Archive of Our Own ^beta

Want to live like an animal?

By the skin of your teeth?

Put your good face on, you're foolin' no one

You're a jackrabbit underneath

At first, Astarion thinks he’s dreaming. It is not like his other dreams: the ones were he breaks the same way he does while awake, the ones where he rips Cazador Szarr’s throat out and watches his black blood spill across the stone floor, the ones where he drives a stake into Cazador’s chest over and over until there is nothing but viscera and collapsed bone and he is the powerful one, he has reduced Cazador to fear and begging.

No, he’s on his back in the sand and he’s staring up, wide-eyed and gasping, at the sun.

In two hundred years, he’s never dared to dream of the sun. It’s more of an impossibility than freeing himself from his chains and he’s learned to stop longing for it. He’s forgotten what it looks like, how it feels.

It’s brilliant and searing and wondrous. The most incredible and terrifying thing he’s ever witnessed. He clambers to his feet—soft boots struggling for purchase in the sand, body aching, head ringing, eyes burning—and for a long moment he stands there and waits to wake up. He’s clearly in the kennels, that’s where his most vivid nightmares tend to happen, and any second he’s going to feel the crack of a whip or the cut of a knife or simply a bucket of frigid water poured over his naked, battered skin.

Nothing happens.

The seconds stretch into minutes and as his eyes adjust and the ringing fades, he picks up new details about his surroundings: the acrid stench of smoke and burnt flesh, the flutter of ash along the sleeves of his doublet, the gleam of much wilder water than what flows through Baldur’s Gate—the Chionthar turning lazy as it finally reaches the sea. He’s surrounded by forest and wreckage, he realizes as he turns a slow circle, blinking in awe at the charred, dead tentacles of the nautiloid soaking in the river.

Memories assemble themselves slowly: prowling the streets of Baldur’s Gate, heading for one of the usual taverns and trying to ignore both the familiar hunger gnawing at his guts and the dull, persistent ache of a broken arm not healed quite right; a shadow overhead; a terrible sensation of dissolving and then reassembling in the blink; a strange pod on an even stranger ship; burning yellow eyes set in an alien face he’s only heard about in stories; agony as something burrowed into his eye; figures flitting past, heedless of his fists banging helplessly against the unforgiving glass.

Then fire and darkness.

The ship crashed and somehow he’s not dead.

He’s not dead and he’s standing unburnt in the sun.

Of course, that’s when something alien and terrible wakes up squirming in his skull.

_ _

So, Astarion has a tadpole in his head that will most likely turn him into a mindflayer and he’s fallen in with a band of soldiers and magic wielders who could probably kill him with the flick of a wrist if he makes a wrong move.

Next to them, he feels wretched and small in his careworn clothes, with only a dagger and a bow he managed to liberate from a corpse. His head seethes with secrets that would be easy for said soldiers and magic wielders to uncover through this lovely tadpole connection. He valiantly tries not to contemplate how quickly the others would drive a stake through his chest if they learned of the monster in their midst.

But for the first time in two centuries, the thrum of Cazador’s compulsion is gone. Astarion cannot be forced back to his side. The commands Cazador seared into the very fiber of his being suddenly have no hold.

Astarion is free.

And he knows instantly that he will do anything to keep this. Beg, steal, bleed, kill, crawl on his belly in the dirt—anything, anything.

His new traveling companions may be golden and powerful, but he is desperate.

Let them try to stop him.

_ _

It takes him two nights to realize that he can feed himself now. He doesn’t need to get on his knees or his back for anyone. He doesn’t need to grovel. He doesn’t need to pass impossible tests. He doesn’t have to wait for mercy in the form of a putrid rat and a few, desperate mouthfuls of rank blood that do almost nothing to sate the hunger turning him hollow.

He can hunt.

It’s surprisingly easy to sneak out of the camp even though Gale is arguably keeping watch. Shadows, he is intimately familiar with—long practiced in the art of wrapping them around himself like a cloak. He stalks through trees bathed in silver moonlight and marvels at how different the forest feels from the streets he’s used to. It’s so quiet, so still. Draped in an almost reverent hush that Baldur’s Gate could never hope to emulate, bustling and raucous even in its small hours.

He thought he would be out of place here, after two hundred years in the city, but the scent of pine and earth calls to the wild thing in him. The creature he has always despised.

