Chapter 1: Part 1
Summary:
Something is wrong with Tylona.
Notes:
CW: vomiting, references to suicide (Gale), references to sexual assault/rape (Astarion)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Something was wrong with Tylona. Everyone in camp knew it. Tension coiled in the air, almost tangible in its weight. No one could meet each other’s eyes as they each prepared their tent for the night. Furtive glances shot towards the purple and black drapery that made up Shadowheart’s tent; Wyll and Karlach had rushed to set it up before anyone else’s for Tylona’s sake. Normally, Shadowheart would attend to wounds and aches out in the open, but for whatever reason, Tylona refused her care unless it was in private.
The cook pot sat forgotten beside the fire pit. Gale paced a groove in the dirt, one hand gripping the opposite wrist behind his back. Though Tylona and the wizard shared love and bed, it seemed he too had been left in the dark as to what ailed their ordinarily energetic, mischievous leader.
Astarion’s fingers tightened on the edges of his stolen book. It was usually easy to ignore his companions, to recline on his nest of stolen pillows and lose himself in reading. It eased his boredom through the night until he tranced for those few necessary hours. It distracted him from the ever-present concern of the parasite worming through his skull. Tonight, however, the words bled before him into a swirl of smudged, senseless ink. Just like everyone else, he caught himself watching Shadowheart’s tent. Concern (a new emotion, one he was slowly working on accepting) churned in his chest.
Slaughtering the githyanki creche yesterday had tired everyone. They had all traveled slower, all grumbled (even Karlach, whose cheer took on a harsher edge.) Tylona, however, took first place in the Looking-Like-Shit contest. Bruise-like shadows hung under her gold eyes, dulled to more of a mottled brown. Her normally light eye makeup smudged, and there were tell-tale streaks that suggested she had been crying. Where everyone else trudged, Tylona stumbled. She had fallen further and further behind in the pack, a hand pressed to her gut as though she anticipated being sick. Gale asked. They all heard him, just as they all saw the thin smile she forced. Four words and one obvious lie: “I’m fine. Just tired.”
And if anyone was blind enough to miss her bullshit, Shadowheart’s hovering and warning glares at them would’ve tipped the scales.
To her credit, Tylona survived the majority of the day, even through their unexpected encounter with a pack of ghouls. Her magic had shred through the undead creatures, brilliant and deadly as ever. It was almost enough to make Astarion turn a blind eye to her other symptoms. Everyone else had certainly seemed encouraged. Shoulders had relaxed; expressions had softened. Karlach and Wyll had even laughed.
And then they had run into that wizard, Elminster. Archmage, hero of the realms, blah blah blah- oh, and the gentleman who informed Gale that Mystra had a divine plan for him. The illustrious goddess of magic wanted her former chosen to march into Moonrise Towers and promptly commit suicide. Which was a ridiculous waste of a perfectly good Gale.
And it was the last straw for their lovely sorceress. In the strain of silence that followed Elminster’s announcement, Tylona suddenly buckled and vomited all over the aged wizard’s shoes. The horror and shock on everyone’s face would’ve been hilarious if Tylona hadn’t continued to retch. If Shadowheart hadn’t dove to her side and ordered they make camp now.
Elminster, for all his flaws, read the room and excused himself. Gale might’ve insisted the wizard stay if he wasn’t busy wrapping his lover into his arms, eyes full of unconcealed fear.
The two women wouldn’t let anyone else into the tent. Not Halsin, who had just as much if not more valuable experience in healing magic as Shadowheart. Not Gale, who Tylona was head over heels in love with. Not any of her friends, all of whom had come to adore their cheerful “ray of sunshine.”
No one blamed Gale for putting dinner off. Astarion might’ve if he ate the same food as they did. Or maybe… maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe he would be too busy clutching a book he wasn’t reading to his chest, straining his sensitive ears to hear what was going on in that cloaked tent. Either they weren’t talking, or one of them had cast some sort of spell to prevent eavesdropping.
It was later than most of them went to sleep when Tylona finally emerged. Gale rushed to her side as heads popped up around camp. She smiled, an echo of her usual white-teethed grin. “I’m okay,” she told everyone, even as she kissed Gale’s cheek. “It’s a stomach bug; Shadowheart’s got me. But I’m really tired, so I’m going to turn in. Is that okay?”
“That’s perfectly fine,” Gale assured her.
“Yeah, don’t worry about watch,” Karlach piped up. “You just rest up, soldier.”
“Hopefully, I won’t destroy anymore shoes,” Tylona joked. “But let’s be honest- he kind of deserved it.”
The others laughed, relaxing into their relief. It wasn’t serious. It was a simple illness, one easily managed by a cleric’s magic. Their little sorceress would be fine.
Astarion and Gale’s eyes met, and they didn’t need the tadpoles to know what the other was thinking.
Tylona was feeding them a crock of shit.
The shadow curse affected them all. Karlach’s temper ran on a much shorter fuse than usual. Lae’zel, if it could be believed, grew even more snippish and anti-social. Wyll complained of persistent headaches. Astarion… Astarion missed the sun. Living two centuries without it had built in him a craving almost as desperate as his thirst for blood. The past month of warm sun on his skin had been glorious, and now it was gone again. Not permanently, he told himself firmly. As much as he’d like to scuttle out of the curse, his band of do-gooder companions were already concocting a plan to cure the necrotic wasteland.
And out of all those sickeningly virtuous companions, the shadow curse affected Tylona the worst. Her moods swung from bubbly to sullen to despairing. Squabbles she had once laughed at now sent her into frustrated tears. Astarion would’ve thought there was trouble in paradise, but Gale was always the first she ran to whenever her emotions overwhelmed her.
Tylona was a vibrant woman. Her bubbly friendliness had irritated Astarion to no end when they first met, but over time, he’d come to appreciate her wit, her defiance. She was just as power-hungry as he was, even if they disagreed at times on how to attain it. She wasn’t a blind optimist; she could be impressively pragmatic and level-headed. In the same way, however, that Karlach had chosen joy in her awful circumstances, Tylona seemed to face their challenges with excitement. Their situation was an adventure to conquer rather than a dreadful setback. And that, after years without hope of escape, was an attractive if novel mindset to Astarion. She had all the energy and power of the sun. She was not easily discouraged; she was not a thin-skinned woman.
The Shadow-Cursed lands turned her into a wreck.
“Has she talked to you at all?” Karlach whispered to Gale one night. Astarion felt no shame in listening; if it was truly private, he wouldn’t be able to hear it, now would he?
Gale’s face collapsed into the picture of exhaustion, worry, and strain. “A… a bit, yes. She knows how worried we all are; she feels horrible about it. She thinks the curse is influencing her magic. It’s a fair theory; her magic relies on her emotions, so it’s not a stretch to say the curse could be causing her mood swings. But… she’s still throwing up. Every other morning or so. I just wish she or Shadowheart would tell me what was happening.”
Karlach laid a gentle hand on Gale’s shoulder. One of the only bright spots in these blasted shadows had been when they discovered Damon at the Inn. With his tinkering, Karlach could safely touch others. She had been thrilled, and so had Tylona. The two women had squeezed the living out of each other and then danced about like squawking peacocks. Karlach had tempered her enthusiasm somewhat, but she was still the touchiest member of their party. Astarion had not allowed her anything beyond the first hug. She kept forgetting and touching his curls, much to his annoyance. But everyone else welcomed Karlach’s friendly pats. Especially because seeing Karlach happy lifted Tylona’s fog too.
Or it had. These past few days, the tears and frustration had greatly outweighed the laughter and grins.
It was just the curse, Astarion told himself. She would feel better once they blew Moonrise sky high.
Wyll, Gale, and Karlach had ventured into the wilds to help Halsin prepare to cure the curse. Meanwhile, Tylona had led Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and himself to infiltrate Moonrise. Wyll’s noble heart had a habit of landing the group in fights. No one wanted their cover exposed in the midst of the cult’s power. So their less empathetic members had elected to mingle with the crazies.
Astarion was a vampire; of course, he was a blood-thirsty, murderous monster who didn’t blink at the suffering of others. He rather enjoyed watching Tylona order the goblins to off each other. He enjoyed the blank look in her eyes less. Pragmatic, yes, but unlike himself or the githyanki, Tylona still had a heart. What he had first thought a weakness, and yet had resulted in more allies and assistance than Astarion’s selfish efforts would’ve garnered.
Moonrise Towers made Astarion’s skin crawl. More than once, he suggested they overthrow the cult for themselves. Having an entire army of zealous freaks would certainly up his arsenal against Cazador. Actually walking among them, Astarion silently admitted that maybe Tylona was right about crushing the cult rather than controlling it. Anyone mad enough to consider Ketheric a trustworthy leader deserved a knife in the back. That man was a monster, almost as terrifying as Cazador. Almost. Moonrise did not look anything like the Szarr palace, and yet Astarion caught himself looking over his shoulder, expecting Violet or Petras to leap out at him. With each door they stepped through, his breath caught, braced to find the Kennels or the Dorms behind. He recognized the glassy expressions on some of the cultist’s faces, the oblivion of giving into compulsion. He found himself wishing he had gone with the other group. As bad as those nettle-spined monsters were, it was nothing compared to the tight ball of panic throbbing in his throat.
When the drow’s gaze focused on him, that panic choked him. He recognized the lust in her eyes, the determination that solidified in her mouth. She wanted him. And she offered Tylona a tempting price. Astarion should’ve swallowed his distaste. He should’ve turned on the charm. The drow was offering exactly what he wanted after all: blood. Why shouldn’t he fulfill her fantasy? Give her a nibble, get a vial of extremely rare power. Win-win. Other than the shame and revulsion roiling inside of him.
He sucked in a breath. Prepared to get on his back for breadcrumbs, yet again.
Tylona snagged his wrist, silencing him. She avoided touching him, ever since they agreed not to repeat their one-night stand. He thought it was to ease Gale’s jealousy. The gentle swipe of her thumb across his palm froze him in place.
“He said no,” Tylona said lowly. Though her expression was polite, the threatening undertone in the words was not.
Maybe… maybe she didn’t touch him because of what he had confided in her. Of what he had done in Cazador’s service. They hadn’t had sex again because of Gale, but… maybe it was because of that too. Maybe.
Astarion found himself curling his fingers over hers.
They made camp in the rubble of a long-emptied home, three walls standing to give them shelter from the elements and a large crack in the fourth to give them sight of any oncoming threats. Though the pixie’s blessing protected them from the curse, they still built a small fire to ward off the suffocating darkness. It wasn’t nearly warm enough, nothing like those early camps in the grovelands. But it would have to be enough.
Tylona took first watch. When Shadowheart would’ve argued, she merely shrugged and said, “If I take it now, I have the rest of the night to sleep.”
Apparently the cleric couldn’t fault that logic because she curled up at Lae’zel’s back and drifted to sleep. Out of all of them, Shadowheart was the only one comfortable in the shadows, a sign that her goddess “loved” her, she claimed. Astarion had his doubts. The last god to “love” a member of their crew ordered him to blow himself up. So.
He needed to trance. Infiltrating a parasite-infested cult took a lot more energy than people assumed.
Tylona sat at the edge of the firelight, arms curled around her knees. Her green cloak tucked around her shoulders and chin.
She was beautiful. Black silken hair that curled behind her ears and bunched at her nape. Warm, brassy skin and soft, voluptuous curves. Molten gold eyes and dark freckles that spanned her entire body. Astarion preferred pretty marks, but attraction wasn’t necessary for him to do his job. It just made it easier. It had been far too easy to flirt with Tylona, to run his eyes over the shape of her body, to suggest exactly what he could do for that dark inviting mouth of hers. They were all frightened, all stressed, and especially with Astarion’s nature floating in the wind, he needed assurance that she would be on his side.
They had one night together. He planned for more, but then they had run into that Gur hunter, and then they had the goblin camp to clean out, and things got so busy that sweeping Tylona off for a romp became secondary to literally surviving the next moments. And while he was distracted, the chit had wormed behind his defenses and made him talk a bit about Cazador and Astarion’s role in feeding his master. By the time he realized he hadn’t fulfilled his plans, Tylona was running straight into Gale’s arms. For a few terrifying days, he expected the group to turn on him, a stake in the heart during the night, a pitying conversation where he was asked to leave. But none of that ever came.
