripped away from him. But better Astarion’s than someone else’s lash.

* * *

They were packing up camp.

The plan was to move in the morning. Shadowheart’s mother needed to rest and insisted— in a ludic moment, which apparently were few— that she wanted to be under the open sky for one night, to feel the moon on her skin while she slept. And they were too entrenched in this camp to leave so easily anyway; they had settled in, roosting. 

So the others would spend the rest of the afternoon and evening packing, while Shadowheart saw to her parents— far away from him, on the other side of the camp, as was right— while he was left to rot in the shade to do nothing but wait.

They shouldn’t trust him, Tav knew that. But Astarion was still too kind— and he would laugh, if Tav said that aloud, but Tav knew him, knew the parts of him Cazador tried to strangle and failed— to bind Tav’s hands when he had mostly mastered his control, and while the sun was enough to keep him from acting out.

He’d be so easy to betray, so easy to trap, he killed everything else he’s scared of except for you. Tav hated that he couldn’t tell if the voice whispering to him was himself or someone else.

They’d left the chest of supplies near him. Not the one with weapons in it— someone had moved it away from his shadow-limned cage already— but the one with extra camp clothes, some of their dry rations, important books. No one was looking at him, busy packing up camp to prepare for their move, not even Jaheira with her ceaseless watch right now. She had to rest sometime.

Sceleritas was gone, for now, too. He was as alone as possible.

He picked the lock on the chest. It was a game he and Astarion had played, to keep changing them. “The best way to practice lock-picking is by doing,” Astarion had told him cheerfully, and each time Tav mastered it, he would change it out for a new one. Tav had no idea where he was getting them all, and he knew it irritated the others to have their access barred, but Tav had made the valid point that there was no reason to let their things be easy to steal, and had won the argument with practicality.

But the most-recent lock hadn’t been replaced yet. Probably it would never be. Tav pulled the chest open with ease and pulled out the astral prism. It was mostly inert, glowing only a little if held in shadow, and Tav had no idea how to reach out to it to indicate to its occupant that he wanted to talk; without a tadpole, would he even be able to communicate telepathically?

He held onto it for a few minutes, not sure what he was waiting for. It had been packed right next to the jar he’d stuffed the astral tadpole in after the Emperor had given it to him and sent them back to their own plane. Tav hadn’t thought much about it since; he knew there was no one in the camp that was truly interested in ‘evolving’, though if they had been, he wouldn’t have stopped them. He certainly didn’t want it for himself. But maybe it was an answer he had too soon rejected.

“Ah, I am glad you have drawn near,” he heard suddenly in his thoughts. “It is difficult to reach you, now that you do not carry a tadpole. An impossible incident you’ve achieved, by not transforming in spite of being infected.”

It took Tav a minute to work his head around how to respond mentally without the tadpole to smooth the way, but he could just barely sense a connection between them. It made his head pound, but he tried to hold onto it anyway. “Not a solution I’d recommend to anyone else, honestly,” he thought back at the Emperor.

“Well it was unusual,” he agreed. “Have your companions explained to you about what the astral tadpole may offer you?”

“I’d trust it better if I heard you explain it yourself,” Tav said instead of answering; flattery had always gotten him somewhere with the Emperor, if he disguised his real feelings well enough— don’t think about why he was so good at that, don’t think about how long his mind must have been invaded and conquered to have mastered the skill— and the Emperor launched into an explanation immediately. 

“The Astral tadpole will give you strength. It will change you. You won’t have to rely on the frailties of an undead body, or its hungers,” the mind flayer finished with, and Tav knew he was being manipulated, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still tempting.

Could the tadpole fix him? He hadn’t wanted it before, hadn’t wanted to be changed. He’d fought and fought for his right to be himself, fought against nightmares and cultists and was prepared to fight his own bloodkin and the power of the very god that whispered temptation in his pores, but… Could he keep fighting? Was this existence worth fighting for, now that it was tainted? When every whiff of blood sent him into a frenzy, when the only people he ever knew as family** friends looked at him with fear?

(Don’t feed him, Jaheira had said, looking at him like he was a pitiable monster. A thing, to be restrained, kept weak so that it couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Most vampire spawn are monstrous, Astarion had said all those weeks ago, blithe. It’s the tadpole that keeps me fit for practically any civilized company.)

“What if it makes it worse?” he thought back at the Emperor. “What if the Urge gets to the tadpole, too?”

“I cannot promise that it won’t,” the Emperor allowed. “But it will make you greater. Perhaps great enough to fight it, or at least, to control yourself. The mortal mind is not as capable of the great willpower that a mindflayer’s is.”

Tav looked at the thing in the jar. It was ugly, with so many teeth. Tav’s earliest memory was of one its cousins burrowing into his eye, how it had hurt, how it had felt violating and invasive and wrong. How he had fought desperately to get away from the mind flayer inserting it, beaten himself bruised and bloody against the pod to escape it. 

Could he go through with that again? Willingly? Would he have to ask his friends to hold him down and force it into a hole, as a safeguard against their bleeding at his hands and teeth? His vision swam at the thought

“There is also the possibility of you being able to use magic again,” the Emperor said, and if mind flayers could sound purposely casual, he did. Tav felt himself freeze all over, his thoughts tripping over themselves for a moment. Oh, oh, he wanted that. He had tried not to let himself linger in the grief of his lost abilities, of the way music and magic made him feel like he was better than he was, that he could do something beautiful in a world that he had so far only brought destruction to. But at the Emperor’s words, it all came rushing back, crushing him.

However. He usually listened when Gale lectured, too. “Mind flayers don’t use magic,” he countered. “It’s a form of psionics that looks similar but has a different source.” 

“Well,” the Emperor said, hesitating for a moment, and Tav grimaced. Another attempt to manipulate him. “That is true,” he allowed. “But it is a similar power, and can be greater, once mastered.” 

Tav smiled wanly. Even with all their big brainy intelligence, mind flayers could still get things wrong. Tav didn’t want magic for the power. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do not have much time. While I was impressed by the display of strength in the enclave, might without direction will be of little use in the fight ahead,” the Emperor said. “If you will not take the tadpole, consider allowing me to direct you, as your vampire spawn attempted.”

Tav immediately felt sick. Nausea was an odd emotion as someone whose organs maybe didn’t really function properly. It felt like it swamped his whole system, instead of just his stomach. He bit back his instinctive, angry retort; the Emperor couldn’t even reach him if he wasn’t holding the prism. He wouldn’t be dominated unexpectedly. Still, it was difficult not to toss the thing back into the chest immediately.

“I will find a way to control myself,” he said firmly. “Our partnership stands, even without my own tadpole. I will help free you from the Elder Brain, just as I have helped my other friends,” he managed, and hoped it didn’t come across too stiff. He’d pulled it off before, when he’d thought the Emperor might force him into an intimacy Tav didn’t want; he could only hope it would work twice.

“As you wish,” the Emperor said. “But should your further attempts continue to fail, do not hesitate overlong. It would be a shame to see your comrades fall at this late hour.” Was that a threat? Maybe not. The Emperor still needed them, after all. For now, anyway.

It still made Tav’s lip curl and his spine prickle.

“Tavran?” he heard, and realized he was hissing under his breath.

“Thanks for the information,” he thought at the Emperor, and dropped the prism back into the chest, tucking the tadpole next to it. Only then did he look around at Jaheira, standing at the outer edge of his confinement with her arms folded.

“What is your ilithid companion whispering in your ear?” she asked bluntly.

“Nothing,” Tav said, and shut the chest firmly. She frowned but he made a shooing motion. “The sun is still enough to keep me contained, Jaheira. Don’t tempt my father’s blood and flesh with your hovering; he’d like to see you strewn across his altar.”

“I take it as a compliment that Bhaal could find it in him personally to return my dislike,” she said sarcastically, though her knuckles were white. “Is he whispering to you as well? Even in the waking?”

“Don’t know,” Tav said with a shrug. Was it muscle memory? Habit? Memory? Or had he stepped closer to his maker, by becoming undead? Or was he just going slowly mad? “Does it matter?” The outcome would be the same; if he couldn’t resist it, he would have to be destroyed. “You’ll kill me, if it comes to that,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. He knew she could tell, by the way her lips flattened.

“Astarion would not be pleased to hear such talk,” she said faux-lightly, and he snorted.

“He won’t be pleased if I kill him, either,” he said bluntly.

