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“Non movere!”
Astarion jerked out of his trance. That had been Gale’s voice. There was shouting and running outside his tent, and he blearily grabbed his dagger, imagining his siblings and Cazador attacking the camp to drag him back to the Crimson Palace—
And then he remembered that Cazador was dead. Funny, how that kept happening.
He darted outside and moved to the nearest wall. Down near the abandoned chapel, Gale was standing with his arm outstretched, his face locked in grim focus as he fought to maintain a spell. The spell in question was an ethereal chain that danced around a blood-soaked man who was frozen in an animalistic lunge—his hands spread like claws as they reached for the wizard’s throat. Wyll stood beside Gale, his arm also outstretched with a spell crackling between his fingertips just in case Gale lost his concentration.
Karlach was running around and peering into all the nooks and crannies behind their tents, calling “Yenna? Yenna?!” with rising panic. Halsin was on the ground cradling his hand, Shadowheart knelt beside him with a healing spell, and Nameless—
Astarion went cold all over. The man held in the spell was Nameless.
He hadn’t recognized him. The drow’s face was twisted in feral rage, drenched in blood so thick that it was black in the moonlight. He was naked, wild-eyed, a noise creaking from his frozen lips that was half rabid dog, half condemned man choking in the noose.
Astarion slowly drifted toward the scene. “What happened?”
No one paid him any attention. Karlach returned from where she had been digging through the broken crates behind her own tent.
“I can’t find Yenna,” she said.
“I think she ran for the street,” said Halsin, his voice a pale little ghost compared to its usual rumble.
“I’ll go find her,” said Karlach. “But I swear, if he hurt her—!”
She took off, calling the name of the ratty little orphan Nameless had invited into their camp only a few weeks before. The animals had made themselves scarce as well, Astarion noticed. The dog, the cats, the owlbear cub, the hyena, even the creepy walking brain—the entire menagerie had scampered off to hide in some dark hole away from the chaos.
“What happened?” he asked, louder.
“What does it look like?” snapped Shadowheart. “He’s lost his mind. Again.”
Her hands continued to radiate blue healing magic. The first and middle finger of Halsin's left hand dangled by threads of meat. Beads of sweat stood out on the druid's pale face and the veins bulged in his neck. The spell was stitching the tissue and bone back together, but slowly.
“Nameless did that?” asked Astarion.
“Of course he did,” said Shadowheart. “Who else? He tried to kill Yenna and Halsin grabbed him.”
And had gotten the teeth for his trouble. Nameless's bite was nearly as vicious as Astarion’s, enhanced as it was by the power of his divine blood. Halsin was lucky that the drow had gone for his fingers instead of his throat.
“Was Nameless hurt?” asked Astarion.
“Was he hurt?” Shadowheart glared at him, incredulous. “Take a look for yourself.”
Astarion turned his attention to Nameless. He was still frozen in mid-lunge, his red eyes straining in their sockets. There was no kindness in those eyes or even intelligence. There was only a void that promised them that if he was freed, he would kill them, rape their corpses, and eat their flesh in that order….possibly the reverse order if he was feeling peckish, but certainly all three if he was left to his own devices. He wouldn’t even feel bad about it. He wouldn’t feel anything. He would do it for the same reason he blinked and breathed—he simply had no choice.
The last time the Urge had taken over him like this had been in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and it had rattled Astarion so badly that he had seriously considered ending his arrangement with the drow. Thankfully, Nameless had returned to himself, and while he had not been entirely sane afterwards, he had at least been in control, and they had allowed themselves to hope that the unpleasant incident had been a fluke.
So much for hoping.
“I found rope.” Jaheira came around the corner of the chapel, a long coil of braided hemp slung over her shoulder. “I trust your hand is steady, wizard?”
“It could stand a bit of haste," said Gale.
Jaheira unslung the rope, studying Nameless where he hung in the air. “And what about you? Is there anything left of you inside there, or are we speaking to your Father now?”
Nameless swung his eyes to Jaheira, a gobbet of blood and spittle dripping from his chin.
“You truly are much further under his influence than I feared.” Jaheira dragged his arms behind his back and bound them. She tied another link around his ankles and did the same. The muscles in his arms and legs began to twitch, and the creaking noise rose in his throat.
“Might I suggest picking up the pace?” said Gale, voice tight.
“Almost.” Jaheira pressed a hand between Nameless’s shoulders and forced his body slowly to the ground. Then, she drove a knee into his back and drew the ropes tight until his wrists were tied to his ankles by a dozen knots.
“Are we done?" asked Gale.
“Yes,” said Jaheira. “Release him.”
Gale dropped the spell. The dancing chain snuffed out with a hiss.
Nameless began writhing in the ropes at once. He snarled and bit at Jaheira, his teeth clicking together.
“Now there's a problem,” said Jaheira. “He can wriggle just enough that he could still sink his teeth into someone. Thankfully, I have just the solution.”