He has never hunted before, unless scrabbling after rats along the floor of the kennel can count as hunting, yet he finds that this is easy too. His heightened hearing picks up patterns of movement in the brush and he can smell the blood.

Rich, flowing, alive—a siren’s song, an oasis in a desert.

He catches a rabbit first, snapping its neck with an instinctual move that he barely gives thought to. It feels so warm in his hands, still twitching through the aftershocks of its death as he sinks his fangs into fur and skin. The first drops of blood that hit his tongue send a helpless shudder wracking through his frame: cloying and sweet and hot, the best thing he’s ever tasted in all his miserable life.

He drinks and there is no one to stop him. No one to snatch it away after only a sip and mock him for his desperation. He drinks and drinks, dimly aware of the pathetic keening sound seeping out of his mouth. He drinks and drinks and drinks, and it’s breaking the surface of water and pulling oxygen back into seizing lungs. It’s that first touch of sunlight to undead skin. It’s a fire blooming between his ribs, finally letting him know warmth.

When Astarion has pulled the last vestiges from the rabbit, he drops the exsanguinated corpse into the dirt and collapses to his knees right after it. Already, his senses are sharper. He can hear farther, see more clearly, and his limbs feel stronger. He presses a shaky hand to his chest, half-expecting to feel his heart beating again. There is only the usual silence, but another realization hits him like a flare of lightning.

He doesn't have to stop at one rabbit.

He can have more.

Gods, he can have more.

He catches a second rabbit, then a third, then a fourth. He lets excess blood spill down his chin—messy and extravagant like Cazador used to be when feeding while he daydreamed about licking the wasted drops from the floor. He indulges and only stops when he actually feels full, when his stomach begins to cramp and he’s almost dizzy. He spends a few precious minutes curled up in wonder on the forest floor, reveling in the blissful emptiness in his mind. No thirst, no Cazador, even the wretched tadpole is quiet.

Astarion thinks it’s as close to paradise as he’ll ever come. He thinks that if this is somehow still a dream, he’ll find a way to kill himself immediately upon waking, compulsion be damned.

He knows relief now and he’ll never go back.

_ _

The next night, he feasts on a boar and its blood is even richer than the rabbits’, thick and heady. He drains it dry and marvels at how strong he feels. Almost … powerful?

He can move so much faster, he learns, and shoot his bow with an accuracy he didn’t know he was capable of: hitting a tiny bird flitting through the trees over a dozen meters away. His daggers lodge deep into the barks of tree trunks when he throws them, buried to the hilt. The near-constant aches in his body settle into nothingness, even the throbbing phantom pain of the scars on his back.

Cazador always called him weak and he was: a pathetic dog cowering at its master’s feet. But here, in these silent woods, he is beginning to see just how much Cazardor took.

Oh, Astarion has kept count for centuries of the pieces that Cazador carved out with silver blades, with a year in the dark, with starvation, with beatings and burnings and flayings and a thousand other atrocities. He lost himself in increments—chunks of flesh and personhood left in bedrooms and dungeons and taverns until there was nothing left but a mindless slave, all traces of his former self erased.

But this strength? This power? Cazador never let him know this, not even a taste of it.

He pries his daggers from the wood, running his fingers along the jagged gouges left behind, and hates the grief that wells in him like a rising tide. He wants anger. He wants blood and death and revenge. He wants hate that can fuel him like Karlach’s infernal heart.

Instead, he tastes the salt of traitorous tears. He sheathes his daggers with trembling hands and scrubs an arm over his face, swaying and buffeted by this strange, sudden storm of loss.

He tells himself not to weep. He reminds himself that Cazador already has enough of his tears.

(You are free of him, you are free of him, and you can be more now. You can finally get off your knees.)

Just lay this aching piece next to all the others, sink it to the molten depths of the earth where Astarion Ancunín has become ash and bone, and survive.

_ _

His first kill is a goblin, a scout trying to sneak into camp. Astarion sinks his dagger into the creature’s neck until he finds bone and tears. He listens to its dying shrieks and gurgles. He watches its blood stain his arm and the ground at his feet and fights through the usual urge to drink, even though he’s already full on animal blood.

He watches the corpse crumble in a heap of meat and flesh and feels powerful. Like a predator.