Astarion sat beside Tylona. They watched the shadows twist and inch like mindless predators hunting for unsuspecting prey. A macabre man might call them almost beautiful if Astarion hadn’t felt their cold claws under his collar. Halsin was right; the curse needed to end. Darkness that not even a vampire could trust was too dangerous.
Thoughts Astarion used to distract himself from the woman beside him. From the emotions wiggling in his chest, emotions that Astarion thought he’d long buried.
“Something on your mind?” she asked softly. She was good at that, inviting rather than prodding.
“I wanted to thank you,” he admitted. It was disturbing how easily the words spilled out around her. She’d made herself their leader not through individual strength or cunning (though she had plenty of both) but because she had them all eating out of her hands. He should’ve hated it, should’ve felt as though he traded one master for another. But today proved what his instincts already accepted.
“For what?” Her mouth pulled into a little frown, one of genuine confusion. It made Astarion’s lips twitch.
“For what you said today. To that drow woman. I’ll admit… I was ready to give her what she wanted.” She was looking at him now, ear resting against her knees and gold eyes peering through her long, black lashes. “It would have been so easy to bite her. To just go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of disgust to force myself through. And then I could have carried on, just like before.”
It would’ve been another memory to crush down, to lock away in his prison of horrors. What was one more among thousands? A bubble of shame rose in his chest before it burst and dripped down his ribs. They could’ve used that potion, but…
“You’re more than a thing to be used, Astarion,” Tylona murmured. “You matter more than some potion. Or any weapon we might come across in the future.”
A huff escaped him. He could’ve brushed her off, turned it into a joke, but her sincerity rang in her voice. She believed what she said. She always believed what she said, to him, to all of them. She looked at a group of society’s castoffs and saw treasures. Greedy dragon that she was, she hoarded them close.
“I have a confession to make.”
A ghost of one of her mischievous smiles fluttered across her face. “I already know you’re a vampire, darling.”
“Ha ha. No, this is something else.” She blinked demurely up at him, settling to let him know she was listening again. “I had a plan, you know. Get close to you, seduce you, have sex with you… manipulate your feelings, so you wouldn’t leave me.” Gods, it was difficult to admit this. Shame darker and thicker than what he felt before compressed. He rubbed the pommel of one of his daggers with his thumb, throat tight. He couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, see the betrayal there. “When that… didn’t work, I was terrified. And furious. Habits from hundreds of years, and they just failed me. You flounced off to Gale, and I spent every night wondering when the group would turn on me. But… you didn’t. And today…”
He was floundering. Words he had practiced flew out of his mind, leaving him, him , stumbling and tongue-tied.
He expected her to shift away from him. To accuse him. To grow angry. He wasn’t expecting her to offer her hand to him, palm up. Inviting him to come to her rather than grabbing. He met her eyes, had to in order to read the emotion there. She looked tired, but there was a faint smile across her face. Her fingers wiggled impatiently. Slowly, Astarion took her hand. Her skin was soft against his, the palms of a sorceress.
“I pieced some of it together,” she admitted. “The more you told me about Cazador, the more I realized how much of it was you… and how much of it was survival. I still enjoyed our night, but… I couldn’t continue things. Not when I knew that you weren’t looking for anything but safety.”
He swallowed. Looked at their entwined fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, Fangs.” She grinned at the look he shot her. “Maybe what you need is a friend, not a lover.”
A friend. He mulled over the word, tasted it on his tongue. Lovers, yes- there had been plenty of those. But a friend? A person who loved him not for his body but just for him? A person who would have his back and protect him and expect nothing in return? Not one. It was too good to be true. And yet there she sat beside him, holding his hand and trying not to fall asleep on watch. She brought out a warmth in him, one different from lust or anger. One that was soft and kind. Safe.
“I’d like that,” he whispered.
Notes:
Part of the reason I never seem to go through romancing Astarion is because it feels so right to be his friend. I love this goblin David Bowie vampire man, and it feels more compassionate to give him genuine friendship than a sexual relationship.
Gale knows that Tylona and Astarion previously had sex. She was honest about the whole thing, and she and Astarion broke things off cleanly. This story is messed up without cheating/jealousy elements.
Criticism is welcome. Thank you for reading.
Chapter 2: Part Two
Summary:
Tylona admits the truth.
Notes:
cw: minor body horror (Thorms), discussion of pregnancy, implications of sexual assault (Tylona), references to past sexual assault (Astarion)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Searching for a solution to Ketheric’s immunity took days. They scoured the ruins of Reithwin, avoiding the shadow creatures when possible and fighting when it wasn’t. They also kept running into members of the Thorm family. It was funny watching Tylona confound the tollkeeper into exploding. It was less funny watching her hobble across the inn floor towards the rotting bar and its keeper. Especially because she hadn’t been hobbling before. Astarion scowled at her. Was she hurt? Or feeling unwell? She was throwing up again; he caught her that morning.
Shadowheart grabbed her arm with a hiss. “You can’t drink that. Not in your condition.”
“We need information,” Tylona replied flatly.
“Then let me handle things,” Astarion cut in. She opened her mouth to argue, and he pressed a finger to her lips. “Tut tut. This is what I’m good at, remember? Sit back and learn from a master, darling.”
Astarion didn’t let a drop of that concoction touch his tongue. Every lick of whatever putrid substance Thorm offered him ended up somewhere on the splintering wood at his feet. But Thorm didn’t notice, and he talked. He spilled fascinating little secrets about Ketheric, his immortality, and a she. All pointing to the Mausoleum to the north. Unfortunately, Thisobald Thorm drank too much. Astarion managed to take cover under the bar. His compatriots were not as lucky. He would’ve laughed if Tylona hadn’t thrown up again. Instead, he helped her pick pieces of Thorm out of her hair and clothes.
They found the tiefling child, Arabella, wandering the wastes and looking for her parents. They found her parents too, lifeless in the dorms of the House of Healing. When Tylona talked that bastard into killing himself, Astarion found it more satisfying than funny.
Officially, it was for Arabella’s sake that they decided to retreat to Last Light. In truth, they did it for Tylona’s.
She wasn’t sleeping well. She woke up several times a night, often to relieve herself or vomit. She was pounding through their water supply. Astarion was thirsty himself, but he didn’t dare ask for a bite when she was doing so poorly. She needed whatever strength she could get. He’d gone hungry before; he could make do. Even if it kept him up at night, unable to trance, forced to listen to Tylona’s quiet crying. He and Lae’zel both interrogated Shadowheart with their eyes, but the infuriating woman refused to betray Tylona’s confidence. And whenever either of them broached the topic with Tylona, she got a flat little frown on her face and lied, “I’m fine.”
It was impossible to tell time in the curse, but they arrived at the inn during the “day” when most everyone was up and about. To Tylona’s glee, their friends had arrived just a few hours earlier. She tackled Gale, and they both ended up on the ground with squawks. Astarion rolled his eyes to hide his smile. Amazing how solidifying their friendship had soothed the leftover jealousy he felt towards Gale.
The groups traded stories over a warm meal and ale. Karlach enthusiastically described the harrowing battle they undertook only a mile from Last Light. Halsin had traveled into the Shadowfell to rescue Thaniel, and the others had held off hordes of shadows until he returned with the boy. Then, they had played hide-and-seek with Shadow Thaniel until they convinced the boy to reunite with his other half. Astarion flatly recounted how their group had infiltrated the cult, been forced to murder goblins, and then dealt with the three Thorm members. One side had pulled their weight while the other played games.
In the argument that followed, no one paid any attention to how Tylona ignored her ale and poked at her food. No one except Astarion and Gale, who eyed each other across the table in equal parts weariness and concern.
She turned into bed early. Gale followed. Wyll went upstairs for a deck of cards and returned to the ground floor grayer than a ghoul.
“Sorry, I didn’t get the cards. They’re… fighting.”
As if summoned, there was sudden shouting from the upper floor. Heads rose throughout the inn as Tylona marched down the stairs, face purple and tears streaming. Gale chased after her, calling her name, apologies spilling from him as urgently as his spells in battle. But she didn’t soften. She shoved past one of the Harpers at the entrance and slammed the door behind her.
They all stared at Gale, standing in the center of the inn with his hands fisted in his wavy hair. He stared at the door, a look of utter devastation across his face.
Shadowheart ducked her chin, guilt flicking through her green eyes. Faster than anyone else would’ve seen. But Astarion had been watching. Had known the moment Wyll came downstairs what their love-birds had been arguing about.
“You need to tell us,” Astarion hissed at her, hands curling into fists. When Shadowheart shook her head, he slammed his hand against the table. “Grow a spine, Sharran.”
Her eyes flashed as they met his. “Shar has nothing to do with it. Tylona’s my friend. She begged me not to tell any of you, and I won’t break her trust.”
“Is she dying?” Gale asked, and the room hushed again. He had hidden his eyes in his palm, rubbing his temples. The harpers and refugees about were desperately trying to pretend they weren’t watching the drama unfolding around the bar. “Please. Please, at least tell me that she… that we won’t lose her because of this.”
Shadowheart hesitated. But she apparently had a heart somewhere in that chest of hers because she sighed. “It won’t kill her. I won’t say anything more, so don’t ask.” She lifted her ale to her lips and drank deeply.
Gale dropped heavily into his chair and stared into space. He had that look in his eyes, the one he got whenever he was trying to solve a particularly difficult problem, but it was paired with such grotesque despair that it hurt even Astarion to look at.
Enough. Enough was enough.
He found her by the water. She sat at the edge of the Last Light Inn’s protections, shivering in the chilly air. Her feet were bare under her robes, and she tucked them under her legs to warm them. Though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were red, she wasn’t crying anymore. Instead, she was silent as a grave.
Astarion would know.
She didn’t flinch when he sat beside her, draping his cloak over her shoulders. She didn’t move at all. She didn’t look away from that point in the black distance, her mind miles and miles away. Astarion didn’t push. He had been there before, so entrapped by his own mind that nothing outside mattered at all. He could wait until she was ready to come out again.
He knew she had when the tears started to run again. Where she might’ve quickly wiped them away, she instead let them flow openly. Bleakness didn’t suit their little ray of sunshine. He much preferred her laughing and singing, not sitting in resigned silence. He mimicked her, turned his palm up and held it out to her. Her eyes slid to his hand, icy white in the blue light of Selune’s blessing.
And then her face screwed up, and a sob bubbled out of her throat.
Touch didn’t come easily to Astarion. Not sex- that was simple. But genuine affection and comfort? He had no idea what to do. But when she leaned, half-unconsciously, towards him, Astarion wrapped his arms around her. She buried her nose in his shoulder and shook and shook, and all he could do was hold her. His first friend. Making horrible, choking noises that he was all too familiar with, that were born out of deep-set anguish. He couldn’t do a thing. He was a useless lump that could only let her soak his clean shirt with snot and tears.
When she started to gasp apologies, he patted her back awkwardly. “Not the first time I’ve had to clean someone else’s fluids out of my clothes.”
She snorted a hysteric laugh. “ Gods, that’s horrible.”
Astarion shrugged. He wasn’t lying. But she’d laughed. She was talking, which meant she could breathe between the horrible shudders still racking through her. “Darling, you’re breaking yourself into bits. Something has to give.”
“I know,” she whimpered, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. “But I- I can’t-”
“You’ve taken care of all of us, and we’re horrible people. Why won’t you allow a little reciprocity?”
Tylona shrank against him with another tremble and didn’t speak for a long, tense moment. He had said the wrong thing. She wouldn’t trust him. She’d close off and keep whatever sickness she had quiet, hurting by herself because she wouldn’t let anyone else in.
The tadpole wiggled in his head, a sensation not unlike someone running their finger up his spine. He grimaced, ready to push it aside, until he realized the presence prodding against his mind wasn’t just his own parasite. It was hers, stretching out to rub against his mind. Inviting.
Connecting through the tadpole could be terribly invading. They tried to do it as little as possible, to avoid delving into each other’s minds and seeing things they would rather not have aired. Astarion had barely managed to keep his secrets from the others in those early days. He’d been terrified one of them saw the wrong thing. He learned he wasn’t the only one with that fear. More and more secrets had come out among them, but they had been through extensions of trust, not by combing through each other’s thoughts. As useful as the tadpole’s powers could be, Astarion avoided using their mental connection as much as possible.
But she was offering. Whatever was going on, it was bad enough that she couldn’t voice it. And yet she trusted him enough to show him anyway. Astarion opened his mind.
The knowledge slammed into him like a sledgehammer. He couldn’t help the “shit” that dropped from his mouth.