Her head tilted and she looked at him with a sharp eye. “Are his commands working on you at all, Bhaalspawn?” she asked quietly, and he looked at her for a long moment.

“Cazador himself couldn’t command the Urge,” he pointed out after letting her sit in the silence of her foolish question. She sighed.

“It does me no pleasure to think of causing your death, bardling,” she said, and something twinged in his chest: longing. “Do not force me to do so by giving up.”

“I’m not giving up,” Tav said. “I promised Astarion that he would be free, not just of Cazador but of the tadpole too. The others, as well. I started this mess, least I can do is help you undo it.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Jaheira said. “You once inspired this old Harper not to give in to the grim tidings of fate.  I will see you through this in return, if I can.”

“I don’t think you can,” Tav mused, studying his hands. In spite of all the blood he’d drunk, his wrists were still scabbed and scarred from how fiercely he fought his bindings at night.  “None of you can.”

“Why do you say that?” Jaheira asked evenly, but she sounded tense. Alert. Good.

Tav grinned at her and watched her take a half-step back. “Well, Jaheira,” he drawled. “The fact is— you don’t want to hurt me badly enough.”

* * *

His insides felt like they had been cut open and set on fire, and there was loud snarling from somewhere.

Tav shook himself— blood in his mouth, why was there blood in his mouth?— and tried to force himself into consciousness. It was dark, and he hurt everywhere. A shadow launched itself at him; it was heavy, and growling, and there were teeth and claws and he knew suddenly that they had already torn him open many times, that he was spilling ichor on the ground.

He fought back, won the upper hand, and threw the beast off of himself, and though he didn’t see where it landed, he heard it whimper, and it didn’t come back. He was too busy looking at his hands with horror.

They were covered in blood. They were unbound. Why wasn’t he tied up?

He was shaking, and his vision was spotty. Apparently even vampire spawn with Bhaal’s divine essence could take too much damage, and he had found the limit, swaying. What was—? The last thing he remembered was falling into a fitful sleep, secured to the stone pillar firmly as before. Where was Jaheira? Everyone else had moved to the other side of camp to sleep, but someone was supposed to be keeping watch. 

Why wasn’t he tied up?

“Easy, master,” Sceleritas cooed, and he was there suddenly— no, he’d always been there?— in his stupid hat. The sight of the butler filled him with rage. “Yes, very good,” Sceleritas purred, delighted. “Just finish the job now. Make an example of them both,” he said, and—

 There was a body at Tav’s feet. Not the body he’d tossed, which was oddly-fur-covered and still breathing. What the fuck was he looking at?

He felt dizzy and sick and scared. Whose body was in front of him, spattered with gore? Whose blood was in his mouth? He bent over and almost collapsed at the shock of pain all through his abdomen. It took him a moment, his head spinning, to orient himself, to come around the other side of the too-quiet, too-still lump to see the face.

Her face. He didn’t recognize her, not personally, but he knew all the same. 

Shadowheart’s mother.

“No,” he wheezed, and the Urge was cheering viciously, wanted the werewolf too, wanted to feast. 

“You’re making your father proud, master,” Fel said, and Tav wanted to strangle him, but he could barely keep himself awake. He had lost so much blood— he must have fought the werewolf until the pain woke him up.

Where were the others? Had he hurt them too?

“Kill him now,” Fel said, his voice suddenly cold, and the order swamped him and his thoughts. He stumbled to his feet, took a step toward the injured wolf. An easy kill. Maybe he would skin it. Maybe he would—

No! Get out of my head! He dug his hands into his own insides which had been helpfully opened to the air by werewolf claws and squeezed until the pain almost made him faint.  He was panting— from habit, probably— with the agony and the world was spinning when he opened his eyes again, but at least Sceleritas was gone.

He had to leave. He had to leave before he hurt anyone else, and before they found out what he’d done. Surely they’d have to put him down, and they would— it would hurt them.

And Tav couldn’t bear to see them reveal the hatred in their eyes, watch them end the game of concern and care once the monster justified their wrath.

He had to get out of here. It was the last clear thought he had in a while.

The next time he resurfaced from the mire of his bloodsoaked mind, he was somewhere in the sewers. There were three people drained at his feet— wearing the symbol of the stone lord, a last holdout maybe— and his insides and his skin had stitched themselves mostly back together from the feeding. He leaned against the wall and slid down against it heavily.

His face was wet.

It was clear self-control was no longer an option. As he shivered in the dank, stinking corner, he desperately tried to scrape his thoughts together. He could walk into the sun at dawn, maybe, if his foul blood would allow him. It was the only solution he could see, unless he could find a better collar to fit around his throat, a better muzzle to lock around his own jaw.

But how? Who could collar him? Astarion clearly hadn’t enjoyed taking the reins; it reminded him too much of the time he’d spent under Cazador’s control, and for all his posturing about wanting power, what Astarion really wanted was to feel safe.

(He would never feel safe, keeping a mad Bhaalspawn leashed. Especially since Tav didn’t love him enough to obey properly.)

No, he needed a different leash. If Cazador’s collar hadn’t been strong enough, no one in their camp would be either. Maybe Gale, at the height of his arch mage powers, could have bound Tav’s will— Bhaal’s will— but not now. 

None of them were capable of the true violence needed to keep down a Bhaalspawn. It was a compliment to them, and a grief.

Was the astral tadpole the answer, then, if he didn’t want to die? If he didn’t want to kill anyone else he cared about? Did he have to ask the Emperor to take the reins?  A shudder of revulsion rolled down his spine. Please, not more ilithid control, not when he’d just been freed from months of terror, not if there was any other choice. 

Although.

Tav knew others who were accustomed to forging collars and chains one way or another, didn’t he? A mortal's power alone perhaps wasn’t enough, and the Emperor was right; he needed a stronger hand, one with the power and will to back it up. Something that could fight the combined power of a god and a vampire in his blood. 

Luckily, Tav realized slowly, he knew someone who was used to bending strong wills, to forcing obedience and compliance. Someone who was willing to cause pain for a greater cause, who’d known Tav before he’d been Tavran Gregory, Bard. 

Who had watched Tav and looked all too willing to break him.

An hour later, he pulled himself through a window at the top of Wyrm’s Rock fortress and wasn’t really surprised to find the owner of the office still awake at this hour at his desk, utterly unsurprised to see Tav break in.

“Gortash,” Tav rasped, as the man sat back and eyed him. “We need to talk.”

Notes:

😬😬😬

Chapter 12

Summary:

Most of the camp wakes. Someone does not.

Astarion couldn’t bear to look at his darling bound and restrained like an animal. It reminded him too much of Cazador’s punishments, of cruel patriars, of two centuries of misery, torment, and darkness.

The others had moved away as well, crowding together in one half of their makeshift camp. They had left most of their packed belongings— trunks, magically expanded bags, even a wheelbarrow full of spare armor— set aside where Karlach’s tent had been, ready to be moved with them the next day, when everyone was feeling rested enough to relocate.

And by everyone Astarion mostly meant Shadowheart’s mother, Emmeline. She was a frail-looking human woman of some indeterminate old age— Astarion wasn’t very good at guessing the age of humans, they all started to look so old at such dreadfully few number of years— and her captivity had apparently been hard on her.

He could understand that, and did, well enough that it made him uncomfortable to look at her, too.

This was fairly unfortunate because of the close nature of their camp setup for their last evening at the docks. Shadowheart was sharing her space with her parents, which meant that their already fairly crowded section of camp was becoming absurdly over-populated, as Gale, Karlach, and Astarion had moved their tents over to this side as well, after mostly-emptying them out for transition to the inn.

If he were a better partner, Astarion thought as he vicioulsy stabbed a needle through the breeches he was mending, he would have set up near his bard. He firmly believed that isolating Tav was not the answer, and cruel in addition. But Astarion needed some space, and some time to think.

He’d never been good at the details of a plan, and he cursed that about himself now. If commanding Tav through sharing his blood wasn’t going to work, he would need another solution. He refused to give up on his blood-soaked darling.

None of that changed the fact it was also painful to be too close, and to watch how Tav’s eyes glazed when Astarion forced his obedience on him as though Astarion’s will was erasing his. Like he was stealing the last spark of life that Tav had to give, after Cazador had taken the rest. Even if they made it out of this nightmare, how could Tav ever look at him again with anything other than the same horror reserved for the other powers that forced and abused him?