Like what he’s meant to be.

This power, he wants more of it. He wants to hoard it like a dragon with treasure and he won’t stop until it is Cazador who cowers before him. He won’t stop until he actually feels safe.

Until no one can ever touch or take from him again.

_ _

The most annoying thing about his companions, Astarion is learning, is not actually their propensity to help every wide-eyed stray they come across but their questions. The fact that, for some unfathomable reason, they want to know him.

Well, some of them. Shadowheart keeps to herself and bristles at any personal query like a cat with its hackles up. Lae’zel simply doesn’t care. None of them are githyanki, which makes them inferior, which makes them a waste of her time unless they can be useful in battle or around camp.

(Lae’zel might be his favorite.)

But Wyll, Karlach, and Gale are so damn inquisitive that it makes him want to scream and bare the fangs they don’t know he has.

“You’re from Baldur’s Gate, right?” Karlach asks one night, sitting close enough that he can feel her radiating heat. He tries to ignore the way it sinks blissfully beneath his dead skin, chasing the persistent cold away. “What did you do there? I bet it was somethin’ fancy. You’re very fancy.”

He looks at her open, eager face and imagines telling her the truth. That he’s a monster and beyond that, worse than that, he was a cheap whore who lured beautiful, innocent victims back for his master to murder. Who got on his back for anyone his master commanded him to. Who didn’t own a single thing, not even his mind or body.

Instead, he says, “I was a magistrate. Nothing exciting.”

“Ohh,” she scoots a little closer. The heat intensifies. “Very fancy! I knew it.”

“Hardly, darling,” he lies casually, glad that she hasn’t bothered to examine his clothing and see all the places that it’s faded and stitched back together—an illusion only, just like the rest of him. “It was endless paperwork, all rather tedious.” A dismissive flick of his wrist. “This would be a vacation, if not for the whole nasty ‘mindflayer parasite’ business.”

Fortunately, Karlach leaves it there. Just sighs and talks about how much she misses the city. How she can’t wait to return. Astarion nods politely along, grateful that his masks are holding.

“You know,” Gale says one morning over a breakfast that Astarion cannot eat. He’s waiting for the right moment to pour the stew out into the bushes, but for now he cradles the bowl in his palms and lets it steam. “Your eyes are an unusual color, for a high elf. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

It’s conversational, an insufferable academic’s curiosity, but Astarion still barely suppresses a flinch. The urge to run grips him by the throat and he has to swallow carefully around it.

“Drow blood,” he lies with a flicker of a smile, perfectly sheepish, as though this is a secret he’s decided to share. “A few generations back, I think. Not something the family likes to talk about, as you can imagine.” A grimace and a shrug. “Unfortunately, it seemed to manifest with me. But I think it just makes me look dashing, don't you agree, darling?” He bats his eyes at Gale, just to see him flush and stammer, coughing through his embarrassment.

“They do,” he admits.

Astarion preens in response, ignoring the sour turn of his stomach.

“You’re quite skilled with a blade,” Wyll notes after Astarion helps him dispatch several gnolls on the way back to camp. Astarion hates gnolls and he’s glad that he’s already an expert at getting blood out of clothing. “Where did you learn?”

The truth is that he surreptitiously asked Lae’zel for a few pointers at the start of this little adventure. The truth is that some of it feels instinctive, a part of his inherent nature: like the monster in him simply knows how to kill. The truth is that he has imagined knives and death a thousand times, so frequently that the blade feels familiar in his palm, like an old friend.

The truth is that he doesn't fully know. But ignorance is the worst thing to admit to.

Astarion twirls his dagger with nimble fingers, a feat he never would have managed in his previous state of starvation.

“My father,” he lies smoothly. “Insisted I knew how to defend myself if I was going to be venturing into a big city.” He infuses his voice with false affection. In truth, he cannot remember his father, though he must have had one. “He grew up in a small world and got paranoid about all kinds of things, the silly old man. Got ridiculously protective of his children.”

It’s a nice fantasy: a father that loved him enough to teach him to fight, to guard himself against monsters in the dark.

(Cazador used to refer to himself as your father, usually while flaying the skin from your belly or stroking bloody fingers through your hair, forcing his cock deep into your raw, abused throat…)

Wyll’s face is warm and open and Astarion relaxes as he sees that he’s spun the right story. “My father taught me to wield a blade, as well. He was an exacting teacher, but a good one.”