Tylona was pregnant. An image flashed, one of her standing in front of a mirror, holding an extended belly in her hands, her eyes wide with panic. How had they not seen- she hid it. Loosened her robes, wore her cloak tighter, kept Gale’s hands away from her stomach… Astarion pulled gently away from those memories, not wanting to pry into that intimate relationship. He expected her to pull back too, but instead she pressed forward. Showing more.
Hand in hand with Gale, staring up at a star-filled sky. The sounds of singing and laughing and chatter in the distance- the party at the grove. Gale was speaking. Any undue excitement might activate the orb. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, beard prickling pleasantly against her skin. I don’t care, Gale. This is enough .
The scene shifted. She was in the woods, alone. Her head ached, her bladder full. Grumpy to wake up needing to relieve herself. Only then she wasn’t alone. One of the tieflings, a man, was there. He said… something, but either Tylona hadn’t heard him, or she didn’t remember. She smiled at him. He laughed.
Shame flowered between her and Astarion, an ugly, sinking sensation in the belly. And he knew. He knew what was coming. He didn’t want to see it.
Astarion grabbed Tylona’s shoulders, ripping himself from the memory. She gasped from the suddenness, and then dropped her head, shoulders curling inward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should’ve thought about you, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Astarion immediately crushed her into another hug. He shook nearly as bad as she did.
“Does Shadowheart know that part?” he asked, voice rough even to his own ears. Tylona shook her head, and his stomach sunk into his shoes. All these weeks. How did none of them know? How had this happened? How had none of them stopped this?
Astarion was forced into sex by command, but there had been elements of choice to it. He was little more than a prostitute, pimped out by Cazador’s uncaring hand. But he had never been attacked . It was all at once far too familiar and yet totally alien: a horror that played itself in his nightmares until it became a secondary memory, a fear to occur somewhere in the distant future.
Tylona had lived it. It wasn’t just a nightmare.
“Darling, why didn’t you say anything?” It wasn’t helpful; he knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t help it. Even if she hadn’t told him , she could’ve said something to Karlach or Lae’zel or Wyll- any of them would’ve murdered that rat bastard in seconds for her. She could’ve gone to Gale-
But no. She couldn’t have gone to Gale at all, could she? In a rare moment of true empathy, Astarion imagined being in her shoes, looking Gale in the eyes and telling him that while he had been asleep in his tent, she had been assaulted in the woods. The shame of it, the fear, the self-hatred- Astarion knew that . Knew how it felt to want to claw your own skin off in disgust. He’d lain awake at night, accompanied only by that roiling revulsion that burned away any sense of hope or safety.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.”
“There’s one other thing you should know,” Tylona said when they had both exhausted themselves sobbing and clinging to each other like children.
Astarion braced himself. Locked the pain tight and prepared for the next blow. “Alright.”
“It might not be his. We… Shadowheart and I… we aren’t entirely sure how far along I am. And there’s one other person that I… well…”
Astarion squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace. He didn’t want to rip this hope away from her. Didn’t want to leave her with nothing but the despair. But he couldn’t lie to her, couldn’t let her believe in a false dream.
“Vampires can’t reproduce,” he said quietly, petting her hair.
She was silent for a long, long moment. And then she curled tighter into his embrace. Her voice was barely more than a breath. “You’re right. Sorry I even suggested it.”
Astarion didn’t particularly like children. He’d never once considered having children, not even before his transformation. But in that moment, he wished it was his.
Gale was waiting for them. He kissed away her apology and held her tightly. Astarion stood off to the side and didn’t think about anything. He didn’t meet Gale’s eyes or accept the mouthed “thank you” from the other man. Not when he knew and Gale didn’t.
Not when he had promised her not to tell anyone. As much as the promise twisted him up, he understood her request entirely. The others were good, but they would treat her differently. It was unavoidable with things like this. Astarion understood wanting to avoid the embarrassment and humiliation of admitting such an event. Even if they both knew it wasn’t their fault, it still felt like it was.
Gale whisked Tylona upstairs, presumably for a much needed bath and rest. Good. She needed the softness, needed the care. Astarion couldn’t give it to her, not as wrung out and thin-skinned as he was right then. No, she would sink into Gale’s embrace, and he would fetch himself another drink.
Shadowheart was the only member of their party still awake. Perfect. Exactly the woman he needed to talk to.
“She told you,” the cleric guessed, careful to keep her voice down even in the mostly emptied room. Astarion frisked a full bottle of red wine from under the bar. He didn’t bother with a glass.
“How far along?” he asked after a long swig that did nothing to satisfy the thirst burning his throat.
“It’s difficult to tell. We can’t go off menstruation; there are too many factors that could cause irregulation. So instead, I’m guessing based off her other symptoms. The morning sickness, heartburn, fatigue…” Shadowheart flicked her fingers in an irritated gesture. “I’m a cleric, not a midwife. She’d probably be better off with Halsin’s help. He probably already knows. But that wasn’t your question. I’d put her at twelve weeks. Give or take.”
Astarion tried to count back. The days blurred together, but that sounded about right. He and Tylona had shared their night about a week before the party. No wonder Tylona had hoped for the impossible. The wine was tasteless, too thin for his tastes.
“What are you going to tell Gale?” Shadowheart asked.
Astarion blinked. Then he scowled at her. “Why would I tell Gale anything?”
“Well, it’s your child, so…”
“Vampires can’t reproduce,” Astarion snapped. Shadowheart rose her brows, and he forced himself to drink more wine. She didn’t know. Tylona hadn’t told her that part of things, and if he didn’t shut his mouth, he was going to make everything worse.
“Believe me, I was shocked too,” she grumbled. “But her research was compelling. Somehow she convinced Withers to get this book for her, and who knows where he found that, but she had it all laid out for me when she finally told me.”
Book? Research? Astarion’s head was spinning. There was too much, all at once. He sank onto a bar stool. He hated the way his voice shook. “What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t she tell you? Apparently dhampirs are rare, but they are possible. She thinks the parasite interfered enough with Cazador’s control that you didn’t need his permission to make things work. Ta-da, accidental dhampir baby.”
“Shadowheart,” Astarion grit out, voice coming out in a near-whine, “I need you to tell me exactly what she’s been telling you. Because from my perspective, there is no imaginable way that I am the-” He couldn’t even say the word. The concept was too foreign, too ridiculously impossible. If he could sire children, half of Baldur’s Gate would be full of his little bastards running around. Luckily for everyone involved, he Fucking. Couldn’t. Have. Children.
Shadowheart seemed to realize her mistake because she’d gone quiet. Too damn bad. She had spoke too much, and she wasn’t getting it back. If he had to cut the answers out of her, he fucking would.
“Who else would it be?” Shadowheart asked, suspicion lurking in every word.
Astarion laughed. Full-chested and loud. His arms hit the bar, and he ran his hands through his hair, uncaring of how his fingers tore through his curls. This was a nightmare. Every part of this was a nightmare. Tylona wasn’t a weak person. They had all assumed she could handle herself, that her magic would protect her, but Astarion should’ve known. It didn’t matter how many weapons you had; the moment stripped them all away and left you helpless. They should’ve instated a buddy system, shouldn’t have invited so many strangers into their camp, should’ve fucking been there instead of jacking off in his own tent-
“Does it really matter?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. He snagged another bottle of wine and slunk off to be alone with his misery and shame.
Notes:
I'm never quite happy with how I write Astarion. I never manage to capture his dramatics. My moodier vampire Astarion fits this story though.
Tylona hasn't been completely honest with him, but he's not ready to hear everything yet.
Criticism is always welcome.
Chapter 3: Part Three
Summary:
Tylona directs a prison break.
Astarion makes a mistake.
Notes:
YO CONTENT WARNING
cw: descriptions of sexual assault (Tylona), graphic descriptions of violence
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion tired of saving the same bloody tieflings every few months. In his opinion, they should run straight to the mausoleum and find whatever secret Ketheric hid there. He said as much, and Tylona launched into a lecture about “owing” it to the captives in Moonrise Towers. They didn’t owe the tieflings anything. They didn’t owe Barcus Wroot anything. In fact, it was the other way around, but when Astarion pointed that out, Tylona grew too frustrated to keep arguing with him.
She knew the truth. Raphael had answers, and wherever the blasted devil was, Astarion doubted he was ankle deep in the cult’s headquarters. No one intelligent would willingly jump into the lion’s mouth after a few gnawed-on lambs.
It was a good thing Tylona was pretty. And, he guessed she had friends to keep her ridiculous savior complex from killing her.
They were too large a group to stroll into the dungeons without raising suspicion, so they split into two. The recognizable “true souls” entered through the front door, supposedly with orders to interrogate the prisoners on Balthazar’s potential whereabouts. The others sailed across the lake to the caverns under the castle, cloaked by a combination of Gale and Halsin’s magic. The High Harper had gifted them a set of sending stones to communicate between the two groups; Tylona took one while Wyll took the other. They would coordinate their positions using both the stones and their tadpole connection, find a weak point in the prison walls, and hopefully vanish the prisoners right under the cultists’ noses. As far as plans went, it was cute. Astarion expected several things to go wrong.
And they certainly did. For one, several of the tieflings audibly reacted to Tylona’s presence. Their sudden cheer drew the attention of one of the guards down the hall. Lae’zel smashed her shield against the bars with a hiss, “Get back!”
The aggressive move relaxed the guard. He looked away, comforted by Lae’zel’s clear disdain for the now cowering prisoners.
“Don’t look happy,” Tylona said, face a mask of disgust that didn’t match her low, calming tone. “We’re getting you out, but we don’t want to draw more attention than necessary.”
The cells didn’t have locks that Astarion could pick. Instead, each cell had a portcullis controlled by adjacent levers. Apparently, the warden also had a control panel in the central watchtower that she could shut down the entire dungeon with. Lovely. So if they didn’t find a connection point to the caverns, they would have no way of spiriting the captives out without inspiring a bloodbath. Astarion wouldn’t mind this if it wasn’t so likely his own blood would join the fount.
And the less risk to Tylona, the better. He did his best not to think of her condition . They were in no position to worry about such things. As much as part of him itched to send her back to the Inn, they needed her leadership in a mission like this. She wouldn’t ever agree to sit on her hands either. So Astarion forgot all about the awful truths rattling beside his brain worm and pretended to sneer menacingly at the tieflings. He didn’t have to pretend much.
The next thing went wrong as they were talking to the gnomes. Tylona was quietly arguing with Wulbren when the sound of approaching boots caught Astarion’s attention. He coughed thrice, the signal of coming danger, and Tylona looked up sharply.
“Who are you?” the warden snapped, “And what do you want with my prisoners?”
Tylona’s expression was one of pure boredom. “My orders are none of your concern.”
“You’re not the only true soul here,” the warden sneered. Astarion’s parasite slithered in response to the tiefling’s mental probing. What had once been a startling invasion was now merely an annoyance. He sealed his mind to her, deadening his thoughts as effectively as he had while still under Cazador’s thumb. He only hoped his companions had as much mastery over their minds.
Whatever the warden found had to mollify her because she grunted in annoyance. An obviously disingenuous smile spread across Tylona’s face. She waved her fingers in a dismissive gesture. Catty. Good girl.
The warden stalked off. The moment the watch tower’s door shut behind her, Tylona spun to glare at the deep gnomes. “Look. Believe me or not, we’re getting you out, so just listen to me, and everything will be fine.”
“We could just leave them,” Astarion muttered. Tylona stamped on his foot. Not enough to hurt, but it got her point across. He huffed.
Gnomes. Always made things more difficult than they needed to be.
Some things went right for them. The others found a place to dock their boat, for one. Then Halsin managed to find a hole in the prison wall. It wasn’t large enough to reliably ferry the prisoners through, but it meant Karlach could trade places with Shadowheart. If things went violent, it would be much helpful having the muscle-bound tiefling on this side of the prison walls. The gnomes finally made themselves useful by pointing out a series of chips in the stone wall of their cell. Sending the mental image through the parasite, Lae’zel was able to lead the others to the correct wall.
Then came the difficult part. How did they break through solid stone without alerting the dozen guards milling about the prison? Neither Shadowheart nor Gale could cast silence through a wall, and that wasn’t Tylona’s brand of magic. Tylona’s mastery over shadows would do nothing to block sound, but it might give them extra time to escape unseen if they could break through the wall quickly enough. If they bombed the wall, however, they risked harming one of the prisoners.