(Astarion was too proud to admit that being close to Tav also made something within him cringe, remembering a dark tent and a stake. He knew Tav hadn’t meant it. That didn’t mean that Astarion didn’t find himself flinching any time Tav moved just a little too quickly.)

Thus, here Astarion was: on the other side of camp while the half-elf who had saved him was left to rot beneath his ropes because Astarion was too much of a coward to do anything else about the mad urges that gripped his poor darling. Astarion’s skin crawled with shame, and he turned his thoughts away.

At least there were distractions here. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to avoid eavesdropping on his companions. And Shadowheart’s parents certainly provided some entertainment. “It isn’t safe here,” Emmeline insisted from in front of Shadowheart’s tent, and Astarion felt his jaw tense, but whatever drama was playing out was better than listening to the echo of his own thoughts. He turned just slightly to watch, from where he was sitting to work on this mending project, and saw the way she was struggling to sit up.

Shadowheart’s mother had been thus far… interesting to observe, after being brought out of the Sharran enclave to their camp. She seemed addled, if Astarion had the right of it. She couldn’t remember anyone’s name. She seemed confused and forgetful, and seemed to following some internal logic that she didn’t share with anyone else. While they’d packed camp earlier, she had been rifling through their camp supplies— not the chest with weapons, so they’d left her to it— when she insisted on ‘helping them organize’, and now she seemed to be trying to move Shadowheart’s whole tent somewhere else.

“All is well, Emmeline,” Arnell responded, his hair lank in his face; they had washed in a basin in the dubious privacy of the run-down chapel, and Gale and Wyll had gone into the market to fetch them some clean clothes. (Probably only one of them had been necessary for the chore, but no one was allowed to leave camp alone, ever since Orin had replaced Lae’zel and nearly killed the little kitchen girl they’d briefly housed in their camp.) It was certainly no luxurious accommodations they had to offer to Shadowheart’s parents, but surely they played better host was better than Shar and her mad followers.

“The prisoners, they must be freed,” Emmeline said, and Arnell sighed.

“Mother,” Shadowheart said, cautiously, like the word was brand-new to her mouth. Astarion couldn’t look at her face. “You are freed now. You aren’t a prisoner anymore.”

“My sweet girl,” Emmeline sighed. “My dear Jenevelle,” she said. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t she? She has brought you back to me,” she said, and Shadowheart smiled shakily.

“If you’ll have me. I may not be the same daughter you remember,” she said, and Astarion hated the way her voice was unusually tremulous, and that he was close enough to hear it, even though just a few moments ago he’d been grateful for the distraction. He was allowed to change his mind! The others were pretending to be far enough away to give them some privacy, but they didn’t all have elven hearing.

“Where is Arnell? He’d want to see you,” Emmeline said, and Shadowheart frowned.

“He’s right here,” she said. “He’s sitting beside us.”

“No,” Emmeline said, looking at Arnell with a vacant frown. “I would like to see my husband, please,” she said. “Is he well? Tell me he’s well,” she said, her voice rising in pitch and panic.

“Your husband is well,” Arnell said firmly, coaxing Emmeline to laying back down. “He is fetching you some tea. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”

“Ah,” Emmeline said, still sounding faintly confused. “I need to make tea. I know her eyes are watching, but the tea would help. Viconia made it for us, and I saw it.”

“Someone else will make the tea, my dear,” Arnell continued soothingly, and Emmeline finally laid back on her borrowed bedroll.

“That’s good. Tell Arnell that I’m very tired.”

“Yes, we will,” Arnell assured her. “Rest now.”

“What’s wrong?” Shadowheart asked bluntly after a few moments of silence during which Astarion assumed Emmeline had fallen asleep. Astarion jabbed the needle in firmly to the row of stitches he was working on and uncharitably wished they could have sorted this all out somewhere more private. A little family drama was all well and good, but Astarion preferred his eavesdropping to be less emotionally fraught.

But there was very little privacy, between them all. If it wasn’t the close proximity, it was the tadpole. Sometimes Astarion felt like he would never be alone in his thoughts, even with Cazador ousted from them. “I can heal her, I’m much better at it now,” Shadowheart continued.

“My dear,” Arnell said with a heavy sigh. “There is no healing magic that either of us possess that can undo the ravages of time. Emmeline does not have long,” Arnell said quietly— though not quietly enough, and Astarion pursed his lips.

“What do you mean?” Shadowheart asked, voice pitchy the way it got when she was upset. “I only just— She simply needs time to recover.”

“Yes, I’m sure some time in freedom will help,” Arnell told her, soothingly. “But our stay as prisoners was… taxing on her.” Astarion watched out of the corner of his eye as the elven man gently brushed a hand over his wife’s brow, only pretending to sew at this point. “She has been ill for some months. I’m not sure there is a cure for the sort of damage she has suffered.”

“May flames take Shar’s temples any place they can be found,” Shadowheart started viciously, then inhaled sharply, clutching her hand.

“Shar will continue to punish you, for letting us live,” Arnell said, catching her hand, and Astarion watched, unable to look away, as Shadowheart hesitated before letting him.

“it’s nothing,” she said. “I wouldn’t trade it. But my— my mother, is there really nothing—?”

“You have brought her a great joy, to recognize her again, and to allow her to see you freed from Shar’s embrace,” Arnell told her. “Please believe me when I say there was nothing she wished for more than that. She always called you her daughter, and to have you answer with recognition in your eyes, no matter for how brief a time, is worth every hour of suffering.”

Shadowheart made a wet noise and Astarion got up to leave before he had to listen to her cry. He paced to the edge of their camp, toward the abandoned dock, and glared out at the moon. For no reason of course. It was simply there, and there was nothing else for him to take out his frustration on.

He didn’t believe that that moon goddess was paying attention, anyway. None of the gods had ever done so before.

He realized belatedly he had brought his repair-work with him. Tav’s earlier activity had been hard on his clothing; the bard was in something clean now, but he was wearing his last unripped pair of trousers, and he would be out of luck if he went on another blood-soaked spree and ripped any more of his clothes. Fixing his breeches seemed unequal to everything Tav had done for him, suddenly, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He hadn’t been able to make Tav smile since the night his siblings had shown up here. Mending his clothes was a poor substitute, but it would have to do. He sat down on the dock to get back to work; the gods didn’t care, and someone had to fix this hole.

* * *

Their camp smelled like blood.

It woke Astarion from his sleep trance with the familiar iron-tang, mixed with the smell of the seawater and docks rubbish that had plagued their party the whole time they’d been here. It was familiar, even, to smell blood on an adventure like theirs; someone was always hurt, or some other fool would think they could just waltz into their campsite without facing the sting of several swords ready to defend them all.

But something about it caused him to stir anyway. Something was wrong.

As he crawled out of his tent and got to his feet, he noticed Shadowheart doing the same. She shared a glance with him, looking worried— what had she noticed?— and picked up her mace while Astarion took up a blade. Then he took off in the direction of the blood-smell, her at his side. 

The first thing he saw was the pile of cut rope where Tavran should have been. If he’d had a heart, it would have stopped. 

Then he saw the three bodies strewn across the upper courtyard. He noticed Arnell first, if only because of the unexpected way his body was transforming— fur melting away to reveal elven features. Then he saw Emmeline and Jaheira as well.  All dead? Gods, there was so much blood.

He saw them only a second before Shadowheart did, and her cry pierced the night, no doubt waking the rest of camp. “No!” she shrieked, and flew to her mother, almost unrecognizable in her current state. “No, please…” Shadowheart was many things— charmingly catty, sarcastic, secretly too-kind, stubborn, and suspicious— but Astarion had never known her to wear her emotions on her sleeve, or to let others see her pain. It felt wrong, to hear the way her sobs split the night’s quiet.

“What’s going on?” Karlach asked, the first up the stairs. She’d been sleeping in her fighting gear, it looked like, and had picked up an axe on her way. Too little too late. “Oh, fuck.”

“Check on Jaheira,” Astarion snapped at her, because she didn’t looked dead, and he stepped over to Arnell. He was covered in gore, his hands and mouth bloody— was that Tav’s blood? Where was Tav?— and it took him several moments too long to realize that he was still alive.

He wouldn’t be for long.

“Shadowheart!” he called, but she didn’t answer, and he went over to her as the others started hurrying up the stairs to join them.

“He killed my parents,” she sobbed. “Leave me be!”

“Your father is still alive! And you’re the only one who can keep him that way,” he snapped, maybe too-sharply, but she finally looked at him.