There is ample proof of that in the confidence Wyll exhibits when wielding his rapier, the quickness of his footsteps, almost like a dance— learned through training rather than granted by a supernatural boon. Astarion likes watching him fight, even if his thoughts often turn to how easily Wyll could kill him. How he’d be just another slain monster to add to Wyll’s collection.

He mimics Wyll’s smile, keeping his fangs tucked away. “So was mine.”

Wyll laughs softly, shaking his head. “Fathers, eh? I suppose we’ll have to thank them if we live through this.”

(Cazador’s claws catch on your scalp, drawing more precious blood, and he croons at you. Calls you a good pet as he forces you to swallow every last drop of his spend.)

Astarion sniffs and draws himself up, the picture of a haughty noble “I refuse to give him the satisfaction, dear. He’ll be even more insufferable than he already is.”

Oh. He didn’t mean to keep his father alive in this made up backstory. The idea that someone could be out there, worrying about his safe return instead of waiting to drag him back into a private, endless hell…

But it earns another laugh from Wyll and a pat on the shoulder that Astarion carefully doesn't flinch at.

“True,” Wyll agrees easily. “I will admit my father’s ego is probably big enough already.”

A shadow steals across his face—a hint of old grief, cutting sorrow. It’s gone in a blink, replaced by the easy smile that makes Wyll look like he stepped off the cover of an adventure novel, horns and all.

“So I will take some credit for my own skill.”

“That’s the spirit, darling,” Astarion says with a smirk and pretends that he can’t feel icy, phantom fingers tracing the ridges of the scars lining his spine.

_ _

Their godsdamn hero of a leader decides that it’s imperative to help a group of refugees, even though they’ve come to this grove for a healer and nothing else. Wyll argues that taking care of the goblins would also mean freeing Halsin, who apparently knows about these parasites and might be able to actually help, since his apprentice is useless.

Astarion knows that Wyll would save these people away, because he wears his heart bloody and obvious on his sleeve, leaking everywhere. He rolls his eyes and protests, gratified when Lae’zel backs him up, and reveling in the fact that no one is going to punish him for his complaints. No one will threaten to rip out his tongue because of his cutting words. At worst, Wyll frowns at him like a disappointed parent and Gale sighs and shakes his head while Karlach looks akin to a kicked puppy.

They’re not going to move him. He gave up caring about innocents after trying to save one earned him a year of absolute darkness, begging for mercy or death from gods who refused to listen. These people should be able to take care of themselves, not rely on storybook heroes to save them.

(No storybook hero ever saved you.)

But more importantly, the grove has a merchant who is selling armor and is amenable to trading with outsiders. Astarion doesn't really expect to be humored, but the merchant accepts the trinkets he’s managed to liberate from various corpses over the past few days and gives him a new set of armor in return.

That night in camp, while Wyll lays out a strategy for approaching the goblin camp with a grudging Lae’zel, he discards his old clothing which has already accumulated a number of stains and tears from the elements. The new armor fits better than expected, only a little loose on his frame. It’s sturdy, offering much more protection than his flimsy doublet, and fine quality for a backwater merchant. The gloves strap over his forearms and the leather bends easily when he curls his fingers. No more bruises from his bowstring.

The whole ensemble has more layers than he’s been allowed in years. It wouldn’t be easy for someone to tear off, to strip him bare.

He wraps his arms around his middle and wishes he could see what he looks like. More adventurer than slave? Like a person instead of a sad, pretty, kept thing? Or is he clearly just a whore playing dress up?

Karlach ambles over to his tent and whistles, grinning. “Lookin’ good, mate. Armor suits you.”

The declaration diffuses a knot of tension in his chest. Astarion draws his shoulders up, feigning arrogance. “Of course it does. Everything suits me.”

Karlach laughs, but it’s warm, friendly. Somehow not mocking at all.

_ _

There is nothing good that he gets to keep. He should have remembered this: one of the most powerful lessons Cazador ever taught him.

Perhaps it was the blasted talk of fathers the other day, perhaps it was the inevitability of his chains, but tonight Astarion dreams of him for the first time since the nautiloid.