“Do it,” the tiefling’s spokesperson said. “Better we bleed a little than end up slaves to these fucks.”
That was a sentiment Astarion could appreciate. Tylona didn’t like it; he could tell by the scrunch of her nose. But she nodded jerkily and whispered orders through the sending stone. They would set off two separate blasts. Wyll and Gale would clear any leftover rubble. Tylona would flood the room with shadow, letting the inside crew make for the hole. Lae’zel and Karlach would cover their escape as Shadowheart and Halsin guided the prisoners to the boat. A neat plan, tied with a little hopeful bow.
And it worked. They broke through the walls. Though the guards rose the alarm, they couldn’t break through Tylona’s shadows. Astarion scrambled through the hole and caught Tylona’s arm as Karlach threw her up. They rejoined the rest of their crew as the flock of gnomes scurried by, followed by a stumbling crowd of coughing tieflings. They were going to pull this off.
And then Astarion’s gaze fell on one of the tieflings. An average looking sort of man with black horns that crooked to the left.
Astarion’s vision went blood red.
He slammed the tiefling into the cavern wall, forearm pressed into the bastard’s yellow throat. Cries sounded all about him, but they could’ve been bird calls for all Astarion cared. His knife- he had a knife only seconds ago- where had it gone? Who cared when Astarion had teeth, fangs meant for piercing, for tearing-
His limbs locked in place.
“Astarion!” Gale barked. “Have you lost your bloody mind?”
“He needs to die,” Astarion snarled. It was good that Gale had intervened when he did. Astarion would’ve made the kill too clean, too quick. This little bastard deserved a slow death, the sort where he writhed, blood pooling underneath him, limbs seizing in fits, tongue begging for release that Astarion wouldn’t grant him-
“Cultists inbound!” Karlach warned. “We need to move.”
An arm roped around Astarion’s shoulders even as he felt the magic drop. Astarion thrashed with a hiss, but Halsin’s strong frame wrested him back. The shivering little bitch stared at him with wide, green eyes, ducking behind the protection of Wyll’s rapier. Gale’s twitching fingers. Karlach’s axe. Against Astarion. Against Tylona. Fucking traitors .
Except… except they didn’t know. They didn’t know who that man was, what he had done , what he was .
“Get off of me,” Astarion snarled, shoving Halsin away. Halsin raised his palms in a calming gesture, but there was no peace to be felt. Not when Astarion knew everything. Not when Tylona stood only a few feet away, gold eyes wide with fear and locked unseeing on the nearby wall. She trembled. Her hands rested protectively on her abdomen. Because she recognized him too. Of course she did. That was a face she’d never forget. The soft ones, the gentle ones, they were all gone. But the cruel ones? The ones that hurt him? The names were lost to time, but he remembered every fucking face.
“I’ll kill him,” Astarion promised her. He ignored the surrounding sounds of outrage. “Right now. Just say the word, and I’ll slash his throat open.”
Her eyes slid from the wall to him. Blank and bright. Brimming with magic, called to the edge by her rampaging emotions.
“Tylona?” Gale’s voice. Soft. Coaxing. Because he wasn’t so much of an idiot not to see the fear paralyzing their little ray of sunshine. And it was Gale that broke through to the pragmatic sorceress. Like a thick velvet curtain drawn over a window, Tylona’s fear vanished into a cool neutrality. Her hands fisted at her sides.
“No time for this, people. Get a move on before the Warden roasts us alive.”
There was quite a lot of shouting from the prison. The heavy chains of the gates ground together; someone had thought to open the gates to allow the guards to chase after them. If they didn’t move soon, they would be drowning in cultists.
Tylona’s eyes met his. She gave the tiniest shake of her head. Her lips barely moved, but he caught the mouthed word anyway: please .
Astarion’s hands itched to close around a yellow neck and squeeze. Maybe he could hamstring the bastard and leave him to entertain the guards while the rest of them fled. It would only be what he deserved. But under that pleading gaze, Astarion could do nothing but dig his fingers into his hips.
“Shall we, darlings?”
The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
The boat was barely large enough for them all. As it was, Halsin was forced to turn into a bird; he flew over the boat, low enough to remain in eyesight. The shadows ruined whatever aerial advantage he might’ve had otherwise.
Astarion and Tylona sat on one end of the boat. The bastard sat on the other. Every time he so much as looked up from his shoes, Astarion bared his teeth in a smile. The bastard’s head would duck straight back down. Little shit was lucky there were heroic types about; otherwise, he would be dragged after the boat by a noose around his neck. Astarion’s throat burned with thirst. He wouldn’t taste very good, but he might as well make himself useful at the end of his pathetic life. Astarion would find a particularly painful spot, take his time draining every drop of blood from his sallow flesh. Maybe he could keep him alive for a few days, lock him in a pitch black room and visit him every few hours before finally crushing his throat under his boot.
The malice he felt must’ve shown on his face because none of the other freed captives would look at him either. Good. Let them be afraid of him.
Neither Wyll nor Karlach were happy with him, pair of bleeding hearts, they were. But Gale, who normally was just as nagging, was quiet. Probably because without Halsin’s assistance, he had to concentrate so much more to keep the cloak over their vulnerable sailboat.
Normally Tylona would be able to help. But she was pressed against Astarion’s side and trying to pretend she wasn’t shivering like a wet kitten.
It was the longest trip of his life from Moonrise to the shores of Last Light. He wanted to tear chicken-liver’s throat out. Wasn’t allowed. He wanted Tylona to feel safe. She couldn’t. So he burned holes into chicken-liver’s psyche with his eyes and dug his nails so deep into his palms that he bled.
Jaheira and a slew of her harpers waited for them at the beach. They threw their arms up in a victorious cheer, helped guide the boat beside the rotting dock. Astarion wanted to grab Tylona, press her into the High Harper’s arms, and fling himself across the boat. Dramatic, yes. Practical, no. He forced himself to watch each tiefling, each gnome, climb out of the boat, greeted by warm blankets and waiting healers and warm drinks. He tensed when chicken-liver stood.
Gale raised his voice. “Not that one, Lady Harper. Fetch him some rope instead, would you?”
“What the fuck, Gale?” Karlach asked. Gale shrugged with a tight smile.
“I’m sure all will be explained soon.” His tone was light, almost joking, but he wore the same expression he had while Elminster ordered him to kill himself. The look of a man staring into his future and resigning himself to it.
Tylona shrank, shoulders curling into herself.
Chicken-liver tried to argue. Freed of Moonrise, feet on solid ground, he suddenly found the courage to lie, to claim he hadn’t done anything wrong. He jabbed a shaking finger at Astarion, warbling. “He’s a vampire! I saw it; he attacked me. Tie him up!”
The High Harper matched his hysterics with a shrewd expression. “Even well-trained dogs bite when they’re threatened. As the wizard said, I’m sure all will be explained. Throw this one in the cellar, eh?”
As much as Astarion appreciated her trust, he could’ve done without the comparison to a dog.
While the harpers led chicken-liver away, the rest of the tieflings were hurried into the warm embrace of the inn. There were distant shouts of joy and relief as friends and family reunited. The sense of victory seemed to glow alongside the eerie blue light of Selune’s protection.
Their little party stood beyond it, in that limbo between refuge and danger, and nothing permeated the air but tension.
Tylona accepted Gale’s hand when he offered it. The wizard gently helped his lover out of the boat onto the grainy sand. Astarion shadowed her, feeling very much like the aforementioned trained mutt. Whatever. The rest of their crew fanned out in a semi-circle, matching expressions of frustration splattered across their features. Even Lae’zel, who couldn’t care less about the feelings of others, seemed upset. Only Gale seemed calm… but no, he wasn’t calm at all. This was the stillness before the storm, the soothing touch before the slap.
Tylona watched her feet, limbs hanging, shoulders slumped in defeat. She hadn’t worn makeup for days, not when she cried every fifteen minutes. Her hair tangled in frizzy knots. Red blotches covered her cheeks, and her eyes sank into shadowed skin. She couldn’t hide it any longer. Anyone just looking at her would know that something was wrong. But they had been respecting her privacy, patiently awaiting her admittance.
By attacking her rapist, Astarion had forced their hand. His empty stomach dropped. The skin of his palms tore further under his nails, but there was no more blood in his body to lose.
He was a terrible friend. His first friend, and he hadn’t kept her safe, hadn’t kept her secrets.
“I lost my head,” Astarion blurted out. “I haven’t fed since we entered the shadow curse. I lost control of the hunger.”
His rat brain screamed. What was he doing? How many times had they warned him? If Astarion lost control of his hunger, they would end him; they had said so in clear, blunt terms, each in their own way. This wouldn’t endear him to them. This wouldn’t keep him safe. They’d hurt him. They’d kill him.
But he had to protect his friend.
Tylona’s head whipped up from the sand. “Oh gods, you haven’t fed at all? I wasn’t- I’m so sorry-”
Dammit, she could be so sacrificial. Astarion opened his mouth to cut her off.
Gale spoke before he could. “If you had lost yourself to the bloodlust, you wouldn’t have endured the trip here. I suspect you never would’ve made it onto the boat at all. You are lying, and all of us here know it.”
Astarion closed his mouth.
Gale took both of Tylona’s hands in his. Astarion forced himself to remain still, fingers tapping against the hilt of the blade strapped to his leg. Gale would never hurt Tylona. Gale loved her, sickeningly so. He would never hurt Tylona. And the expression on the man’s face was disgustingly gentle and soft, nearly pained. He kissed the tips of Tylona’s fingers. Murmured, “Love, I don’t wish to hurt you, but the time of reckoning has come, I think. We have all shared our broken pieces with you, shared some seriously concerning secrets. We care about you, and we are frightened for you. Please… please trust us enough to tell us what in Ao’s name is going on?”
To no one’s surprise, Tylona started to cry.
No one interrupted.
They were silent.
Tylona had been drunk. She left Gale’s side to relieve herself. He found her there, all alone. He flirted. She told him she wasn’t single, wasn’t interested. He insisted. He grabbed her wrist.
She should’ve fought. She had magic. Why hadn’t she fought? She froze instead. Hadn’t stopped him. Hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t done anything. She didn’t want anyone to know. She drank more after. Didn’t want to remember. Wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. It happened.
She was sorry. She was so, so sorry. And if Gale didn’t want her anymore, she understood. She should’ve fought. She should’ve told him.
“My love,” Gale whispered, forehead pressed against Tylona’s, cradling her head in his hands, “All the stars could plummet from their orbit and the seas could drown the mountains, and I would still want you.”
From Astarion’s lips, it would’ve been empty poetry. From the mouth of a man who literally could tear the sky apart, it was a vow.
Notes:
holy this chapter was draining to write
why the heck am i writing this
what the frick is this horrorthe confession scene was meant to be much longer and more descriptive. People reacted, had questions, etc. etc. and then I actually wrote the bloody thing, and they all went *silent.* Because what do you say when someone you love tells you they've been hurt in such a horrendous way?
Find people who would end the world for you.
It's never your fault.
Chapter 4: Part Four
Summary:
Tylona presents her research thesis.
Notes:
Thank you all for the love this has received recently. As a reward, here's another update.
cw: Intensely Questionable Biology, references to elective abortion
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Jaheira asked, Tylona was the one to answer her. “He’s a rapist.”
“Say no more,” the High Harper said with false cheer.
They did not join the celebrations downstairs. Halsin quietly excused himself to find Thaniel; he practically bent himself in half to kiss Tylona’s temple. Karlach and Wyll gathered alcohol and food, and then the rest of them went upstairs to the quiet of their room.
“That’s why you’re puking your guts out,” Karlach mused, “It’s morning sickness.”
Tylona snorted, sopping up the remains of the watery stew with her biscuit. She hadn’t met anyone’s eyes yet, but she wasn’t crying anymore, and she was calm enough to explain the other half of the horror. She and Gale sat at one end of the small table in their bedroom; Shadowheart and Karlach sat at the opposite end. Wyll held up the wall by the door. Lae’zel sat on the floor, supper abandoned by her side as she sharpened her blades. All of them. Furiously. She’d always been meticulous; Astarion never realized it was an anxious habit until now.
Astarion stood in the corner, where he could watch everyone else and no one could be at his back.
“Isn’t this fun?” Tylona said sarcastically. “I get two parasites.”