“My father?” she asked blankly, then lunged for Arnell’s form, kneeling in the dirt as she called upon her magics.

The others were talking— shouting--  and Astarion stood dumbly as Halsin crouched near Karlach and Jaheira, his hands glowing. “Do you see him anywhere?” Wyll was asking Gale, rapier in hand, as the two of them fanned out, and Astarion realized they was looking for Tav.

For a split second, he worried what would happen if they found him.

Arnell came to with a ragged gasp and distracted Astarion from the horrid thought. “My dear Shadowheart,” he said, taking her hands. “Is Emmeline—”

“She’s gone,” Shadowheart said thickly. “I’m so sorry—”

“It is not your fault, daughter,” Arnell said, sounding aggrieved. “I knew she was gone by the time I awoke.”

“What happened?” Astarion asked curtly, ignoring Shadowheart’s stare as she helped her father, freshly healed but clearly still weak, sit up.

“I know not what awakened me. The moon is high, perhaps my senses were strengthened by the wolf,” he said, sounding distant and distracted. “I… Emmeline was not in her bedroll, and I found him standing over her body, covered in her blood,” Arnell said, glancing toward the spot where Tav had been tied.

“Then he attacked you,” Shadowheart said, not a question, and Arnell nodded.

“I attacked him, of course. I was— in my grief, I lost control. He fought back.” Arnell sighed. “I am in no condition to fight, and he was… it was unnatural,” he said shakily, and Astarion’s teeth were grinding.

“But he did not kill me when he had the upper hand,” Arnell said. “You mentioned that there is… an illness?” he asked tentatively, wincing as he  turned to look at his daughter.

“More like a possession,” Shadowheart said stiffly. “He isn’t— he’s cursed.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Arnell sighed. “He seemed to be fighting himself as much as me. I expected him to give the final blow, but it never came.”

“Did you see which way he went?” Astarion asked, but the werewolf shook his head.

“I was not conscious much longer. To be honest, I was surprised to wake up again at all.”

Astarion grimaced, but his attention was called over to the others when Jaheira started coughing. She looked confused, and dizzy, but only for a moment; then she tried to jump to her feet. “Easy,” Halsin said, carefully holding her down. “It seems you were poisoned somehow. Do you remember anything that happened?”

“Tavran, he—” She stopped, and Astarion saw her find Emmeline’s body with her gaze. “Nature preserve us,” she said, and pressed her hand to her face.

“Where the hells did he go?” Astarion demanded. “You were supposed to be keeping watch!”

“It’s not Jaheira’s fault. It’s your lover who’s turned into a murderous—”

Astarion snarled before Shadowheart could finish that sentence. “Don’t you dare,” he said, so furious his voice was shaking. He’d always hated that, the lack of control he felt the more upset he got. He’d never been like Cazador, who would get colder and calmer, his words precise and poised and perfect for hurting, and his tone so clear and sharp when he was angry. No, Astarion’s voice had always given him away.

“This isn’t the way to go about this. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves,” Wyll said gravely, and Astarion sneered. It was his only option when faced with Shadowheart’s teary face. He wanted to scream.

“What do you remember, Jaheira?” Karlach asked gravely, and Jaheira shook her head, thin-lipped.

“Not much. He was sleeping poorly, but that’s the last I can recall,” she said, grimacing.

“How did he escape,” Astarion snapped, and Gale touched his shoulder; Astarion only barely refrained from taking a bite out of his wrist in response.

“Like I said,” Jaheira said, holding her head. “I’m not sure what happened. Emmeline came over to have tea, said that she couldn’t sleep. The two of us shared a pot,” she said, squinting as though it was difficult to remember. Then she paled. “I’m going to be sick, if you’ve a bucket—”

“I’ll see to her,” Halsin said, and he helped Jaheira move away from the bloody scene to be sick and receive healing in relative peace.

“Do you think the tea was poisoned? Why?” Karlach asked, sounding confused.

Astarion got up and went to the supply chest. It was unlocked, because he hadn’t had the time— or seen the point in— to source a new lock on it for Tav to crack. Perhaps he should have. 

He went to the spell components pouch and pulled out incense. He wanted to know what had happened, and where Tav had gone, and there was only one way he could think of to do that.

He brought it over to Emmeline’s body, and Shadowheart took a sharp breath when she saw it.  “I’m not going to watch you use necromancy on my mother,” Shadowheart snapped, and Astarion glared at her.

“Then might I suggest relocating yourself so that your eyes may be spared,” he shot back.

Gods damn this wretched night! He did feel a little regret when he saw the look on Shadowheart’s face. This was almost certainly the worst night she had experienced in their company, and snapping at her was cruel and unhelpful. But he had to know, so he didn’t take it back, ignoring the little pain that felt suspiciously like guilt chewing on him from the inside.

“Come Shadowheart,” Arnell said, wearily, eyes strained with pain. “Your mother is with Selune now. She wouldn’t mind if someone calls on her echoes. But you don’t have to watch.”

“No,” Shadowheart said after a beat. “I’ll stay.”

Astarion couldn’t looked at her pale face any longer and focused on the corpse instead. Wyll passed him a few matchsticks, which Astarion used to lit the incense, then held out a hand over the body and murmured the incantation for Speak with Dead, knowledge that the spirits in the necromancy tome had imparted to him. (Another gift from Tav. Everything important about his new self was so wrapped up in the bard. What was would happen to new, free Astarion, if Tav was gone for good, lost to the monster in his blood?)

He hesitated over what questions to ask, even when the body lit up and faintly glowed green. He pretended he didn’t notice the way Arnell and Shadowheart gripped at one another.

“How did you die?” he asked finally.

“The feral one…” what-was-once-Emmeline said, in the toneless, echoey voice all of the dead spoke with. “His weapons were not borrowed… His claws were… so quick…”

“How did he escape his bindings?” Astarion pressed; Tav should have been too well-secured to attack anyone, and Jaheira didn’t remember seeing anything. What had happened?

“I helped the prisoner…” the corpse said in that same eerie tone. “…He was in pain… and the pain must end…”

“She cut him loose?” Gale asked, shocked, but Astarion ignored him. Karlach returned and crouched next to them.

“Did he say anything about his plans?” Astarion asked next.

“He cried…” Emmeline’s ghostly echo told him, and Astarion felt hollowed out. “Begged me to stop… then lost his voice. She… she tricked us both…”

“So Emmeline saw that he was bound and confused his captivity with her own,” Wyll put together.

“She likely did not know where she was,” Arnell said gravely. “Her sense of time and place were… waning, the past year. I have no doubt she suspected Sharran influence here. Perhaps she thought Tav was a fellow victim of nightgloom worshippers.”

“Oh, hells,” Karlach said grimly. “She thought she was saving him.”

“He didn’t want to kill her,” Astarion said desperately; he couldn’t bear it if they turned on Tav. He didn’t know what he would do if they did.

“That doesn’t change the fact that he did,” Shadowheart said coldly, and though her cheeks were still damp, she was no longer crying. She looked icy, and there was no flicker of warmth for him when she glanced his way, anymore. Astarion tried not to feel anything about it; grief affected everyone differently. And anyway, if the cost of saving his bard was to lose a few other things along the way, he would have to bear it, for Tavran’s sake.

“What happened to Jaheira?” Gale asked, nodding to Astarion. Astarion repeated the question to the corpse.

“I… made her some tea… Viconia always made that tea for us…”

“So it was the tea?” Karlach asked, frowning. She got up to pick up the nearby teapot and sniffed it. “Well, it smells more bitter than the usual brew, I guess.” She took it away to dump the remains.

“A potion or a poison of some,” Astarion said curtly. “It must be.”

“Emmeline was looking through the supplies earlier,” Gale recalled. “And Tav does have a rather… impressive collection of interesting substances,” he said with a rueful expression. Tav hated to throw anything that might have value away.

Astarion was just glad Gale hadn’t been foolish enough to use past tense. “So she poisoned Jaheira and then set Tav free,” Astarion said brusquely. “Tav— or rather, that thing that possess him— turned on her when he was released, and you heard the commotion,” he said, glancing at Arnell, who nodded once. “Lost control,” he continued, then hastily added (upon Shadowheart’s glare), “Rightfully so, of course! And fought him.”

“No offense, but I’m surprised he didn’t get you, too. We were all too far away to hear anything,” Karlach said with a grimace.

“As am I,” Arnell admitted. “Perhaps he thought I was already dead.”

