Work Text:
The night was sharp with autumn chill, the kind of air that bit the lungs with every breath. Sprout moved through the crooked fields, the hem of his cloak brushing wet stalks of withered grain. Lantern-light burned soft within the glass sphere at his hip, its glow muffled by a wrap of cloth so as not to betray his path too easily. He did not like to be seen at night—there were too many things in the dark that might mistake him for prey, or for someone more dangerous than he was.
The satchel at his side sagged heavy with bundles of wormwood, rue, and late-harvest valerian root. There were always more herbs to gather, more tinctures to make, more people in need of healing than his hands could ever keep up with. And yet he kept walking into the night, patient, quiet, steady.
The plague doctor’s mask hid his face, though not the person behind it.
The narrow beak, painted black, curved down from his brow, and the glass lenses shone faintly green when the lantern brushed across them. Strapped leather hugged his coat close around his chest, and the whip coiled at his hip looked like a gardener’s tool until it unfurled—woven vines reinforced with iron thorns. Main blood or not, Sprout carried it like a burden rather than a weapon.
He crouched near a patch of bitter nettle, fingers brushing the earth. His gloved hand traced the stems, gentle despite the prick of their hairs. He cut them low, tied the bundle with practiced movements, then paused.
A sound.
It was nothing dramatic at first—just the faintest disturbance in the silence. Grass swayed though there was no wind. The air seemed to hum, almost imperceptibly, as though the earth itself was holding its breath.
Sprout’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he rose, his gloved hand brushing the vine-whip at his hip. The leather creaked faintly as he drew it free, the coils sliding through his fingers like a serpent waking from sleep. The mask’s glass lenses caught a shard of moonlight, pale green glinting as he tilted his head toward the shadows.
And there—
A figure sat among the tall grass, still as stone, yet not stone at all.
The moon carved his outline in silver. He seemed half-born of it—face divided between luminous white and fathomless dark, a single star glimmering where an eye should be. Long hair spilled about him like water drawn slow by tide, streaked faint with starlight that caught even the dimmest light. His coat fell loose about his folded limbs, his unicorn tail brushing against the ground with restless, small flicks. And those ears—soft, sheepish things, twitching once against the breeze—betrayed him in a way the solemn face never would.
Astro.
He looked like sleep incarnate, a body present though the soul seemed half elsewhere. Tired, beautiful, ageless. When he lifted his chin, the star in his eye caught Sprout’s gaze like a hook.
The vampire rose with unhurried grace, as though the night itself had coaxed him up. A faint groan escaped him, not menacing but human in its weary stretch. His arms shifted—settling into the pockets of his coat.
Sprout said nothing. Words would not come easily to him in the best of times, and now his throat felt too tight to offer any.
The vampire’s voice broke the silence instead. Soft, almost careless.
“You tread light,” Astro murmured, the words slipping into the air like smoke. “Quieter than most who come hunting.”
Sprout tightened his grip on the whip. He did not brandish it, not yet—but he did not let it fall slack either.
“I’m not hunting,” Sprout answered at last, his voice muffled beneath the mask but steady. “Only gathering.”
A faint smile touched Astro’s lips—if it was truly a smile. More like the idea of one, ghostlike, vanishing before it could take shape.
“Gathering, at this hour? You’ll make the wolves jealous.”
The sheep-ears flicked again, betraying a note of amusement his face did not.
Sprout did not reply. The nettle bundle weighed heavy in his satchel, the whip heavier in his hand. Yet he could not look away.
Astro stepped closer. Not in a lunge, not in menace—simply drifting, as though each stride was half-dream. The starlight on his hair, the shimmer of his crescent-lit cheek, all lent him the air of something that should not exist in a field of dying grass.
“Your mask,” Astro said softly. His head tilted, the star in his eye glimmering. “It hides a face, but not the man. Main blood, old and stubborn. I can smell the roots of it.”
Sprout felt heat rise behind the mask, though no one could see it. He lifted the whip higher now, not striking but ready.
“I don’t kill unless I have to,” Sprout said, voice low. “And I’d rather not tonight.”
Astro’s gaze lingered. Then, slowly, he lowered himself back to the grass, cross-legged once more. The faint stars curled silver in the moonlight.
“Then sit,” Astro said quietly, his voice carrying a calm gravity that seemed older than the soil beneath them. “The moon is patient. We might as well be.”
Sprout hesitated. Every instinct told him to leave—to turn, to walk away before the star-eyed vampire made a fool of him, or worse. And yet something in Astro’s stillness felt… safe, strangely. As though he had been seen, understood, and dismissed all at once.
Not prey. Not foe.
The whip coiled back into his hand. He did not put it away, but neither did he raise it again.
Sprout lowered himself into the grass, careful, the mask tilting faintly toward the vampire.