He creeps through the darkened forest like a rat, cringing away from Cazador’s furious gaze, as Cazador laughs at his fear. Recites those blasted commands that Astarion thought himself free of: Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

Thou shalt obey me in all things.

Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.

Thou shalt know that you art mine.

A portal glows and swirls behind him, ready to drag Astarion back to the kennels, to a tomb where he’ll surely be left for decades, for centuries, until his body finally rots and only a screaming skeleton is left behind. His clawed fingers curl around Astarion’s neck and his eyes burn like the hells as he hisses, “you are mine, boy. Forever.”

Astarion jerks free of his reverie shaking and gasping for air he doesn’t need. Half-delirious, he stumbles away from the crackle of the fire and the others curled around it, still asleep.

(You can go back, you have to go back. If you return now, show that you came willingly, maybe it would lessen the punishment a fraction. Maybe Cazador would grant a few small mercies—five years in a sarcophagus instead of ten.

Maybe—)

A cold shock jolts him back to the present. He registers that in his terrified daze, he’s wandered into the river bordering the camp. The water runs around him, brushing against his waist on its way to the distant sea, and he blinks down at the swirling black currents.

Running water.

He can step into running water. He can walk in the sun. He can enter homes without an invitation.

Cazador can do none of those things.

Astarion has broken all of his commandments but one. The first he ever gave.

Could he break it now? He’s suddenly desperate to know.

So he makes a mistake.

He cannot keep anything good.

He’s reminded of this when his fangs pierce Wyll’s neck; when the purest, sweetest blood he’s ever tasted hits his tongue; when Wyll wakes with a start and shoves him off; when he crashes onto his back in the dirt and finds Wyll towering over him, radiating fury.

Astarion is shaking from bone-shredding terror and mind-numbing ecstasy. Wyll is going to drive a stake through his heart. The blood sings on his tongue–this is what Cazador kept from him?

“A vampire,” Wyll spits like a curse and Astarion fights the urge to curl up at his feet and grovel. Prove to Wyll that it’s okay, he's a tamed beast, and he will obey, he can, he will.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. All of his pretty words are gone. He’s fumbling for them in the dark. A trickle of Wyll’s blood is dripping down his chin and he wants to lick it off, taste just a few more drops of that nectar. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to—I just needed a little.”

And this isn’t even really a lie. He’s become trapped in a vicious cycle where he feeds more than he ever has but he also walks and climbs and fights nearly every day. His stamina drains faster than when he was a stupid slave who merely had to endure a fucking or a beating, then curl up in a forgotten corner after to slowly piece the tatters of himself back together.

So he's been hungry again. Hungry so easily and weak to it, now that he’s known what it means to be full.

He’s not sure he can explain that to a monster hunter, though.

“I won’t,” Astarion holds his hands up in supplication, a breath from begging. He would be ashamed to be back in this position after all his grand ideas of power and freedom, but any notions of dignity have long been stripped from him. Animals don’t need dignity. “I won’t again, I’m sorry. And I’m just a spawn, only a spawn, I won’t—I’m not a threat, I swear.”

“Fine,” Wyll spits. His neck is still bleeding sluggishly and Astarion’s teeth ache. “But try this again, and I’ll drive a stake through you.”

It takes Astarion a second to realize that Wyll’s offering mercy and he barely stops himself from kissing Wyll’s boots. “I understand. I understand, thank you.”

“Good,” Wyll huffs and returns to his bedroll, the matter apparently settled.

Astarion slinks to the edge of camp and huddles against a tree, trying to let the lingering terror leech away. The hunger is a wild thing, clawing his insides to ribbons. It’s gotten a taste of true ambrosia and now it wants more, more, more. Animal blood will never satisfy again.

He thinks, forcing back a hysterical laugh, that this is the cruelest thing he could have done to himself.

And he didn’t even need Cazador’s help.

_ _

(He cannot contemplate the idea that Cazador’s commandment might have been a mercy. A twisted form of protection.

Much better not to think about it at all. Cazador always did say that he was stupid, better off keeping his head empty.)

_ _

Wyll tells the others, because why wouldn’t he warn about a monster in everyone’s midst? Astarion didn’t expect to be granted secrecy on top of mercy so he’s braced for the wary glances the next morning, for the way everyone stands carefully apart from him. And if a yawning pit of anxiety has opened in his stomach, that is his problem to deal with. He’s learned to skirt the edges of it without falling into the crushing void.