“Perhaps he resisted it,” Astarion said, hating himself for his foolish hope but unable to stop himself. “He didn’t kill Jaheira either. Maybe he was trying to… fight that thing within.” Karlach nodded, but no one said anything else. Shadowheart’s head was bowed.

“You have one more question, Astarion,” Wyll pointed out, and Astarion turned back to the corpse, considering the spell he was still holding onto. There were other things he could ask, but…

“…Did you love your daughter?” he said finally, because it only seemed right, and Shadowheart took a shaky breath next to him.

“Every day. Jenevelle… beautiful flower…. My… dear one,” the corpse said, and Astarion closed his eyes against it as the magic faded out.

He didn’t look up until he heard Wyll and Shadowheart help Arnell up and listened to them walk away. He opened his eyes to see Gale dragging a spare blanket over Emmeline’s body, and he put out what remained of the incense— no use in wasting it.

“What do we do now?” Karlach asked.

“We have to look for him,” Astarion said. “He’s not— it isn’t safe in the city for any of us to be alone. And he would be upset, if he hurts anyone in this state without meaning to.”

“Anyone else, you mean,” Gale said, and Astarion shot him a glare. “I’m not disagreeing, Astarion. But it could be that Tav felt that he must leave, and that means he might make it difficult for us to find him.”

Astarion blew out a breath through his nose. “I don’t care,” he said flatly. 

“It’ll have to wait until morning,” Karlach said. “We still need to move camp, so that Arnell and Jaheira have a safe place to recover. And we all need to get as much rest as we can; like you said, it’s dangerous out there, and we need to stay on our toes, get proper rest.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll sleep any more tonight,” Gale said wanly. 

“Gotta try, wizard. We don’t have long now. Maybe an hour until sunrise.”

“We won’t be finished moving into the Elfsong for hours,” Astarion said, frustrated.

“It’s not like we have a trail to follow that could grow cold. We don’t know where he went,” Karlach pointed out, and Astarion clenched his fists. 

“I’m not going to just give up!”

“No one is asking you to give up,” Gale said, trying to catch his eye. Astarion refused to look at him.

Suddenly, it was all too much. The eyes, the stink of Emmeline’s blood, the weary look on Jaheira’s face, the sight of the cut ropes. “I’m going for a hunt,” he said aloud. He hadn’t wanted to feed on the Sharran cultists, earlier, afraid that it might set off something territorial in his darling that he couldn’t control, and Astarion had not wanted to give him another burden to bear. But feeding Tav his blood in an attempt to control guide him— however poorly he had been able to do so— on top of no longer feeding from him as normal meant that Astarion’s reserves were running a little low. He could find a lowlife in this town to drink, so doubt; they were hardly running short on crime here. And if not that, well. He was more than capable of seducing and subduing someone enough to feed from without killing them.

It didn’t matter that he would be wishing it was someone else’s throat the whole while. He might never get to set his teeth there again, after all, even if when they found Tav again. Not now that they were both so utterly changed.

Best to start getting used to it.

“You can’t go out alone,” Karlach called after him. It grated, but he had to agree; no one was supposed to go out alone, not since it became clear their steps were dogged by doppelgänger spies. He scowled at nothing.

“If you need to drink, feed from me,” Wyll said from behind him; he must have rejoined them while he wasn’t looking. “Halsin told me he would make the offer as well. Just because we’ve been focused on Tav doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten our promises to you.”

Promises Tav had made on their behalf, of course, and had personally filled up until now. But it was true that they had all been a lot more understanding of his feeding habits, in the most recent tendays. Shadowheart had already offered her veins once, to help him recover.

“…Fine,” Astarion muttered, and turned back around on his heel, even though the need to flee was still strong. “But we’re leaving at first light,” he demanded. 

“Of course, Astarion,” Wyll said, and his voice was too kind. It made Astarion want to throw something. “We all want to find him.”

Astarion decided for his own sanity not to read anything else into the words and let them placate him. For now.

* * *

Gods. What a mess.

It was no one’s fault, not really. That didn’t make Astarion feel any better, nor did it help his shoulders unclench from where he was braced for negative comments about Tavran like a blow. He wouldn’t let them slide, though, not like he would have months ago when he was afraid of his place, afraid to make waves, afraid afraid afraid.

Look where all that fear had gotten him? Free and still ruined.

But no one spoke poor;y of Tav as they moved their camp less than two hours later, at sunrise before the streets got too crowded. Maybe they didn’t dare to, after the way he had nearly taken Shadowheart’s head off earlier about it. Astarion knew they were seeing him, frowning and watching and waiting for him to lash out, but he couldn’t bring himself to make them stop. Some part of him, deep down and shameful, was glad that they knew to look.

Do you see, he wanted to ask, do you see that what I felt was real? For the first time in centuries, it’s real! I won’t let anything take it from me. Not before I get to tell him.

Well. It was all well and good for him to think so, but what choice did he really have? They had no leads, no way of knowing where Tav was, or if he was safe. Or what his plans were. The bard he had known up until a few days ago, Astarion might have been able to predict. Perhaps Tav would have tried to sacrifice himself for Lae’zel. Maybe he would have been off pulling some ridiculous heist for the sake of getting someone better armor or a more dangerous weapon. Perhaps he would have been doing reconnaissance that he didn’t trust to anyone else.

But this new Tav… Astarion didn’t know how to predict him. Maybe that was because he hadn’t tried hard enough. He had let his darling down, being unable to help him control his Urges. But if they’d just had a little more time, he told himself, they could have had it. Tav only needed to get used to his hunger, he only needed to strengthen his self-discipline a little more, he only needed time and space and practice.

Tav only needed to reject a god whose blood flowed in his very veins. Only.

“We’ll find him, Fangs,” Karlach said, leaning close but not touching him, for which he was grateful. “We’ll pick up his trail and bring him home, alright?”

Astarion pursed his lips. Somehow, he had the sinking feeling it wouldn’t be that easy. “Let’s just go. We should see if he left a trail leading away from the old camp; we can start there,” he said; they hadn’t noticed anything in the dark, but perhaps with daylight on the matter if would be different. He didn’t bother to check if anyone was following before he started walking.

He felt uncomfortably certain there was no time to waste.

Notes:

I took a few weeks off to build up a backlog, and this fic will now post once-weekly until finished (hopefully!). See you next time!

Chapter 13

Summary:

A search party and a rift between allies.

Gale was worried about his companions.

Not for fear of physical injury, necessarily, though that certainly was a concern. They were all in equal danger from mindflayers and tadpoles and anything that wished them harm that decided to show up in their camp. (He hoped that moving indoors would provide some measure of protection, though he feared that protection was only from prying eyes. Ah, what he wouldn’t give for the clever warding magic he had long ago laid around his tower in Waterdeep!)

But each of them had suffered a blow in the past few tendays of a different, less corporeal sort. Karlach, forced to face the man who had wrought havoc so carelessly on her life and to withhold dealing out the justice he deserved for such acts. Wyll, so close to his father and yet so very far, with the constant threat of a devil hanging over his head. Astarion, finally free, only to lose something that he may not be able to bear continuing without. Lae’zel, kidnapped despite all of her strength and alone to suffer the tender hospitality of a blood-crazed killer who celebrated pain and death. 

And poor Shadowheart, so briefly reunited with her mother, only to be separated so cruelly.

(And Tav, so thoroughly trapped in his own skin.)

It was times like these that made him long for his old abilities again. He’d had, back then, a level of control of the Weave that he might never again achieve, even if he did miraculously survive both the tadpole and the orb. Mystra could choose to withhold her secrets from him at any time, if he displeased her, and sometimes he feared that the Netherse blight in his chest had rotted something from within, crippling him forever. What if his incredible connection to the Weave, if he survived all this, returned only as a shadow of its former self?

It would be poetic justice, though that didn’t make it any easier to bear. If he could control the flow of the Weave like he’d once been able to— before tadpoles and mindflayers and nautiloids and even before the orb and his history-repeating folly— he might have been able to do… something. Perhaps he could have brought back Shadowheart’s mother. Perhaps he could have had the strength to stop Tav before he was lost to his mad father’s hold, or maybe even find a cure to vampirism itself.

It was perhaps a touch egotistical of him to think he could have made a difference in such a way, or to consider himself so important. And it gave him no comfort— not the wishful thinking, nor the castigating of his own ego— as he watched Shadowheart kneel next to her mother’s body and attempt a resurrection spell.