For a long while, they sat in silence. Only the rustle of dry stalks and the distant call of some night bird filled the air.
Astro leaned back on his arms, face turned up toward the faint slice of moon. His sheep ears twitched faintly in rhythm with the breeze. Sprout thought, against his will, that he looked less like a predator and more like the dream of one.
At last, Sprout spoke, voice softer than before.
“You’re not hunting either.”
Astro’s lips curved faintly again. “Not tonight,” he said. “Not when the moon looks like this.”
And for once, Sprout let himself believe him.
Of course the stillness did not last.
A sound stirred beyond the treeline—a faint rasp, like dry leaves dragged against stone. Sprout felt it before he heard it, the way a shift in air pressure tells of a storm before the thunder breaks. He was on his feet in an instant, whip sliding loose from his hand, the mask’s green-glass lenses gleaming faint in the moonlight.
Astro did not rise. He tilted his head, his star-eye catching the dark, and let a soft sigh escape him, weary as if the night itself had grown tedious.
The rasping sound became a hiss. From the shadow of the trees, something slipped forward—gaunt, hunched, its skin stretched thin over bones like parchment. Its jaw unhinged too wide, teeth catching pale light, eyes red and burning with hunger. Not a master of the night, but a servant: a twisted vampire, feral, stripped of reason, all instinct and bloodlust.
It smelled Sprout first.
The twisted lunged, claws flashing.
Sprout struck the ground with his boot, uncoiling the whip in a hiss of iron and thorn. The vines cracked across the night with the sound of breaking air, lashing against the vampire’s wrist. The force tore it off course, its claws raking dirt where his chest had been. Sprout pivoted, cloak flaring, mask lenses glinting as he snapped the whip back into coil.
Astro still hadn’t moved. He only watched, arms folded across his knees. His sheep ears twitched faintly at the noise, the only hint of attention he gave.
Sprout ground his teeth behind the mask. “You’re not going to help?”
Astro’s reply was soft, unhurried: “You’re doing fine.”
The vampire snarled and came again, faster this time, its movements a blur of twitching limbs and open jaws. Sprout sidestepped, boots kicking up earth, the whip slicing across its ribs. The iron-thorns seared like fire, splitting flesh that sizzled black in the moonlight. The creature shrieked, spinning, clawing again.
Sprout ducked low, rolling across the grass, his satchel of herbs thumping against his hip. His body ached—he was tired, too tired for this, and the weight of days without proper sleep pressed against his limbs, a small crack in his left as he dodged a bit too far. But his motions were still precise. Practiced.
The whip cracked again, catching the vampire’s ankle, dragging it sideways. It hit the earth hard, thrashing, its clawed hands gouging the dirt as it twisted up again.
Astro’s star-eye gleamed.
Sprout hissed inside his mask, the pain shooting up in his arm.
The feral vampire rose again, its limbs jerking in spasms, bones jutting sharp against its wasted skin. It hissed like a kettle left too long on fire, eyes burning with hunger so raw it stripped even fear away.
The earth seemed to recoil as it crawled forward, faster now, knuckles splitting against stone, blood trailing black.
Sprout stood firm. His breath misted in the chill, steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in his shoulders. The mask’s green lenses caught the faint moonlight as the whip unwound again, iron and vine flashing like a serpent’s tongue.
The creature lunged.
Sprout’s wrist snapped, the whip singing through the air. It coiled the vampire’s throat with a hiss, thorns digging deep into the brittle flesh. The creature screamed, a sound too thin, too sharp, like glass fracturing. Its hands clawed at the vines, but each tug only drove the iron deeper.
“Quiet,” Sprout hissed beneath his mask, though his voice barely carried.
The vampire bucked and thrashed, froth of blood spilling from its jaw. Its teeth gnashed so close to Sprout’s arm he could feel the rush of air from its bite. He pulled hard, dragging it down into the dirt.
The thorns tore free in a spray of ichor—black, viscous, stinking of rot. It spattered against Sprout’s cloak, streaked his mask lenses, soaked his gloves until they gleamed wet under the moon.
The twisted staggered up again. Impossible to kill clean, not without fire or stake or a merciful steel blade. But Sprout’s hands did not shake.
He stepped into the lunge this time. The whip flared wide, the thorns catching the moonlight before they raked across the vampire’s chest. Flesh ripped open like old parchment, ribs snapping beneath the force. A gush of ichor sprayed high, hot and sticky, drenching Sprout from shoulder to hip.
The stink burned his nose even through the herbs stuffed in the mask’s beak.
Still it moved. Still it clawed.
Sprout twisted his wrist, wrapped the whip again around its neck, then pulled. Hard. The iron thorns tore through cartilage, muscle, tendon. The sound was obscene—wet, fibrous, tearing. With one last shriek, the vampire’s head came free, its body collapsing into spasms, twitching as though the bones had forgotten death’s command.