She went to her tent and returned with something in her hand: a small wire cage with leather straps attached to it.
A muzzle.
"What?!" shouted Astarion. "You can't be serious. He’s not a dog!”
“No, he’s a Bhaalspawn," said Jaheira. "I went back to the mail house some time ago and purchased this. I had a mind to keep it on hand for our young owlbear cub, but it seems it will have to serve a more urgent purpose."
“No.” Astarion stepped closer. “I won’t let you put it on him—”
Nameless snapped at him, and Astarion hopped back. Jaheira raised an eyebrow.
“You were saying? Now, keep his attention on you.”
Astarion folded his arms, sickened as Jaheira knelt down and swung the muzzle over Nameless's face. She quickly pulled the straps tight and buckled them, giving them each a sharp tug to make sure they were secure.
"There," she said. "Any idea how long this will last?"
“He should be better by dawn,” said Wyll. “At least, that’s how long it lasted before.”
“And if the sun rises and he still hasn’t returned to himself?” asked Jaheira.
No one answered.
"I thought as much." Jaheira sighed. "I will keep watch over him tonight. Given how many times he's had my swords pointed at him recently, he's likely used to it by now. I would ask that someone use an arcane lock to secure us inside the chapel, just in case."
"I have one that will last at least six hours," said Gale. "It will tap my reserves, but given the severity of the circumstances, the expenditure is more than warranted."
"Good," said Jaheira. "The rest of you, get some sleep. "Tomorrow may test us in more ways than one."
Jaheira grabbed the ropes that crossed over Nameless’s arms and began to haul his thrashing body towards the chapel—dragging, taking a step back, dragging, taking a step back. The sound of the stone on his skin was rough, and Astarion dug his nails into his arms, imagining Nameless waking tomorrow to find bits of gravel in the scrapes on his chest, knees, and genitals.
"The misery is plain on your face," whispered Wyll, stepping close to Astarion. "I feel its mirror within myself. But this is a waiting game. I think the best we can do for our friend is rest our minds and bodies to prepare for whatever tomorrow will bring."
Astarion's resolve wavered. The group had made it clear that it didn't care for his opinions. Wyll might even have a point for once—the best he could do for Nameless was leave him alone until the fit passed. It was certainly tempting to leave all the hard work to Jaheira. Tomorrow, the sun would rise, someone else would untie Nameless and clean him up, and Astarion would greet him over breakfast with a joke, and everything would go back to normal. Once, he would have even preferred it that way.
But that had been before he had taken Nameless to the graveyard and shown him the place where he had been buried. The two of them had rolled around in the cold grass afterwards, holding each other as tightly as they could, until the Mortarch had come bellowing out of her house and sent them scrambling for their clothes. They had fled down the alleyways half-naked and giggling, Astarion hopping with one trouser leg on until he crashed into Nameless and sent them both sprawling onto the cobblestones. They had limped through Lowtown covered in scratches and bruises, until Astarion, unable to bear it anymore, had pushed Nameless against a wall and gotten down on his knees. There, in a dank little alley smelling of fish heads and sewage, he had sucked Nameless off while the drow ran his fingers through his hair and stroked his ears, touching his face as if he was something precious.
The sight of Nameless on the ground now, thrashing against his bindings, stirred a wretched protectiveness in him. He was terrified of him like this, but he also wanted to untie the ropes and set him free. He wanted to lick the blood off his face and clean his wounds and take him away from these idiots who were hurting him—as if he wasn’t the most dangerous one here.
He would not abandon him to spend the night in a dark room with a woman who treated him like a beast.
“Stop,” said Astarion. "STOP!"
Jaehira lifted her head.
“Put him down,” said Astarion. “You’re hurting him. Maybe you don’t care about that, but I—” The words caught in his throat. “I’ll watch over him. Go whisper to the dandelions or commune with the sewer rats or whatever it is you druids do in your free time.”
Jaheira let Nameless go and stood up, rubbing the small of her back. “Are you certain?”
Astarion gave a hard laugh. “May I remind you that unlike you, I don’t need sleep? Feel free to rest those old bones, crone. I think your lumbar just coughed up more crypt dust than the mummy lord we faced.”
Jaheira chuckled. “You’re not wrong. Only, no offense to your impressive physique, oh mighty vampire spawn, but how do you propose getting him inside?"
Astarion paused, then went back to his tent and rifled through his bag. There, at the bottom, was a vial he had been saving for an emergency. He downed the potion, retched at the taste, and a moment later shivered as so much strength poured into his muscles that he was sure he could skip a Steel Watcher across the bay like a stone if he tried. He returned to where Nameless lay on the ground and scooped his squirming body into his arms as if he weighed no more than a leaf and carried him inside the chapel.
"There," said Astarion, setting him down. "The feats of planning one can achieve when their brain isn't covered in cobwebs."