Raise Dead was a costly spell, and they used it rarely. In the worst scenarios, they relied on Shadowheart for Revivify, and they all could read one of their rare scrolls for it, too, should circumstances call for it. This spell was more difficult to cast and more expensive, but Gale didn’t stop her as she burned through one of their diamonds, then two smaller ones together, to try to bring her mother back to life.

When she reached into their dwindling supply for more, however, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She tensed, and he paused to consider his words very carefully. The others were gone: Karlach and Minsc to fuss over Jaheira, Wyll to feed Astarion, Halsin tending to Arnell.

“You will exhaust yourself,” he cautioned gently; she couldn’t possibly have the energy to channel such magic so many times in a row. But she glared at him. 

“I can try it again,” she said, and looking at her, he didn’t doubt it. There was a new layer of steel in her, wrought in the fires of grief. For a moment, he wondered if their resident undead denizens would be able to sense the well of holy power in her, before he shook off the fanciful thought.

“And you are owed the attempt,” Gale told her. It was a waste of resources, and an effort doomed to fail, but he understood she had no choice but to try. “But you have done it,” he said softly. “Your casting is true, Shadowheart.”

But Bhaal did not let his sacrifices so easily go, and there was no recalling a soul who did not wish to return.

He didn’t stop her when her jaw set and she looked back at her mother, pulling out another one of the tiny, precious stones from the pouch and cupping it in her hands, over Emmelines body. She mumrured the spell one more time, head bowed in prayer, and the diamond glowed as fiercely as the other times, before disintegrating in a flash of Weave.

There was no change. Her mother’s body remained still and lifeless.

Shadowheart let out a shaky breath and slumped. “Moonmaiden, ease her passage,” she whispered brokenly. Then she turned her face away from him and wiped her eyes on the back of her arm, and he pretended not notice. He left his hand on her shoulder, until she would wish to shrug it off, not wishing her to be alone. They’d all had quite enough of that, in their lives.

“It’s good he’s gone,” she said finally, voice brittle and jagged in the night. It didn’t suit her. “I think I would kill him, otherwise.”

He pursed his lips, but did not reprimand her. Would he think any differently, if it had been his own mother caught in the crossfire? His felt a pang in his heart at the thought alone.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” he said after a pause.

“I thought I could trust him,” she said. “I’m the one who chose to keep my parents here, where they were in danger, and—” A sob interrupted her words, and she bowed her head, shaking silently.

Surely someone else would have been better at this moment. But Gale was the one who was here, and he ignored the creaking of his knees to kneel beside her. At first, he wasn’t quite sure what to do next, or if he was wanted, but then she turned to hide her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her.

There was nothing to say to ease this kind of pain. Any words he could muster would be only platitudes in the end. But at least this, magic or not and reality-altering magics aside, he could do: kneel with a friend, witness her grief, and be sure that on this worst of nights, she was not alone.

* * *

The morning came too soon, and yet, not soon enough.

He doubted any of them had truly gone back to sleep. He himself had laid in his tent for what seemed only a few minutes until the sky lightened and it was time to move their camp. By wordless agreement, they all gave up on their rest with the dawn and set about relocating, before the streets were crowded with people. 

The rooms Astarion had apparently organized were nice enough, with real beds, couches, and other furniture that had been sorely lacking on most of their journey thus far. Gale, for one, would be well-pleased to never sleep in a tent again. The move was quick and efficient, though he felt the lack of casual banter that usually accompanied their breaking down of camp to be conspicuously absent. Neither Shadowheart nor Astarion would speak to anyone, Jaheira looked wan and tired, and nobody could muster any enthusiasm for the change after their grim night.

At least the owlbear and Scratch seemed happy enough to explore their new abode.

Over breakfast in the quiet tavern— it was still too early for most drinkers, in spite of the sense of impending doom that lingered over the city like a miasma, driving them to such establishments in droves— they talked quietly about their next priorities. Astarion wouldn’t even sit down for the meal, though to be fair he couldn’t partake; instead, he leaned against the nearby wall, watching the door, and impatiently insisted they look for Tav at the earliest opportunity.

All of them knew, he was fairly certain, that they did not truly have the time to waste on a potentially fruitless hunt. The city was big, its surrounding areas more so, and there were also the many levels of sewer and undercity it sat upon to consider. If Tav wished to hide, he would. If he wanted to run, he could. 

 In addition, they had many other things on their plate; Gortash and Orin needed to be dealt with, Netherstones secured and their friend rescued. Gale needed to finish researching the crown and interpreting the intensely complicated text that explained the process for wielding the Netherse magic.  Wyll still hoped to find his father, before Mizora could take out her frustration on him. And they had heard rumors of a hag, of something dangerous in the harbor, and perhaps even a myth come to life under Wyrm’s rock.

However, it didn’t sit right with any of them, not to make the attempt to locate their wayward bard and bring him back into the fold before he could harm anyone else— or himself. Also, none of them particularly wanted to face  their other vampire’s wrath, if they were forced to refuse Astarion’s demand to organize search parties immediately. 

Thus, they had all agreed to take a day to try to find Tav before doing anything else. “We can spare a day, Astarion,” Wyll told him solemnly; Astarion had sneered, but not protested. Gale suspected, with a heavy heart, that if they did not find Tav this day, they might be down two vampires from their party, instead of one.

In the end, they agreed to split up. Jaheira and Minsc went off to check in with her remaining city contacts— outside of the Harpers— to see if there had been any sightings of vampire attacks. They took Wyll with them, so that he could warn them if any of her previous contacts had been, in her absence, infected with tadpoles, and Halsin, because Jaheira was still a little wan from Emmeline’s tea. 

“I do not know if I can trust any remaining contacts I have,” Jaheira had told them bluntly before departing, looking tired. “Nor am I sure their testimony would be reliable. There has likely been an influx of such things in the past days, even if a majority of vampires went to the Underdark as instructed,” she pointed out. 

“I doubt all of them obeyed,” Astarion muttered derisively. “To their own detriment,” he added. “I’m sure the Fist and the Steel Watch don’t look kindly on any disruptions in this ‘state of emergency’,” he said, using his hands to make air quotes and pulling an exaggerated face.

It didn’t completely hide the worry that he now wore constantly in his face and on his shoulders, but it was a commendable effort.

Wyll said that once he was finished escorting Minsc and Jaheira on their task, he and Halsin would check with the main office of the Flaming Fist for any reports or odd sightings— crimes— in the city. “Perhaps he’ll have left something behind to point us in his direction,” he said tactfully, no doubt meaning that Tav’s kills, in his current state, would be recognizable.

Shadowheart, who had refused to joined them for breakfast, stayed behind with her father, to contact Aylin and Isobel about Selunite death rites. Arnell had told them, pained, that it was nothing complicated, but that he would like to something special for his wife’s memory. Gale didn’t dare to ask whether or not he hoped that ritual would free her from Bhaal’s claim on her soul in the afterlife and send her to her proper god, but he did wonder about it, grimly, to himself.

Gale had never thought so much about death before. How arrogant he’d been, as Mystra’s Chosen. How young.

The rest of them took to the streets, trying to find clues. Astarion led him and Karlach back to their old campsite first, and as Gale athced, the other two managed to pick up a faint blood trail. 

At first, the trail Tav had left was easy to follow. It led them right out of camp and away from the docks. Then, however, it brought them to an opened cover of the sewers.

“Of bloody course,” Karlach sighed, but she was the first one down, so Astarion’s sharp glare was quite unnecessary.

Unfortunately, even with Gale using magic to light their path, and Astarion trying to trace the bloody clues Tav might have left behind— “Can you track him Fangs?” Karlach had asked. “What, like some sort of bloodhound?” Astarion had said, with all the disgust he could muster in his tone, but he gave it an attempt anyway— it was no use. They lost the visual trail only fifty feet in, when Tav’s footsteps crossed the muck.

“Well. At least there’s a chance that he’s down here and not above ground,” Gale mused aloud. “Hopefully, that means he’s avoided the sun without harm, and perhaps we can find him before he decides to, ah, sample the local population.”

“Sample?” Karlach asked dryly, and Gale shrugged; it seemed best to be tactful, with Astarion as prickly as a hedgehog ahead of them.

The search was long, unpleasant, and mostly fruitless. They did find some bodies around noon that seemed to have been savaged by a vampire with particularly murderous inclinations, but nothing about them gave them any insight into where they should go next.