The head hit the ground with a dull thud. Its mouth still moved, jaw working open and shut, a grotesque parody of speech. Sprout slammed his boot down, crushing it into silence. Ichor gushed across the grass, steaming where it touched the earth.
For a moment, there was only the rasp of Sprout’s breath, the whip still trembling in his hand, slick with gore. His cloak clung heavy against him, drenched, the stench rising in waves.
Across the field, Astro finally moved.
He did not clap. He did not congratulate. His star-eye caught Sprout in its light, unblinking.
“Messy,” Astro murmured, his tail flicking. “But effective.”
Sprout’s hands ached on the whip, his body heavy with the weight of exertion. He did not answer. He wiped the ichor from his mask with the back of his glove, though it only smeared, staining the lenses so the world seemed darker, clouded.
Astro leaned forward slightly, resting his arms over his knees. His ears flicked, almost lazily, though his gaze never shifted.
“You bleed yourself thinner every night,” Astro said softly, voice like a thread pulled taut. “One day, you’ll break before they do.”
Sprout coiled the whip back with sharp, precise movements, each loop snapping tight as though it were the only thing keeping his hands steady. His voice, when it came, was rough but steady:
“Then I’ll break standing.”
Astro smiled—not wide, not cruel, but faint, secretive, as though the night itself had whispered something amusing to him. He leaned back into the grass again, the moon silvering his hair, his star-eye glowing faint.
“A main toon,” he murmured. “Always stubborn. Always bleeding.”
The field stank of death. The ichor pooled thick in the grass around Sprout’s boots, soaking deeper into the earth as if the ground itself could not spit it out fast enough.
The night was not quiet anymore. It pulsed with the echo of violence, with the ragged breath in Sprout’s chest, with the strange, watching silence of the star-eyed vampire who had not lifted a hand.
And still—the moon was patient.
The ichor dripped down the mask’s curved beak, pattering against Sprout’s chest in slow, heavy drops. His cloak clung with damp weight, the cold biting deeper now that the fight was finished. He tugged the whip back into coil, breath ragged inside the stale confines of leather and herbs.
And then—movement.
Astro rose at last. An ease that was almost liquid, like shadows uncoiling. His coat whispered as he stepped forward, his boots near-silent against the damp grass.
The star in his eye glowed faint, silver-white, catching on Sprout’s gore-streaked form as though drawn there by inevitability.
Sprout felt the air change—the way it always did when a predator closed in. Not rushing, not lunging. Just coming. The space between them shrank until Sprout could smell him—not rot, not hunger, but something cool, metallic, like wet stone under moonlight.
Astro stopped at his shoulder. The vampire leaned in, too close, his breath ghosting the curve of Sprout’s neck where the mask did not seal against the skin. His lashes fell as his eye lowered, betraying him even here. His lips parted as if he might laugh—or as if he might bite.
“Your pulse,” Astro murmured, his voice low, indulgent. “It drums so steady, even now.”
Sprout’s grip shifted. His gloved hand rose, swift, pulling from beneath his cloak a thin chain that glinted faintly in the moonlight. At its end: a cross, small, worn, edges dulled by years of use.
He held it between them, inches from Astro’s chest.
The effect was immediate.
Astro stilled—not recoiling in dramatic pain, but pausing, the faint smile thinning from his lips. His star-eye dimmed, narrowing as though the symbol was a light too sharp for him. He leaned back a fraction, just enough to show respect, or reluctance. His voice, when it came again, was softer, almost amused.
“Ah. Faith.” A quiet chuckle. “Even your shadows carry iron.”
Sprout said nothing. He only lowered the cross to rest against his chest, his breathing still steady, the mask unmoved.
For a moment, they only looked at each other—hunter and vampire, neither striking.
Then Astro exhaled, long, weary, as though letting go of something heavy. He stepped back, settling once more into his languid calm. His hands tucked into his coat pockets.
“You house me,” Astro said, voice quiet but clear, as though it were less a request than a truth. “And I do not harm you. That is our accord.”
Sprout tilted his head, mask glinting faintly in the moonlight. “And in return?”
Astro’s lips curved faint again, the ghost of a smile. “I watch your back when the dark gets greedy.” His star-eye flicked toward the feral corpse, still twitching faintly in the grass. “As it always does.”
The night held still around them, blood steaming in the cold, the moon hanging sharp above.
Sprout coiled the whip once more, heavy at his hip, and gave the smallest of nods. “An alliance, then.”
Astro tilted his head, his tail twitching as if in agreement, though the smile that touched his lips was too old, too knowing.
“An alliance,” he echoed, and the word seemed to linger in the air longer than it should, woven into the very fabric of the night.