Only Astarion snickered. Gits. No, it wasn’t funny, but sometimes you had to laugh. If you pointed out how ridiculous it was, it hurt less. Less.
Gale had his arm along the back of her chair. He rubbed his thumb in circles on her shoulder as he tiredly held his temple. He looked closer to Astarion’s age than Shadowheart’s in that moment. “Do you know how far along you are?”
“Twelve. Ish. Right?” she gestured to Shadowheart.
“Ish,” Shadowheart confirmed. She was on her second mug of the night. At the rate they were all drinking, they would need to acquisition a keg or two from the cellar. On second thought, none of them should be anywhere the cellar. Just for a moment or two.
“But we were only barely admitting our feelings around that point,” Gale muttered. He furrowed his brow “How did you not know something was wrong? A baby doesn’t just come out of nowhere.”
“Gale,” Tylona chided quietly.
Shadowheart’s mug thunked against the table. She counted off her fingers. “One, I don’t ask about people’s intimate lives. Two, she didn’t tell me until weeks after the party.”
“I thought it was ceremorphosis,” Tylona muttered to no one in particular.
“And three, I’ve thought Astarion was the father all along.”
Wyll choked on his bread. Gale’s brows climbed into his hairline. Lae’zel paused in her sharpening and glared daggers. Or, in Astarion’s case, would it be “glared sharp, wooden stakes?”
“Fuck, sunshine,” Karlach said. “Leave some for the rest of us.”
A sharp grin overtook Tylona’s face. “Wyll’s right behind you.” Wyll’s choking intensified as the two women laughed. They weren’t entirely happy laughs, but it was a grand improvement on sobbing or apologizing.
“Awkward shagging aside,” Tylona continued snidely, “Astarion still could be the father. That’s what makes it terrifying.”
Astarion blinked. Hadn’t they been over this? He raised a hand like a schoolboy in a class. “Uh, darling, I thought I made myself clear. That’s not possible.”
“Uh, darling,” Tylona mimicked, even getting the cadence of his words, “Yes, it fucking is. I researched. For hours. In a normal circumstance, you’d be right, but in a normal circumstance, you would be crispier than a butter-sautéed chicken in an oven.”
“You’re hormonal, so I’ll forgive that,” he sniped. Astarion focused on the last part, so he wouldn’t have to think about the first. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t. Vampires were dead ; they were impotent. She was clinging to an impossibility to avoid facing the truth.
“Only male vampires can sire children. It’s incredibly rare, mostly because vampires aren’t known to take long-term mortal lovers. There are only a few recorded instances, and in every case, the child didn’t make it to adulthood.”
“Why?” Gale asked, sounding distant. His eyes were glazed over, stuck in his “solving-problem” mindset. “Defects?”
“Murder. Dhampirs inherit the bloodlust without any of the weaknesses. They can live in the sun, cross running water, enter homes without permission.” Like Astarion could. Only in his case it was because the illithid parasite in his brain protected him. He was digging at his palms again.
Wyll winced. “That’s… understandable then. They’re larger threats than a normal vampire.” The party stared at him. He blinked, flushed. “What?”
“The oldest victim was thirteen,” Tylona said flatly, “But sure, Wyll, murdering children with no choice in their parentage is absolutely reasonable.”
Wyll wisely kept his mouth shut. Good. Prick had it coming after all his remarks about Astarion’s “rat diet.”
“As I was saying… dhampirs aren’t very common, and when they do crop up, they’re usually murdered in childhood. Neither vampires nor mortals seem to like their existence. Female vampires can’t reproduce; dhampir children still require natural sources of nutrients that vampires simply can’t digest, much less provide for a fetus.”
“You’re forgetting a piece,” Astarion interrupted. “I’m not a true vampire, darling. I’m a spawn.”
Tylona’s palms slammed against the table. “And that’s where it gets interesting.”
Interesting. Interesting . Gods, Gale could have her. The both of them were lunatics. The fact that they were having this conversation, describing vampire reproductive biology, Gods .
“Female spawn can’t reproduce for the exact reasons I listed earlier. There’s also zero reported cases of male spawn having children. But some of the scholars on the subject have theorized that they potentially could. Spawn suffer one major weakness: their sire.”
Astarion’s blood ran cold. He could hear Cazador’s voice, whispering in his ear. You are mine. Body and soul. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. The room felt tight, far too small and too many bodies. He needed to leave. Now.
Tylona’s eyes shone with some emotion. Malice? Excitement? Astarion couldn’t tell anymore. “Spawn are entirely bound by the will of their lord or lady. They cannot act outside of their sire’s commands, and they cannot turn mortals into vampires. But upon investigation, Sir Theobald’s autopsies of spawn and true vampires revealed no anatomical differences. Turning isn’t a physical process; it’s a magical one. But natural reproduction is physical, so why can true vampires have children while spawn can’t?”
“The sire’s bond,” Gale said with excitement, just as wrapped up in the intellectual fucking curiosity as Tylona. “They don’t have permission from their master.”
Astarion didn’t need to breathe. Why was he out of breath? Why were his lungs so strained? Why was everyone staring at him all of a sudden? He hadn’t said anything. Was the room always so bright? He couldn’t breathe, but he was breathing too much. Tylona’s mouth was moving, but she wasn’t saying anything. He shook his head, but everything sounded muddy and distant. A hand touched his face. No. Never again. Astarion grabbed the wrist attached. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.” Even just the sensation of skin against his fingers itched. He dropped the wrist. Holy shit, would his lungs stop burning?
All at once, his lungs loosened. The room dimmed. His breathing evened and then died. Because he didn’t need to breathe. It was comfortable, not breathing.
“I’m sorry,” Tylona whispered. “I’ll lift it in a moment, but you were panicking. I’m so sorry.”
Oh. It had been so long since he last had a panic attack. He had forgotten about those. All the way back… when he woke up in the pod, right. He should feel bothered about that, but Astarion didn’t feel much bothered at all. Right. He was fine. Things were fine.
“Can I lift the magic? You can breathe?”
He nodded. Sudden panic ripped through him, but he was ready for it. He grabbed it by the tail and coiled it tight into a ball. Later. He could feel that nonsense later. For now, he needed to look Tylona in the eyes and tell her the obvious. “That’s impossible.”
She sighed. “Haven’t you been listening at all? Normally , it’s impossible. But the parasite accomplished the impossible; it severed your connection to him, made you a free agent entirely. And besides, it doesn’t matter if the child is biologically yours or not, it’ll still be a dhampir.”
“Why?” he grit out.
“Because a few pregnant women have survived vampire attacks. They all had dhampirs. The venom in a vampire’s system infects her bloodstream. She doesn’t turn, but it affects the baby.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Astarion threw out a hand. “Wine. Now. Someone. Wine.”
He brushed past Tylona and was thrilled when Karlach immediately handed him a bottle. He was not going to embarrass himself by having another panic attack in front of them. He paced the room instead, drinking flat, tasteless wine that did nothing to quench the seething thirst ravaging through him.
Him. A father. An infection in her bloodstream. All because the parasite snipped the threads between him and Cazador. But no; it hadn’t broken the bond entirely. There were times Astarion still heard his call, still felt that instinctual push to run to his master’s side.
“It’s still there. The bond. That means it can’t-”
“Do you obey?” Gale interrupted. “If not, then the magic isn’t functioning properly.”
Shit.
“Does this not bother you at all?” Astarion exclaimed. He know he sounded particularly whiny, but how could anyone blame him in this blasted, stupid, idiotic fuckfest?
Gale’s expression turned wry. “Does it bother me that my lover’s ex is currently standing in front of me, panicking because they accidentally produced a child together? Hmm, let me think on it awhile, and I’ll let you know in a few days when I’ve finally wrapped my head around it.”
“This is the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Shadowheart said, far too calmly for the situation, “And I’m circumventing ceremorphosis through the mysterious assistance of a man in my dreams while hunting for the secret to killing a centuries-old man who cannot be killed.”
“Cheers to that,” Karlach muttered. The two women clanked mugs.
“The solution is obvious,” Lae’zel said. It was the first time she had spoken since their arrival on the shore. She had set her blades aside and was staring intently at Tylona, mouth puckered in a somber pout. “Your people must have means of termination.”
Everyone went still. Astarion’s fingers flexed around the neck of his wine bottle.
Tylona cocked her head to the side, face blank. She stared at Lae’zel. Lae’zel looked steadily back. The air crackled with energy. Astarion smelled smoke. There was no fire in the hearth.
“Excuse me?” Tylona said calmly.
“We carry mindflayer parasites. The zhaith’isk failed, and we have come no closer to finding a cure. Our transformations are held at bay only by the dream figure, whom we know little about, and we constantly face deadly foes in combat. This is no time to carry a child.”
She wasn’t wrong. Logically, everything she had said made complete sense. Astarion opened his mouth to second her vote. Tylona couldn’t carry a baby , especially not if it was his. That was madness. But though his mouth opened, no words came out. Not while he was looking at the gleam of Tylona’s gold gaze.
“You know, that’s exactly what our little friend has been telling me for months.” She rapped her skull. “Every night. Every bleeding night. And you know why I haven’t done it yet? Because it’s none of your fucking business. It’s my body. It’s my baby. It doesn’t matter where it came from or why or what fucking species it is. I told you all because you’re my friends, and you deserve to know, but the only opinions I give a shit about are his -“ she pointed to Gale, “And maybe his .” And she pointed to Astarion.
An opening. An opening to tell her that he agreed with Lae’zel. That she needed to get rid of it, as soon as possible. If only his mouth would work. At all.
“You are being unreasonable,” Lae’zel said.
A flash of violet lightning visibly cracked through the air. Astarion startled. The bottle shattered against the floor.
“Crack that egg open,” Tylona hissed, “Then we’ll talk.”
She stormed out of the room. Literally. A black pulsing cloud followed her out.
“She’s going to make a great mom,” Karlach laughed.
One of the inherent drawbacks of eternal darkness was the frustrating inability to tell the time. There was no day- there wasn’t even true night- only a vast nothingness that consumed the world from horizon to horizon. Lathander was the burning sun, Selune was the gleaming moon, and Shar was the consuming emptiness. Shadowheart seemed to visualize her goddess’ embrace as a warm cloak one would tuck around the shoulders of a child. Having trekked through a semblance of her power, Gale thought it was more akin to a burlap sack over one’s head. The shadow-curse blinded him, suffocated him, and yet he could not find the strings to unloose them from his neck and remove the covering.
As if the burlap sack weren’t discomforting enough, Astarion and Tylona had picked him up and thrown him into the lake, insult to injury.
She snored quietly beside him, warm backside tucked against his front. She had returned to the bedroom after she regained control of her emotions and therefore her magic. (That being the major drawback of sorcery. Gale’s mastery over the weave came from intense study and precise manipulation. Tylona could sneeze, and the whole inn could go up in flames. Truly unfair.) Luckily, Tylona had practice in controlling her emotions, and so other than a lightning singed tree outside, there was no further damage to any persons or property. Upon her return, Gale decided that a night’s rest (except there was no blasted night) preempted any further conversation. The others agreed, and so candles were blown out and curtains drawn to block out the ever-present glow of Isobel’s protections.
She had hesitated before joining him in bed, before allowing him to tuck his arm around her waist and pull her close. As if any of the horrific revelations of the day ( sigh ) were enough to change his opinion of her. Her breathing shifted. Gale rubbed his thumb over the fabric of her underclothes, and she stilled again.
After Mystra’s rejection, he honestly believed he would never love again. The Netherese corruption in his blood would eventually overwhelm him. He would find some lonely spot in the Underdark, far from his mother, from his best friend, from his goddess, and he would die. Alone. His illithid abduction had been icing atop a maggot-infested cake.
And then she was there, cheerful and bright, sweet as warmed honey on a toasted biscuit. Yes, she was presumptuous and demanding of the weave just as all the other sorcerers Gale had the displeasure of meeting. But she was also vivacious and unconquerable. And good . The same women that cackled her way through the slaughter of a goblin camp also soothed a frightened child caught in a sham criminal trial. She cut through petty squabbles and selfish intentions straight to the heart of the problem, and then she excised the problem with a surgical efficiency.
And he hadn’t been there when she needed him.
Had been oblivious for months.