“You don’t think Orin’s ‘gangers got to Tav?” Karlach asked, as they debated their next move. They had hauled themselves topside for a late lunch and a break from the stench. Astarion hadn’t said much of anything for the past two hours, his spine growing stiffer and stiffer; it made Gale’s back ache sympathetically to look at him. 

“Tav may be not thinking very clearly at the moment, but he is more than capable of defending himself,” Gale said, trying to reassure her. “My hope is that he is safe, though no doubt afraid and confused,” he said.

“What about magic? Can we find him with that?” Karlach asked, 

“Shadowheart knows how to locate objects,” Gale mused. “But the range on that particular spell is small, and it’s quite difficult unless the caster is very familiar with something he brought with him.”

“He brought nothing,” Astarion said shortly, speaking up for the first time in a while. “Not even his flute. It’s with my belongings.”

Gale shared a glance with Karlach, who grimaced; his musical instruments were Tav’s most prized possessions.

“We could try Scrying for him, also,” Gale said. 

“I thought that didn’t work,” Karlach said with a frown. 

They had done the magic for Lae’zel when Orin’s duplicity had first been revealed, in an attempt to see if Orin spoke the truth, and their friend was still well— or, as well as could be expected in such company. Shadowheart had prayed all night for the knowledge of the spell, and upon casting it had been unable to see anything. 

“I think that was the interference of Bhaal, or his magic on his temple,” Gale pointed out. “It would make sense for a church whose worship is condemned and outlawed to want to avoid discovery. But it’s likely Shadowheart won’t be able to cast it today, in any case. She was quite exhausted this morning.”

Astarion pursed his lips and looked away, while Karlach sighed. “Right,” she said. “Well, maybe we should see if the others had any luck?” she suggested. “And then we can search the other half of the sewers for the rest of the afternoon, if they don’t have any leads. Sound alright, Astarion?”

“Fine,” he said, tone curt. “We’re wasting time just standing here gossiping about it.”

He set off down the street in the direction of the inn, and Karlach sighed again. “This,” she told Gale solemnly, “Has been a fucking awful tenday.”

Gale wholeheartedly agreed.

* * *

There was a new addition to their camp, when they reached their rooms in the early afternoon to see if their companions had any more success than they had. Volo was humming brightly in the corner, scribbling something in one of his ever-present notebooks, and looking rather like he’d been rolling around in the ashes of a fire.

“What the devil is he doing here?” Astarion asked without any real heat, though the sneer was fairly convincing.

“What happened?” Karlach asked Jaheira.

“We were down by the docks, talking to a friend,” she said with the particular emphasis that meant she’d been speaking with some kind of animal, most likely, “When we heard a bit of commotion.”

“Some of those Absolute-cultists had captured me, and threatened me with most grievous bodily harm,” Volo said, apparently overhearing them.

“They tied him to a few smokepowder barrels and threatened to light him on fire,” Wyll said mildly, and even Astarion looked a little surprised.

“Well. I know we’re not all fans, but that does seem a little extreme.”

“I thought the same, m’boy,” Volo said with a nod, and Astarion shot him a glare for the familiar tone. “Not the most hospitable of hosts. Fortunately, your friends came to my rescue once again! I expected nothing less from the Blade of Frontiers, of course. I think I will need a whole chapter for you in my next work. Perhaps even two,” he said, giving Wyll a wink.

“As you can see, the reward for rescuing him is to suffer his company,” Jaheira said in her wry way, and Volo beamed at her as if he hadn’t heard the insult.

“There are yet many Absolutists in the city who would like to see my end!” Volo declared. “Thus I accepted your most generous offer to house me until such a time that the streets of the city are yet again safe.”

“She didn’t offer,” Wyll passed along through the tadpole. “He followed us back here, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“I could bite him,” Astarion volunteered mildly, and Gale gave him a look. “What? It was only an idea,” he sent, smirking.

“Let’s get you set up in your room, I’m sure all that excitement was tiring,” Wyll said aloud, politely. “I can show you the way.”

“I admit, I could use a freshening up.”

With Wyll riding herd on the bard— not that Gale had ever heard him play any music or do anything particularly creative other than some terrible goblin poetry. He had perused a volume of Volo’s work once, book-lover that he was, and he would not be making the same mistake twice— Gale turned to Jaheira. “Were you able to find anything?” Gale asked her.

“Nothing of use,” Jaheira said with a shake of her head. “My informants have seen a vampire or two, but none of them matched Tavran’s description.”

“The Fist haven’t gotten any complaints either,” Wyll said, rejoining them from the hall he’d disappeared into a moment earlier. “No reports they were willing to share anyway, and I think they were telling the truth. That sort of thing would be prime gossip material.” He frowned. “We did hear from a woman who lost her daughter.”

Wyll explained how the mother they had met— Lora— had last seen her daughter— Vanra— at the Blushing Mermaid before she’dapparently disappeared without a trace. “There seems to be fey magic involved in keeping the Fist from aiding her,” he added.

“Fey?” Gale asked, then he made the connection. “Do you think that has something to do with the hag rumors we’ve caught wind of?” Wyll nodded.

“It’s certainly a handy coincidence, if not. Perhaps we ought to pay that ‘Anti-Hag Support Group’ a visit, when we have a chance,” he said grimly, and Gale nodded, mentally wincing as he added it to their long list of errands.

“We have more important things to do than to help someone drink-addled woman who can’t keep track of her own child,” Astarion said irritably, and Gale frowned at him.

“This is exactly the sort of task Tav would want us to prioritize,” Wyll countered, and Astarion looked a little like he’d been struck.

“We will have to carry on, even if he isn’t with us,” Gale said, aiming for gentleness but mostly feeling awkward. “And Wyll’s right; Tav might not have the patience for someone who got caught up with a hag of their own volition, but he certainly would take issue with a child being harmed because of it.”

“But not today, right Gale?” Karlach said quickly, no doubt seeing what Gale was— Astarion’s growing irritation. “We promised we’d spend today looking for him, and we will.” She looked around. “Where’s Shadowheart?”

“Out with Arnell. They were meeting Isobel somewhere,” Wyll said, and Karlach nodded, looking sad.

“If you’ve nothing of use to report, I’m going back to the sewers,” Astarion said. “We have yet to search the Eastern quadrant.” Gale grimaced; they kept getting lost every time they entered the sewers, which had frustrated Tav to no end as well, and Gale didn’t find it enjoyable either. But if that was their only lead...

“I’ll go with you,” Wyll said with a small smile. “My leg is feeling much better, and even one extra eye is better than none, isn’t it?”

“Sure thing, Wyll,” Karlach said with a small smile. “C’mon. We’re trying to map out where we already looked, so we don’t backtrack all over ourselves. I’ll show you before we head out again.”

“You should speak with Nine-Fingers, as well,” Jaheira told Gale as Wyll and Karlach looked over their hastily-scribbled map. They’d been unable to find any clear depiction of the sewers and tunnels beneath the city and were forced to make it themselves.  “The Eastern part of the sewers are largely her territory, and she owes you; perhaps she could keep an eye out for Tavran as well. I could speak with her, if you like.”

“You will rest,” Astarion said shortly, surprising Gale a little. “You’re no use to us, looking pale and sickly. Until you stop playing old woman we won’t have you on the streets,” he said, rather rudely in Gale’s opinion,  but Jaheira laughed a little.

“I will be alright, Astarion, with another meal or two and a night of rest, but I appreciate the sentiment,” she said wryly.

“We’ll talk to Keene,” Gale promised.  “Many thanks for thinking of it,” Gale told her gratefully.

“We will find your bard, vampling,” Jaheira told Astarion, and he scoffed.

“For the last time, you crone, I’m a hundred years older than you,” he huffed, and she smirked at him. 

“Ach, for an elf, the first hundred don’t count.”

* * *

Astarion was in a foul mood when they returned, and Gale was, admittedly, hanging onto his own by a thread. A day traipsing through the sewers, getting lost, fighting slime monsters and other miscreants, was hardly his idea of a pleasant time.

In addition, they’d found neither hide nor hair of Tavran.

They washed up before returning to the suite and stinking up the place with sewer stench, bringing water into the alley and using it in conjunction with a few cantrips to get most of the way clean before going inside. At least dinner was waiting, and though Gale thought his own roast was more tender, it was nice to have the kitchen here prepare it, instead of needing to take the time himself.