"Apparently so," said Jaheira. "Just don't hesitate to alert your fellows through the tadpole if he breaks his bindings. We are fortunate that he is too addled to use his bard magic, but even so, he has made it abundantly clear that he hardly needs it to kill us all. Do not let your guard down.”
Astarion didn’t dignify that with a response. The door to the chapel closed, and an arcane lock shimmered into place over it. Astarion went to the tiny window. Jaheira, Wyll, and Gale were returning to their tents. Shadowheart helped Halsin off the ground and led him up to the campfire to continue tending his wound. Silence soon settled back over the camp, broken only by the gentle slap of the waves against the nearby pier and the rustle of mice in the attic.
And the demonic growls burbling from Nameless's throat. Astarion sat down in the pew across from where he lay on the floor and set his dagger down within easy reach.
“Can you hear me?” asked Astarion.
The drow's red eyes fixed on him, unblinking. Pink drool flowed from the corner of his mouth and through the wires of the muzzle. Astarion had never asked him what it was like for the Urge to take over. Had he disappeared entirely, or was he curled up in the back of his mind, aware but unable to respond, waiting for the beast to release him?
“It’ll go away just like before,” said Astarion. “Just hold on.”
Karlach’s voice drifted to him through the door as she made her way back to her tent. From her soothing tone, she had apparently found the girl.
“It’s okay,” said Karlach. “You can sleep with me tonight. I won’t let the monsters get you, I promise.”
Astarion wrinkled his nose. Tomorrow, he should tell the girl that in fact a certain monster would get her if she didn't stop offering him her disgusting stew—but he doubted that would go over well with the rest of the camp. Nameless certainly would never forgive him. Between collecting children and collecting animals, he had such a dull bleeding heart.
"Our lives would be so much easier if you were a monster, darling," said Astarion.
The Urge gave up an hour before dawn. Nameless’s pupils shrank down to pinpoints, and he sagged slowly in the ropes. A fly crawled across his face, and as he didn’t try to bite it, Astarion counted that as proof that the danger had passed.
Astarion cut the ropes and tossed them away. He sat down on the cold chapel floor and began to rub feeling back into Nameless's limbs. He was truly a mess. The blood on his face had dried into a cracked black mask, and nearly every inch of his body was purple with bruises. The hempen rope had also cut into his flesh, and Astarion was forced to pluck hundreds of tiny, rough fibers from the rope burns lest they burrow deep and become infected.
It was slow, meditative work, massaging him. The windows began to lighten, and bars of pale light crawled up the stone walls. A mouse crawled across the top of a pew and stopped to clean its whiskers. There was a release of pressure in the room, and it took Astarion a moment to realize that it was the arcane lock giving up its hold on the door.
He wasn't sure how much time passed. He licked the warm blood from Nameless's wrists and ankles, daintily, politely, then returned to rubbing life back into his body. Nameless never so much as groaned.
When he at last spoke up, his voice was so clear that Astarion startled.
"What's on my head?"
“What?” asked Astarion.
“What's on my head?”
“It’s....it's a muzzle. Just to be clear, it was the druid's idea, not mine. I’ll take it off in a moment.”
“I don't want it.”
"I said in a moment. Your feet are nearly as cold as mine."
“I don’t want it on me.”
There was a small tap, like the ticking of a clock in a distant room. Astarion looked up. Tears were dripping from Nameless’s eyes. He didn't sob or even make a sound. They simply leaked from him as if from a faucet whose handle had not been turned closed all the way—the body, having exhausted itself beyond emotion, giving itself over to its functions like a machine. Astarion recognized it. He had been there many times himself.
A sudden tightness gripped his chest. He got up, slid the knife under the leather straps of the muzzle, and cut them off. He opened the chapel door, walked down the stairs to the canal, and hurled the muzzle as hard as he could into the water.
He should have argued harder with them. He should have knocked Jaheira on her bony ass and forced the muzzle on her instead.
Never again. They would have to make do without treating Nameless like an animal. If Halsin lost all his fingers or Astarion lost all his toes or the brat got her throat torn out, then so be it.
He went back to where Nameless lay on the cold stone and slid his arm under his chest. “Let’s get you somewhere comfortable.”
The potion was still singing in his blood, so Astarion carried him in his arms back to his own tent. He lay him down and wiped the dried blood from his face with a wet cloth, taking care to gently wash his eyelids and inside his ears and nose. He helped him drink water and fed him a potion for his wounds and then tucked the blankets around his weary body, making sure not to brush his bruises and scrapes.
“It’ll be all right, darling.” Astarion ran his fingers through his bristly hair. “I’m still here. Whatever you need.”
Some part of him despaired at playing the nursemaid, but he ignored it. It was because of this man that he now woke from nightmares with the relief of knowing that Cazador was dead. The least he could do was care for him through his ordeal, so that one day Nameless would wake sweating in fear, only to remember that he had slipped from Bhaal’s grasp once and for all, that the red dream was over, and that at least one person had treated him gently at his lowest point.
“I'll protect you,” said Astarion. "From all of them."