He puts on his best smile and he offers them much prettier reassurances than he offered Wyll: he’s in control of his hunger, it was a momentary lapse of judgment that will never happen again; all of their pretty necks are perfectly safe; this is a team and he won’t do anything to jeopardize it.

The acceptance they offer in return is grudging, but he’s used to scraps.

Still, he continues forward with caution. Less biting remarks, more compliance. He makes sure he’s always useful in a fight. He disassembles traps and picks locks without complaint, working as fast as possible to prove his efficiency. He even offers to do some mending for Gale and Karlach, smiling through the suspicious looks they give him.

See? He wants to say to them, to Wyll. I’m tamed, I’m good, don’t throw me away.

Because he still needs them far more than they need him, no matter how useful he manages to make himself. He was never any good on his own.

That cold reality sits heavy in his empty chest.

_ _

The goblins grovel before Astarion, believing him, all of them, to be leaders in their mysterious cult. It feels good, watching them scrabble to appease him. Watching them kowtow, seeing the fear on their faces, knowing that they’re too intimidated to actually meet his gaze. The power is heady on his tongue, smug and satisfied like the parasite that can command them to kneel.

No wonder Cazador was addicted to this. No wonder he liked Astarion at his feet.

For a moment, he contemplates seizing this cult for himself. Keeping these goblins chained so they can serve him forever, even if several members of this merry band of heroes would take offense. It’s a tantalizing thought, but he thinks that killing them is going to be even sweeter.

_ _

He’s right.

The group, led by Wyll, decimates the camp, leaving no survivors to threaten the grove. It’s immensely satisfying to sink his blades and his arrows into goblin after goblin, watching them bleed and scream and die, still spouting nonsense about the god that isn’t saving them.

Even the drow paladin and their fierce barbarian leader prove no match, and this might be the most powerful Astarion’s ever felt.

He understands Cazador just a little more, watching the delicious spark of fear on the barbarian’s face right before death claims him. The moment he realizes that he isn’t invincible and he’s lost. He understands and he hates it because gods, he wants more of this. He wants to tower, he wants whole cities to yield before him. He never wants to feel small and broken and wretched again.

After the battle, he gleefully strips the paladin’s corpse of its armor, wondering how much it will sell for. Out of curiosity, he also drains a dead goblin when no one is looking and finds the blood murky and bland, even though it’s filling. It’s gruel compared to the feast that was Wyll.

(Such a cruel, cruel thing you’ve done to yourself. Cazador trained you so well, didn’t he?)

Meanwhile, Wyll spews pretty words about heroism and doing the right thing as though everyone isn’t covered in blood and guts, surrounded by over two dozen bodies—the evidence of a massacre.

Honestly, the hypocrisy. It’s so easy to justify killing monsters, isn’t it?

And naturally, because the gods still despise Astarion, Halsin can’t provide a cure. Only extend empty thanks and point in yet another perilous direction. What a waste of time. Astarion fantasizes about tearing the druid’s throat out—wondering if his blood would taste earthy and spicy, like a fine ale. He doesn’t care about the apparent good that they’ve done.

He doesn't have a heart left to bleed. He refuses to let these heroes affect him.

_ _

The feeling of power dissipates quickly, like it always does. He’s reminded of his precarious position as soon as their little rescue party returns to the grove and he watches the refugees swarm Wyll, spouting praise and thanks in the form of effusive words and heartfelt touches. He watches Wyll insist that it was nothing and mean it.

Karlach laughs, booming and bright, and burns like the sun in the midst of her admirers. Gale is all puffed up like a bird with pride. Even Lae’zal looks satisfied and Shadowheart a little wondrous, as though she’s discovering something beautiful in the asinine scene before her.

No one bothers to approach Astarion and right. He’s a monster on a leash. He needs them and they don’t need him.

But he still has one more thing to offer, one more card to play. It’s one he’s foolishly avoided thus far, telling himself that he didn’t need to resort to it. He could make himself useful in other ways. He didn’t need to bargain with his body anymore.