Yes, he had noticed she was gaining weight. Yes, he had noticed the nausea and the vomiting. He had absolutely noticed the mood swings, considering how many of those resulted in a few singed hairs. It had never even crossed his mind that she might be pregnant. How could she be? They hadn’t done a thing together, not lost a stitch of clothing. Yes, he had known about her fling with Astarion, but the man was a bloody vampire. Before Tylona laid out her theories today, Gale had never second-guessed his assumptions about vampire reproduction. Hell, he had never once in his life considered vampire reproduction. (That was a lie; there was that brief fascination as a teenager. He blamed one too many trashy novels and his pubescent brain.)
He never considered that someone could’ve attacked her. His mind struggled to accept it even now. Tylona? The woman who could summon hounds with a crook of her finger? Impossible.
Kidnapped by mindflayers? Him? Gale of Waterdeep? Archmage and chosen of Mystra? Ludicrous.
She hadn’t told him. All these months, and she kept it secret. Hell, she lied to his face. Side-effects of suspended ceremorphosis, were they? Short-sighted fool that he was, he had swallowed everything she fed him. He had proved that she couldn’t trust him, proved that he couldn’t be there for her…
Some small, emotionally-intelligent part of Gale reminded him that none of this was his fault. None of it was anyone’s fault, save for the walking dead man locked in the cellar. None of them could be blamed for the cruel choices of one man. Not Gale, not Astarion, certainly not Tylona herself.
Gale and his emotional intelligence had fallen out years ago, and they were still not on speaking terms. So even as he warmed Tylona with his body and watched over her as she slept, his innards swirled with conflicting desires to blame, to deny, to sob… and to kill. Immoral as it was, Gale wanted to commit murder. And he wouldn’t feel bad about it.
Instead, he held Tylona. And pretended not to hear Astarion’s panic attack on the far side of the room.
Notes:
Current Astarion is not father material. At all. I would not trust him within 10 miles of a child. He agrees with me full-heartedly.
While inspired by Forgotten Realms lore, the above vampiric reproductive spiel is frankly ridiculous. Don't squint too hard at it. While Tylona has no clue which man she actually conceived with, she is pretty convinced the child will be born a dhampir no matter what, considering Astarion fed on her while she was pregnant. So in her mind, it may as well be his.
Lae'zel came to a rational conclusion. She's also a hypocrite.
*sighs because I have to update the tags because Gale couldn't keep his mouth shut*
*sighs and adds a few more chapters to the count*
Chapter 5: Part Five
Summary:
Everyone hates children.
Notes:
I lived.
cw: reference to infanticide, sexual harassment (Raphael sucks)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
At first, the dreams intrigued Astarion. The purple-blue cosmic atmosphere was a welcome change from Cazador’s nasally threats, and the man who found him there offered Astarion what he desired more than anything: power. Astarion already had one tadpole in his head; what harm could eating a few more cause? Especially if doing so granted him the power to keep himself free.
He had been outvoted by the group. He still sulked about it.
Now the dreams were an irritation. His dream “guest” could be whinier than he was.
Astarion threw his hands up in the air, glaring at the golden-armored elf. “Can I get one night of rest? To myself, please?”
“We need to talk,” the guardian replied. He was a handsome fellow- pretty face, broad shoulders, long legs. Would’ve made for an excellent mark if it weren’t for the obvious problem- he was a warrior. Astarion and his “siblings” avoided bringing home adventures; there was too much of a risk that they would figure things out along the way. Astarion didn’t want to be staked, thank you very much.
“I’ve already told you,” Astarion snapped. “I’m not going to steal-”
“Not about that,” the guardian sighed, waving his hand dismissively. He sat heavily on a stone bench, one that hadn’t been there seconds ago. The dream did things like that. Objects or images would appear as if they were always there. It was confusing and a little alarming.
“She has told you the truth,” the guardian murmured, rubbing his hand along his stubbled jaw.
Astarion stilled. She. He was referring to Tylona. Because whoever, whatever , their guardian was, he was aware of most everything that they did. At least- whenever they had the artifact. The group occasionally split but never longer than a week. They didn’t want to risk the guardian’s power waning, risk losing the protection that kept their tadpoles from transforming.
“A truth you never shared,” Astarion said coolly. Eyeing the guardian. A lie by omission was still a lie; Astarion wasn’t stupid enough to believe otherwise.
The guardian shrugged his shoulders, a strand of his meticulously combed hair falling over his eye. “That wasn’t my truth to share. I was more concerned with other things.”
Astarion’s eyes flicked to the skull floating in the distance. Bright silhouettes of light zipped through the sky. Some exploded. It was impossible to tell who or what they were, but it was obviously a fight of some sort. One the guardian oversaw. One that he fought. To keep Faerun alive, he claimed.
“But now you know,” the guardian drew Astarion’s attention again, “And now I must implore you- you must convince her to terminate the fetus.”
Every night , Tylona had said. The guardian had been arguing with her for months, trying to coax her into terminating the… the parasite in her womb. He obviously hadn’t been successful so far. And so now that Astarion knew… of course he would try his hand at Astarion.
Because Tylona cared what Astarion thought. Maybe.
Astarion stepped back with a scowl. “Do not pit me against her, bastard.”
“This is for her!” the guardian exclaimed. He jumped to his feet, pacing over the round, flat pebbles. The movement reminded Astarion of Gale whenever he was particularly flustered. “I weep for her loss, for her pain, of course I do. But you’ve seen it. Just as the githyanki has seen it. Just as we all have seen it. You all have far too much to face. You are locked in quite possibly the most dangerous war occurring in the entire realm. And that thing is weakening her. She cannot sleep. She cannot eat. Her emotions ran rampant. She is becoming a liability of her own volition, and it will kill her. It may possibly kill you alongside her.”
Astarion forced himself to look bored. To hide how the guardian’s words struck true.
She was so sick. All the time. And she would only grow larger, only lose more and more mobility. She wouldn’t be able to talk every monster into killing itself.
The guardian’s shoulders slumped. He looked defeated. Tired. Astarion knew how that felt. Knew how it felt to look the world in the eyes and know that it was all too much.
“She’ll listen to you. Think on it,” he whispered. “Please.”
The High Harper had an uprising on her hands. She stood behind her desk, hands flat against the cluttered surface, as no less than three tieflings shouted at her.
Astarion leaned over the railing of the second floor, studying each one of them, pitting their faces to memory.
“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” a scrawny man with a flat nose barked. Blue-tinted skin, thicker tail than normal. The woman beside him was about the same height. Red skin, scale-like ridging down her long neck.
“That’s not the information I was given,” Jaheira replied, keeping her cool even as they ganged up on her. The High Harper was an old hunter, the sort Astarion would’ve picked out and avoided during a Szarr party. She didn’t need to raise her voice to instill control, just flatten her gray gaze on you and watch you shiver.
“Whatever it is, it’s wrong!” the second man cried. Family relation, Astarion guessed; he had the same yellow complexion and crooked horns that Tylona’s attacker did. “Thylec would never hurt a fly!”
The railing creaked under Astarion’s grip. Thylec was a dead man, no matter how much his brother cried. Even if Jaheira relented and released him, he would never leave Last Light alive. Astarion would hunt him like the dog Jaheira compared him to. He’d enjoy every last second of it too. Maybe she should free Chicken-Liver-Thylec.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tylona step up to the railing beside him. She watched with him as the tieflings begged Jaheira and, when that didn’t work, insulted her character.
“She’s giving you shelter, she’s feeding you, and she’s protecting you from the shadow-curse,” Tylona snarled down to them, loud enough that the majority of the downstairs looked up at her. Tylona sneered. “Not to mention we saved your sorry asses from Moonrise, but please, continue to call her an uncaring tyrant.”
The two friends at least looked a little guilty. The brother looked up at Tylona, his mouth curling into a hostile sneer.
One Astarion had seen before. Too similar. Too threatening.
The blade flew from his fingertips on instinct. Chairs screeched across the wood floor. Several people screamed in alarm. Jaheira sighed and rubbed her temple.
The tiefling’s sneer was gone, replaced by a comical, wide-eyed expression of fear. He rose a shaking hand to his ear, fingers coming away bloody.
“Go have a drink, darling,” Astarion crooned. “Before I decide to have one instead.”
They’d seen his fangs. Heard Tychus’ accusations. They knew what he was.
The brother looked to Jaheira. As if she would intervene on his behalf. She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t look to me; one less mouth to feed would be a relief, not a burden.”
The brother was smart enough not to look upstairs again. One of his friends put his hand on his shoulder, murmuring quietly enough that even Astarion couldn’t hear him. The three of them stalked out of the inn entirely.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Tylona said tiredly.
“We should’ve let them rot in Moonrise,” Astarion replied. She gave him one of her infamous glares, which would’ve put him in his place better if she didn’t look one second away from collapsing. “You need more sleep.”
“And you haven’t eaten.”
The thirst roared to life, searing up his neck and along his tongue. Her pulse wasn’t visible against her neck, but he tracked the slope of her neck anyway. Smooth skin like gold, so fragile, so thin a veil over the hot, thick feast pumping through her body. It had been so long; surely, he could take just a nibble-
Astarion tore his eyes off her neck, forced himself to study the rotting ceiling instead. His hands dug into the railing, wood slivering under his nails. The pain was a distraction, something to focus on other than the bloodlust.
“Darling, feeding on you was what got us into this mess,” he drawled, as if his whole body didn’t scream for her. “Go back to bed. I’ll survive another day or two.”
“But-”
The door behind them slammed open, their companions spilling out into the hall in a noisy crowd. Karlach roared with laughter, slamming her hand against Wyll’s back. The man choked back a yelp and grinned.
Astarion let her friends distract her and watched the inn bloom to life beneath them.
They would need to do something about Tychus eventually. Maybe Astarion could satiate the thirst scalding his mouth at the same time.
The whole group set out for the mausoleum two hours later. It should’ve only been one, but a few someones had decided to double their prep time.
Wyll and Karlach tried to make Tylona stay at Last Light. They fussed. They worried. They implored. And when that didn’t work, Wyll was stupid enough to say, “Tylona, think of the baby’s sake.”
“I fucking am!” she exploded. “Why do you think I’m the one holding onto the fucking artifact? I’m not risking the baby by letting you fuck-heads fuck off with the artifact, and I’m not risking you fuck-heads by sticking it up my ass at Last Light! So shut the fuck up and let’s fucking go before I fucking cut your heart out!”
Astarion couldn’t bite back his giggles, not when Wyll had managed to turn three shades paler and even Karlach seemed scandalized by Tylona’s outburst. Shadowheart had counted Tylona’s “fucks” on her fingers, seeming amused and frustrated by the delay.
“Point made,” Gale cut in. “Shall we go now?”
“Finally,” Lae’zel hissed.
Tylona had spotted the mausoleum just north of the House of Healing. With the help of teleportation magic, the trip to the House was a short one, spitting them into the dark, probing mists. Karlach visibly shuddered, hoisting her ax over her shoulders. Wyll shot one last worried look at Tylona, but he fell into their backline, ever the obedient soldier.
Tylona took lead. None of them could see her face, but Astarion read her frustration in the length of her stride and the tightness of her shoulders. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, almost as demanding as his thirst. He had known they would treat her differently, and yet he had outed her anyway. Thoughtlessly.
It will kill her , the guardian’s warning resurfaced. Astarion shoved it away.
They found the mausoleum without issue, built into the side of the mountain itself. Shadowheart crouched over skeletons yellowed with age. She was rambling about justiciars again. Shar this- Shar that- destiny, blah, blah, blah. Astarion watched the perimeter, fingers tapping against his leg anxiously. The mists were different here. They were creepy everywhere, curling fingers that seemed to have minds of their own. But here? Here they felt… almost playful. Evil shadow mists should not feel playful.
The hair on the back of his neck was already standing up. His senses were already on high alert. None of the signs or clues that would’ve snagged his attention went off. One moment, he was watching the mists.
The next, he was whirling on Raphael, knife clutched in his hand.
Raphael threw his head back and laughed. “Twitchy as a cat, Astarion. Put the knife down. You won’t be needing that.”
Astarion didn’t put the knife down. He narrowed his eyes at the devil. Raphael. Fucking Raphael. He was like Cazador in all the wrong ways, but he had advantages Cazador didn’t. Beauty, for one. Cazador looked like a drowned bat, but Raphael had the face and voice of an angel. Or a fallen one. It made him more difficult to read, so Astarion assumed every word he said held a threat.
“Raph!” Tylona called, faux pleasure in her voice. “I thought we’d never see you again.”