Shadowheart was sitting in front of the food, though she didn’t seem to be eating much of it. Karlach joined her immediately, greeting her quietly and asking about her day, while Astarion went to the other side of room to fish out a bottle of wine and then sit by the fire away from the meal; he always gravitated toward warmth, Gale had noticed.

“Welcome back,” Halsin told him, and Gale nodded.

“Where’s Jaheira?”

“Resting,” Halsin said. “Minsc took her to her own home, to be with her children; she will return on the morrow. Have you had any luck?” Halsin added more quietly, though there wasn’t much point; it wasn’t as though there was much in the way of privacy in the suite, without dividing walls. 

“No,” Gale said, shaking his head. He knew Astarion could hear them, from the way he stiffened in the corner of Gale’s eye. “The Undercity is a confusing maze; we’d be lucky to find anything in it, much less one bard who was always uncannily good at hiding,” Gale said tiredly, and Halsin gave him a grim look and briefly squeezed his shoulder.

“Then you must consider an alternative method to locating him,” Halsin said. “Though I think you are right to look for him, I fear that you lose precious time to search in this way.”

“We could try scrying,” Shadowheart chimed in, and Gale was relieved she had volunteered it herself. Part of him had wondered, though he felt guilty to think it, that she might refuse on principle.

“We had considered that as well,” Gale said. “I worry that otherwise we won’t have a chance at locating him, unless he wants to be found, or returns of his own accord.”

“I won’t be able to cast it until tomorrow; I’ll have to pray on it, first, and rest,” she said, and Gale nodded.

“Of course,” he said hastily; he didn’t reach the Weave in the same way that she did, but he knew there was significance to study, ritual, and practice when it came to harnessing magic, no matter what shape they took. Not to mention how exhausted she must be, after recent events.  A cleric’s ability came from nightly prayer and meditation, a sacrifice of time and mental focus for the exchange of knowledge, while his came in the consistent study of his spellbook.

(Don’t get him started on the absurdity of Tav’s casting abilities. It still sometimes threatened to give Gale a headache to think about.)

“I will do this for you,” Shadowheart added, looking him in the eye. “But I don’t want Tav to be kept here, if you find him. I won’t allow you to bring him back here.”

Gale took a deep breath, but Astarion was the one to answer. “What does that mean?” he asked sharply from by the fire across the suite, and Shadowheart looked at him, green eyes flashing with anger. The others felt silent from their murmured conversations, tense.

“He’s dangerous, and he can’t be trusted,” she said, inflexibly. “And it’s unreasonable for any of us to be expected to rest or feel easy with him here.”

“We’re all he has!” Astarion snapped back. “What’s next, you’ll say Wyll can’t be trusted because of his devilry? Or Karlach’s engine is too unstable?” He glowered, voice growing cold to match hers. “Or maybe it’s just vampires you take issue with?”

“Maybe it’s Bhaalspawn I take issue with,” Shadowheart snapped. “Bhaalspawn who have killed twice in this camp, and made at least two attempts on your own life. Of everyone here, you should agree with me!”

“Well I don’t!” Astarion nearly-yelled, pitchy enough enough to make Scratch whine. “I promised I would help him! That as long as he wished to resist the urges of his blood, I would stand by him.”

“Well that resistance and your help doesn’t seem to be amounting to very much, does it?” Shadowheart said resentfully. Astarion actually flinched, and Gale cringed along with him at the sharp edge of those words.

“Please,” Wyll said, moving as though to stand between them. “I understand that you are both in pain right now, but this isn’t the answer.”

“You’re right,” Astarion said, clearly ignoring Wyll’s interruption.  “I failed him twice over. First, when I asked for time and space from him, and he granted it, and was kidnapped by my wretched ‘family’ for sleeping apart from me. And then again, when— I should have been watching over him. I promised I would, and I failed.” 

Astarion’s tone was bitter, his expression shadowed. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He looked up. “If you won’t have him here, I’ll take him somewhere else.”

“Fine,” Shadowheart snapped, and Astarion scowled at nothing.

“Fine,” he said.

“Look, maybe we should all get some rest and talk about it in the morning,” Karlach suggested. “It’s been a bloody long day, alright, and I know nobody has been sleeping real well. We’re in this together, I don’t want anybody forgetting that. Yeah?”

Neither Shadowheart nor Astarion responded, but at least they had stopped arguing, Gale supposed. “Would anyone like some tea? Or wine?” he asked. “It might be good to wind down a little before settling in for the night?”

“Sure, Gale, thanks,” Wyll said with a forced smile, but Gale nodded and forced his own in response, ignoring the frigid atmosphere and setting about readying the kettle and scrounging up a few cups.

Hopefully, things would look better in the morning.

                                                                                        * * *

Shadowheart's Scrying spell held for a moment, her eyes glowing as she bowed her head. Then, she grimaced, and Gale felt the spell wink out as much as he saw it, and he frowned. Something had gone wrong.

“Well?” Astarion asked impatiently. It was the first word he'd deigned to speak to any of them since last night's disagreement; Astarion had been sullen and quiet all through divvying up the watches, tentatively planning their tasks for today, and through breakfast as well. But Shadowheart was already shaking her head. 

“The spell worked, but… I didn’t see anything,” she said with a sigh.

“What do you mean you didn’t see anything?” Astarion demanded, pitch climbing.

“If it worked, that means he’s still alive, Astarion,” Gale said quickly, and Astarion froze where he was already getting to his feet.

“…Of course,” Astarion said, looking faintly relieved. “I know that,” he added, waspishly. “Why couldn’t you see anything, then?” he asked Shadowheart, but this time his tone was more even.

“It must be an outside source, for my spell to have gone through at all. It didn’t fail, so he didn’t block it himself, nor is he dead, but there are any number of ways to prevent onesself from being scried on. It could be an anti-magic field, for example,” she said. 

“He could be in a place that’s been warded against divination magics, as well. It’s not unheard of for institutions that value security for one reason or another to want to defend against unexpected incursion,” Gale said.

“Like the Bhaal temple?” Karlach asked, grimly; they had been unable to scry Lae’zel either, to check on her, and it was an unfortunately similar scenario here.

“It’s a possibility,” Shadowheart said, carefully pouring the blessed water back into its decanter. “But just because I couldn’t scry him doesn’t mean that he’s there.”

“It doesn’t mean that he’s not, either,” Astarion said, raking a hand through his hair. “Damn it all! We need to find that cursed temple and take care of Orin once and for all,” Astarion snapped.

“I advise caution,” Jaheira said, having returned to their suite sometime during their breakfast. “Bhaal’s followers will not welcome you, without the face of their Chosen to smooth your way,” she pointed out.

“We could use Disguise Self, on one of us,” Gale offered reluctantly, though he didn’t much like the plan. “Though we still don’t have evidence that she did take him, and if she did, then she would see thorugh the ruse.” He sighed. "We also have yet to discover its entrance."

“You seek the Temple of Bhaal?” Volo piped up from the corner, and though Gale knew Elminster had a strange fondness for him, he had never been able to figure out why; he seemed more a fool than anything else.

“Yeah, we do,” Karlach said, when no one else would answer him. “I thought we gave you your own room," she added pointedly.

“Ah! But how am I to properly record your dashing adventures if I do not witness them firsthand?” Volo asked gregariously, and Astarion muttered something rude under his breath, perhaps because Tav wasn’t there to say it for him. 

“Do you know where the temple is?” Astarion asked, raising his voice to be overhead, this time.

“Well! Not exactly—”

“Then you have nothing of value to add,” Astarion said, glaring at him.

"Oho, quite the contrary! I may have information that is very relevant indeed, if it is Bhaalspawn you seek!" Volo said with a bright grin. "Believe you me, the records I have found are most fascinating in nature."

"If you are wrong and they are not--" Astarion began, darkly, and Gale cut him off before Volo ended up with teeth in his neck.

"We'd be happy to hear it," he said diplomatically. "Though we are on a bit of a tight schedule, so if you could be... concise, it would be much appreciated," he said, ignoring Karlach's snort; yes, he understood the irony.

"Well then, listen to the tale I have to tell you! It begins many decades ago, during a crisis unlike any the Sword Coast had ever seen..."

Notes:

imagine with me that the super secret murder temple is better hidden in the maze that is years and years of abadoned city that got built on top of in the Gate to explain hy they have yet to find Bhaal’s temple.

 

Thanks for reading! <3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of On Sacrifice