The devil turned to bow, a pleased smile flitting across his handsome face. “I did tell you I would find you again, didn’t I? I’m still waiting for you to come around to my offer.”
Tylona crooked a pair of her slender fingers. Shadows- real ones devoid of sickly green tint- coalesced about her ankles, not yet taking shape but ready to on command. “I’m curious to see how long you’ll wait. Yes, you have immortality, but that doesn’t mean you have patience . Not like some of the other beings I’ve run across.”
The Shadowfell. Astarion didn’t know much about it; he worried more about surviving this plane of existence than the others. Vampires had some connection to it, supposedly. But Tylona had been there. He overheard her telling Gale a bit about it, and none of it had been pleasant.
Raphael chuckled. “Our deal may wait, but you’re not my only interested customer.”
Astarion restrained from biting his tongue as the devil turned back to him. Astarion’s scars didn’t hurt. They didn’t pull or itch. That didn’t mean he ever forgot them, and under Raphael’s dark gaze, they seemed to burn.
“There,” Raphael purred, “No more secrets amongst friends, right, Astarion?”
His armor- his clothes- they were gone. Astarion stood stark naked, bare for the world to see. And his party was staring, gasps from the members who hadn’t known about the pink lines torn into his back.
They saw- they saw - Astarion crushed his fear. Strangled the discomfort. He couldn’t stop his shoulders from drooping in resignation. Of course it wouldn’t last. He had no power to actually protect himself, after all. He sighed through his nose and squinted at Raphael, ignoring the horrified looks on his party’s faces.
Ignoring the rage on Tylona’s.
“You know what I want, Raphael. Just name your price.”
“Ah,” the devil preened, “But do I? You want information, yes, but there’s two questions buried under your tongue. You want to know about your scars. I can read them for you, of course. They must be something important for your master to spend so much time on them. Are they a poem? Something as benign as a shopping list? Or do they mean something more?”
“That is what I want,” Astarion snapped. He was already exposed, already vulnerable. He didn’t need Raphael playing with him any further than he had.
But the devil tutted and waved his finger. “But you also want to know about her .”
He pointed directly at Tylona. Astarion’s skin chilled, and it wasn’t the wind. Tylona’s eyes narrowed, but her hand fluttered over her stomach, unconsciously moving to protect. Gale shifted closer, fingers twitching at his side.
“Not even a tadpole wriggling in your brain could keep your clothes on, I see. What an interesting conundrum you find yourself in. Two possible fathers, both tragic options. But you’ll never really know, will you? If you really beat the odds, if you accomplished what no other spawn will. How will your master react upon discovering that he might be a grandfather ?”
A thousand scenarios flashed across Astarion’s mind. None of them were good. All of them sickened him.
The devil snapped his fingers. “I could ease your doubts here and now. Forget about the scars; let’s talk about the child’s paternity . Not only will I settle the question of who the true father is, but I can ensure the child doesn’t have a hint of vampiric corruption. It’ll be completely normal.” A wicked smile spread across his face. “Providing ceremorphosis doesn’t kill it first.”
He could fix it. Remove Astarion from the equation entirely. Astarion swallowed.
“Fuck you,” Tylona seethed.
“Could you actually do that?” Astarion asked quietly.
Her gold eyes whipped to him, glowing in response to whatever emotion rose up in that. “Don’t you dare. I’ll kill-”
Gale put his hand on her arm, slashing his hand over his mouth pointedly. Her eyes flared again, but she quieted. Gale looked across the field and met Astarion’s eyes, face calm and collected. “Bargaining for information is already dangerous, Astarion. If he could alter the baby like he’s suggesting, it has too many chances of going wrong, most likely killing the child.”
Would that be so bad? As long as she could have more, did it really matter? He could fix it. It could be gone, easy as snapping his fingers.
That… wouldn’t make Astarion a very good friend, would it?
“You’re getting distracted,” Astarion said flatly. “And I’m getting cold. So will you tell me what the scars say or not, devil?”
Raphael rolled his eyes. He went on, typical theatrics spilling from his mouth. Astarion tuned most of it out. There was some sort of danger in the mausoleum. He wanted it dead. Blah, blah, blah. Astarion stared at a nearby skull, half-buried in the black ground and tried not to shiver in the cold. He didn’t think. Didn’t feel.
He flinched at the hand on his arm. Oh. The devil was gone. He’d missed his departure- dangerous when Astarion was the one bargaining.
Tylona peered up at him, the glow of her eyes dimmed to their normal amber. She didn’t say anything, just offered him a black cloak. He threw it over himself and refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Damn their opinions. Damn their pity.
His scars itched.
Notes:
I kind of hate this chapter, but I'm in a slump and trying to crawl out of it. I think it gets the point across. More fun stuff in the future, idk.
I don't know why everyone in this world wants Astarion to violate Tylona's body autonomy so badly. Like chill, dudes, let a woman have her choice.LIFE UPDATE (for those who care.):
So. I'm not dead.I haven't posted in a bit because I was ~moving~. So I froze all progress on fanfiction to focus on my novel. Which I did, in fact, finish right before I moved to Utah. Success. No, the novel is not ready for publication, I still have plenty of revisions and editing to do. But it ate up all my focus, which is why I'm now trying to figure out how to write things that are not NOVEL.
Sins of the Father will be getting more love, hopefully. I want to get it out of the way, so I can focus on my other fic.
Chapter 6: Part Six
Summary:
Justice is demanded. And served.
Notes:
Oh look. There's an official chapter count now. As of now, I'm expecting to start posting every Friday until this is complete. We'll see if I stay on schedule. I do this for fun, y'all. My writing has been trraaassshhh lately, but hopefully y'all enjoy this anyway.
Watch the taaaagsss folksssss.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tylona could be a terrifying bitch when she wanted to be.
They found Raphael’s monster alright- a bloody orthon three times the size of an ox and heavier than a house. It should’ve been a fight, one that probably would’ve ended with broken bones (and maybe a resurrection or two.) Watching the orthon train his massive crossbow on Tylona, Astarion had nearly started the war first.
But it was Tylona, so of course she figured out how to defeat the beast without getting their asses handed to them. The orthon slaughtered his minions, his pet displacer beast, and with a few sympathetic words from Tylona, he rose his blade to his own heart.
The whole room shook when his corpse thudded against the floor. They all stared at the hunk of red flesh, unmoving and yet intimidating even in death. Did this… count? Surely, this didn’t count; Raphael would laugh in their faces.
“What?” Tylona asked, sounding annoyed.
Gale took a deep breath, wide eyes turning to their intrepid leader. "I see the art of eloquence is alive and well. I am awed, impressed, and a little bit scared of you right now.”
She grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark room. She stood on her toes to plant a kiss on Gale’s chin. Astarion looked away and refused to feel.
Raphael didn’t appear, but Astarion didn’t expect him to, not immediately. The devil would lurk about until he found a suitable, dramatic entrance, and only then would he reveal whether Tylona’s clever tongue counted as the weapon that slew the orthon. Only then would he reveal the meaning of Astarion’s scars.
After far too much exploration of confusing halls and interactions with skeletons, they finally retreated back to Last Light for a rest.
The High Harper was waiting for them on the bridge. Her twin swords crossed at her back, her hands rested on her hips, and there was a purpling welt under her eye.
“What happened?” Tylona asked. The portal hadn’t even fully closed behind them. Astarion’s eyes rolled back, and he huffed in exasperation. So much for a nap. At least skeletons didn’t bleed; he only had dust and bone shards in his hair.
“I broke up a scuffle,” Jaheira said dryly. “The refugees are growing restless. They don’t like how I imprisoned one of their own. They especially don’t like that I won’t tell them why.”
Tylona’s face quieted. Such an expressive woman should never be so blank.
“I don’t need an explanation,” Jaheira said, her voice softening ever so much. “You’ve more than proven your integrity to me. But everyone here is scared, and the rumors are flying.”
“Then squash them,” Gale snapped. More than one surprised expression turned his way, including Tylona’s. But her eyes dropped to the ground a second later, her eyes dulling with shame. Astarion’s nails dug into his palm. “This is a place of safety, one that you and Isobel have created. You hold the authority here.”
“Authority must be maintained, boy. ”
Astarion did not wince at the term, did not swallow at the condescension. She wasn’t even talking to him. He had no reason to shrivel like a rat in the light.
“I understand, Jaheira,” Tylona murmured. “I’ll handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Gale argued, but she silenced him with a gesture.
“Everyone get some rest,” Tylona ordered. “We return to the mausoleum in a few hours, and we aren’t bringing snacks.”
The air hummed with hesitation, but Tylona didn’t wait to see if her orders were followed. She turned her back on them and stumbled deeper into the Harper camp, away from the Inn. The water. She would go to the water to think.
The party was already whispering. Low, concerned voices. Pitying her. Doubting her. Except for Gale.
Gale. Annoying, self-righteous, arrogant wizard . Who had lived less than a century and yet had the gall to act like the smartest person in the room. Who had literally fucked a goddess. Who stuck his fingers in the wrong pie and got himself dumped. Who had seen and done so much more than Astarion could even dream.
Who Tylona loved. Who still loved her when so many others would’ve abandoned her.
Astarion grabbed Gale’s arm and dragged the wizard after him. He started to squawk. Astarion shushed him wordlessly.
He wanted to go to the cellar. Wanted to slit Chicken-Liver’s throat and be done with the whole business. But he wouldn’t take Tylona’s choice away from her.
That was what mattered, wasn’t it? That she had a choice , that she was the one who made it rather than bowing to the opinions of anyone around her. And Astarion had been tempted to take it from her, was still tempted. He wanted nothing to do with a- a child - and yet it wasn’t about what he wanted because it wasn’t his body. It was hers.
“Astarion-”
Astarion whirled on Gale. Gale’s back hit the stone wall of the stable. Astarion hadn’t meant to push him so hard. Ah well.
“She can’t be alone right now,” Astarion told him. “She’s isolating because she thinks she deserves it. And because she doesn’t want pity or to be treated like a child.”
Gale’s open mouth closed. He had some wisdom after all. Astarion’s skin was crawling explaining this to Gale because sometimes Gale was too clever for his own good. Sometimes all he needed was a clue or two to put pieces together that came far too close to the truth for Astarion’s liking. But Tylona needed him, wanted him.
“Don’t lecture her or try to cheer her up. Hell, don’t say anything . Just be there. Do what she asks, listen to her. But don’t tell her what she should do, even if she asks. Just… be there.”
The wizard’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak. A good sign- if he could keep his mouth shut for a moment or two, maybe he could actually help Tylona. “Why me? Why not you?”
He had his problem-solving face on. Reading too much in-between the lines.
“Do you love her or not?” Astarion jabbed his finger between Gale’s eyes. “And don’t wear that fucking face around her. Don’t treat her like a problem to solve.”
“I didn’t even realize I was making a face,” Gale admitted.
“Do better,” Astarion snarled.
Gale blinked, but he didn’t argue. He attempted to school his face into something neutral. Astarion sighed inwardly. It was better than nothing. He spun on his heel to leave.
“Astarion.”
“ What. ”
It wasn’t quite the problem-solving face. It was something else. Something that simultaneously held an edge and yet seemed softer. “What happened earlier. With Raphael. I don’t blame you for being afraid. It’s alright.”
No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t alright at all. Anyone who thought it was alright to be afraid had never truly felt fear in their lives. And what the devil had suggested- if Cazador knew…
Astarion forced a scoff and tried to make it look like he wasn’t running.
Don’t treat her like a problem to solve.
As if Tylona could ever be a problem. As if she wasn’t the grandest solution that Gale had ever found in his entire life. As if he wasn’t the problem in their relationship, the man walking around with enough magical energy to level cities, the man stupid enough to push beyond boundaries no one should have even neared. Tylona was always the solution, the key that fit every lock to Gale’s puzzlebox of madness.
He heard her crying before he saw her, a sound that had him conjuring flame before he caught himself. He braced himself against the stone bridge, swallowing tightly, and listened to her panting cries.
He hadn’t protected her. She had been hurt, and he hadn’t made her feel safe enough to tell him. They all faced momentous odds, but she most of all. This was already impossible enough; how was she meant to survive this carrying a child ? She was in so much pain, and he had no solutions.
Ah. That was what Astarion meant. Do you love her or not?
Yes. With his whole heart and soul. She had bewitched him, even before her eyes had wandered away from Astarion. Even though she was a blasted sorcerer. Gale steeled himself and tried to relax his face. He refused to hurt her more than he already had.
She hid in the shadow of the bridge. Her magic reacted to her emotions, the darkness pooling around her like a thick blanket. If he wasn’t so adept at peering through illusions, he never would’ve seen her. It helped that the magic did nothing to dampen her sobs.
She spotted him at the same time he did her. With a gasp of his name, she scrambled upright, limbs scrambling as she desperately wiped at tears. Trying to hide them from him. His heart sunk. Even now, she hid from him. Where did this distance come from? When had it grown between them? He had kept secrets at first, yes, but it had barely been a week before Gale trusted her enough to explain his particular situation. She had accepted him not only with understanding but compassion.
It was so easy to talk to her. Had he been so busy talking that he hadn’t listened?
Gale sunk to the ground beside her. His instincts screamed to wrap himself around her, to help wipe her tears away, to say something that would fix her pain- but no, that wouldn’t be helpful. He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t- well, he potentially could turn back time given enough resources and a space. Perhaps if he spoke to Jaheira- No! Stop trying to fix it!
Just be there .
She’d gone quiet, and somehow that was more horrible than her crying.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Gale said. He immediately wanted to slap himself. “That is- not that I want you to cry, but I’ve read that crying is a sign of high emotional resilience. Crying resets one’s emotional functions, and so… well…”
Dammit, Astarion told him not to talk! He was making a total and utter mess of things. But as the silence settled between them, all Gale’s tongue wanted to do was wag.
“Is that true?” she asked after a long, awkward pause. “That crying resets things?”
Surely answering questions was acceptable. “If the book I read can be believed, yes.”
“Then why does it all come back? Why can’t I just cry once and get over it?”
He almost botched it again by launching into an in-depth explanation of the medical article’s argument, but that… hadn’t been her question, had it? Gale forced his brain to slow down and truly consider the weight of her words. He… didn’t have an answer for her. He couldn’t fix things for her. Magical intervention and the complexities of timelines aside, Gale could not change the past or erase what had been done to her. For once in his life, he found himself at a loss for words.
“Sorry,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes wearily. “You should go rest. I’ll be in soon, I promise, I just… I’m not good to be around right now.”
She’s isolating because she thinks she deserves it.
Gale spent weeks locked in his room after his disaster with the Netherese magic. He had refused even Tara’s company, so consumed by his self-loathing and bitterness that he could not stand to hear anyone else breathe much less speak to him. If his death would not have destroyed Waterdeep…
“Tylona.” Her name was a song, three sweet notes that dripped from his tongue like water.
Two pools of molten gold flickered up, a pair of eyes that held the beauties of the weave. They struck him to his core, incinerated whatever verbose speech he had been pulling to mind and left him with three words that could not properly express the tumult of pain, fear, desire, and affection he felt.
“I love you,” he whispered, intertwining his fingers with hers.
Relief poured through him when she curled into his side, resting her head against his heart. He cradled her close, her hip curling slightly over his. Gale couldn’t care less about the tears soaking through his robe, not when her skin was warm and smooth against his. Not when she trusted him enough to hold her as she wept.
Neither Tylona nor Gale breathed a word when they joined the rest of the party for dinner. No one had the courage to ask. They had all seen the two slip into a private room with Jaheira. They all knew what the topic of discussion was.
Astarion drank shitty wine while everyone else drank shitty soup. He didn’t meet Tylona’s eyes. Couldn’t. Not after what he had considered. She was still pissed at him, had been all day, and he knew it. Accepted it. A good friend wouldn’t have thought about killing her baby. A good friend wouldn’t have ousted her trauma. A good friend wouldn’t crave her blood so desperately that he could scream.
One by one, their party slipped away from the table and up the stairs until it was just the three of them. Astarion. Gale. Tylona. The inn room had long since cleared, tieflings and harpers turning in for their own rest.
Tylona stood, but Gale did not. Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion watched as she carded through Gale’s hair with her fingers and pressed a tender kiss to his crown.
“Are you sure?” Gale murmured though Tylona hadn’t said anything. “If you’ve changed your mind…”
“No. I don’t want to know either.” Astarion felt her gaze turn to him. His fingers tap-tapped against the table. “Goodnight, Astarion.”
Her voice was too quiet, too gentle. Where was the anger? Where was the disappointment? The mistrust?
She trailed away from the table like a shadow-wreathed ghost.
Gale was studying him. Astarion was used to attention; he was a beautiful speciman, after all. But Gale wasn’t a sailor in one of Baldur’s Gate’s piss-stained taverns, a man desperate for a hard fuck after months at sea. He wasn’t one of Cazador’s guests, gray-skinned walking corpses that trailed their fingers down Astarion’s neck as though he were an unthinking art piece.
Gale was an idealistic wizard that talked too much and saw too much.
“Thank you for your advice,” he broke the silence. Astarion shrugged. He hadn’t done it for Gale, and they both knew it. “We… Tylona has decided what to do about our prisoner.”
Astarion stiffened despite himself. Gods, if she let the bastard go-
“Do you want to come with me?” The calm in Gale’s voice sounded off. Astarion finally looked at the wizard, narrowed his eyes at the eerie blankness on Gale’s usually animated face.
Astarion would bite. “And where are you going?”
“To the cellar.”
Astarion sat straighter in his chair.
In the same monotone, distant voice, Gale said, “Tylona doesn’t want us to kill him. But Jaheira agreed- it’s only fair that Tychus experience a small fraction of the pain he inflicted on Tylona.”
If Astarion had any blood left in his body, it would have dribbled over the broken skin of his lip.
“Yes. Yes, I want to come,” he agreed.
One harper stood guard at the cellar door. He exchanged nods with Gale and immediately fucked off.
They had not left the prisoner in total squalor. A cot lay against a splintering rack of barrels. A solitary torch provided enough light for the man to see. He sat alone at a small table, a blanket draped over his shoulders for warmth. They had not tied his wrists, and he had obviously been fed. The worst he probably endured was isolation and boredom.
It made Astarion want to wring his neck. But no, Tylona didn’t want that. She wanted something better, something more suitable for a disgusting wretch like this.
Tychus leapt to his feet the moment he noticed Astarion. “Don’t come near me,” he stammered. “I’ll yell, I will. And then everyone will know you’re a monster.”
Astarion wanted to laugh. He wanted to show this squirming waste of air exactly how monstrous he could be. But he only cracked his neck. Soon. He wasn’t the one leading this, not yet.
“Sit down,” Gale said. He said it like an invitation, like he was speaking to a bothersome house guest instead of the man who raped their Tylona. It would’ve bothered Astarion more if he didn’t see the twitch of Gale’s fingers at his side, the tell-tale sign of magic at play.
Tychus glanced nervously at Astarion, but some of the tension in his expression eased. He sat back down. Idiot. Astarion leaned back against the door, crossing his arms across his chest like he was any other mindless thug. Soon.
Gale crossed the cellar leisurely. He sank into the opposite chair, that polite smile still plastered across his face. “Tychus, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” the tiefling confirmed. He sounded like his brother, the same gravelly register. The same grating voice that had startled Tylona in the woods, that had sent alarm shooting through her bones-
Soon .
“Look, this is a mistake. I didn’t do anything,” he lied.
Gale’s lips twitched upwards even as his eyes darkened. “Oh, Tychus, I don’t see the point of lies here.”
“Lies? I didn’t do anything. You gotta let me out-”
“Did you even know her name?”
Confusion flickered across the tiefling’s yellow face, washed out rather than warmed by the candlelight. “Huh?”
Gale leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. His hands flexed, easing the tension Astarion felt mirrored in his own body. He could hear the thrum of Tychus’ pulse, see the fear ratcheting up in his eyes, practically smell the blood already-
“Do you know her favorite color? That she sings when she walks?”
“That when she laughs too hard, she snorts,” Astarion added quietly. Gale nodded, not looking away from Tychus.
Tychus, who was stammering in defense, still feigning ignorance even as the color leeched from his face. And when he realized what they knew, he changed tactics. Tried to claim that they were both drunk, that she had wanted it.
Gale clenched his fist closed, and an invisible force slammed Tychus against the back of his chair with a choked yelp.
Astarion had thought Gale was like Wyll, like Karlach. Just another bleeding heart, a fool who knew nothing about evil, who had been given everything and assumed the world was sunshine and rainbows. Who believed in lies like redemption and honor. But the man who leaned in close didn’t show an ounce of squeamishness or pity. He scanned Tychus from boot to horns. There was no hate in his eyes. No anger. No glee. Just cold calculation.
“No, you don’t know anything about her,” Gale murmured. “But I do. And he does.”
Astarion pushed off from the wall. Now. Now, it was his turn. But unlike Gale’s cold nothing, Astarion let the grin spread across his face. He would hate. He would burn with anger. He would revel in satisfaction.
Tychus tasted like shit, but Astarion had never enjoyed screaming more in his life. He felt every thrash, every jump of muscle, even as Gale froze the bastard to his chair. And when the blood dripped too freely, Astarion paused his work just long enough for Gale to burn the flesh dry. Every slice, every tear, burned in Astarion’s chest like the sun. Tychus begged. He sobbed. He whined. It was noise, and then it was a chorus, the howl of every damned bitch who ever laid a finger to Astarion.
Someday, Cazador would shriek like this.
Tylona would help. Because she was a good friend.
And because Astarion was her friend, he would make sure that Tychus lived every moment of his life feeling the same soul-deep torture she had. He made sure Tychus would never sleep peacefully again, that he would always have one eye open, that he would jump at every fluttering breeze, that every breath he took would be one of exquisite agony.
That he would always be afraid. Always .
Gale only puked once they made it to the end of the dock.
Notes:
Other SA survivors might choose very differently than Tylona. No judgment here. For her, however, she decided that Tychus deserved to have no more impact in her life than he already did. She trusted her lover and her friend to mete out a suitable punishment.
Whether their decision was suitable? Astarion doesn't think it's enough. Neither does Gale, but he's a little ashamed he feels that way. Astarion feels no such shame. That would require morals. I'll let you decide what you think.
This is the end of Act 1 (Act 2?)
This fic is not meant to be a retelling of the game’s events. It’s meant to be a focus on how the characters’ relationships change because of the added stress. Unfortunately, this one got away with me a little bit. I have to cut it here, or I’ll never get this blasted thing done.
There will be a timeskip in between this chapter and the next. This will transition the story from Act 2 in game to Act 3 (and then beyond.)
Thank you so much for reading. Thank you for the support this fic has gotten. I haven’t been happy with my writing lately at all, but I hope it brought one or two of you an ounce of joy.
Chocoborider92 on Chapter 2 Sat 19 Jul 2025 02:40PM UTC
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Solei98 on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Jul 2025 04:50AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 19 Jul 2025 04:52AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Jul 2025 06:58AM UTC
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Chocoborider92 on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Jul 2025 02:35PM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Jul 2025 03:58PM UTC
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Chocoborider92 on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Jul 2025 04:41PM UTC
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Trinket97 on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Jul 2025 02:22AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Jul 2025 06:51PM UTC
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Trinket97 on Chapter 4 Sun 20 Jul 2025 12:47PM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 4 Sun 20 Jul 2025 06:53PM UTC
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Chocoborider92 on Chapter 4 Sun 20 Jul 2025 06:54PM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 4 Sun 20 Jul 2025 09:10PM UTC
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waiting_for_the_rain on Chapter 5 Sat 30 Aug 2025 04:21AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 5 Sat 30 Aug 2025 04:57PM UTC
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Trinket97 on Chapter 5 Sat 30 Aug 2025 04:56AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 5 Sat 30 Aug 2025 04:57PM UTC
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sharsgothprincess on Chapter 5 Sun 31 Aug 2025 10:11PM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 5 Sun 31 Aug 2025 11:31PM UTC
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s (Guest) on Chapter 5 Mon 01 Sep 2025 12:56AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 5 Mon 01 Sep 2025 03:22AM UTC
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waiting_for_the_rain on Chapter 6 Fri 05 Sep 2025 11:18AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 6 Sat 06 Sep 2025 04:39AM UTC
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Trinket97 on Chapter 6 Fri 05 Sep 2025 04:00PM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 6 Sat 06 Sep 2025 04:39AM UTC
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Nocturnal_Faerie on Chapter 6 Sun 07 Sep 2025 10:21AM UTC
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impermeable_azul on Chapter 6 Sun 07 Sep 2025 10:14PM UTC
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