What better way to earn back Wyll’s trust, though? Astarion can remind Wyll of the power he holds over him. (Because your power is an illusion, no matter how much you crave it. Wyll is the one in charge and you need to stop forgetting it.) He can play pretty and submissive and harmless. Tell Wyll that this can be a display of gratitude for the mercy he showed.

Astarion pictures leading Wyll away from the party into the quiet embrace of the forest and spreading his legs for him. He’ll moan exactly how Wyll wants. He’ll act out the script he’s perfected with hundreds of lovers in dozens of taverns and bedrooms and back alleys.

And Wyll’s guard will lower. Maybe he’ll stop seeing Astarion as the creature who tried to steal his blood in the dark but a beautiful thing he can own, protect. Astarion will have a hero on his side, just for the cheap price of his well-used body.

Something wounded and animal shakes inside of him and he grits his teeth against it. Why are you afraid, he wants to spit at this cowering piece of him. This is what he knows. This is what he’s good for. All the armor and fighting and glimpses of power are just pantomime—a pet trying pathetically to be a person.

He shoves the fear back into its coffin and firmly seals the lid. He’ll make a move during the party. He’ll play his part perfectly.

And after, maybe, he’ll be safe.

_ _

(Cazador laughs, cruel and amused, through the echo chambers of his mind. He strokes Astarion’s hair and calls him good in the same breath as weak, and Astarion nearly vomits up all the goblin blood he consumed.)

_ _

The party is unlike any Astarion’s ever attended. Normally, he’s a decoration or entertainment. Sometimes, he was required to serve food or drinks before ultimately getting on his knees for some obnoxious noble. Here, he’s allowed to brood in a corner with vinegar for wine, watching tieflings laugh and drink and dance to ear-grating music. It’s hideous. It’s glorious. No one is touching him, pushing him to his knees with harsh hands in his hair.

At least, not yet.

Wyll is suspiciously absent from his own party. Astarion doesn't expect to find him brooding by the river, well away from the merriment. And Astarion doesn't expect to be turned down..

Wyll does it gently, with a sad smile on his face. He talks about ridiculous romance, drivel such as waiting for the right person instead of indulging in meaningless flings. Astarion wonders if he simply doesn’t want to admit that he finds bedding a monster unappealing.

He doesn't know what to do with this squirming mixture of anger, embarrassment, and relief in his gut.

“You’re sure?” He asks, all his flirtations dried up husks lodged in his throat. He makes himself run his fingers over the broad, smooth curve of Wyll’s shoulder, tries to fix a coy, inviting smile on his face. “Darling, it would be a very good time, I assure you. All the pleasure you can dream of, to make up for that … unfortunate incident the other night.”

“You mean the one where you sunk your fangs into me in my sleep?” Wyll asks wryly and Astarion smiles sheepishly instead of wincing.

“Yes, that. I feel terrible about it, still. So let me show you a much better side of me, hm?”

It doesn’t have the effect Astarion was intending: a lowering of walls, an acceptance followed by claiming hands on his body. Instead, Wyll steps away with a dark frown, made all the more imposing by his hells red eye and curving horns. Astarion wills his hands not to tremble.

“Is that … are you doing this because you think you owe me?”

“I—” Astarion flounders again, furious at his inadequacy. Surely a mere tenday and a half isn’t enough to make him this rusty? “No, of course not, darling, I—”

“You’re lying,” Wyll decides and Astarion has no counter. Somehow, he’s been rendered transparent. All he can do is stand here and be judged for the wretch he is.

Wyll shakes his head, disgust on his face that stabs between Astarion’s ribs like one of Godey’s favorite knives.

“You don’t owe me, Astarion,” he says. “Certainly not with sex.”

Right. Because a hero would never go to bed with a monster. Not a true one, anyway, who actually lives by his principles instead of wasting his time boasting in taverns and then fucking a vampire spawn in a backroom.

Astarion draws the illusionary tatters of his dignity around himself like a cloak. “I apologize for my … blunder.” He meant to sound aloof, imperious. Instead, the words come out jagged and scathing.

Wyll softens again. It only makes Astarion angrier. “No apology needed. Just … go enjoy the party. We can forget about this.”

Astarion won’t forget. He’ll lie awake tonight turning this entire interaction over in his head, looking for all the places he went wrong—should have said something different, acted this way or that way to be more enticing, more convincing. At least he won’t also be suffering the aftermath of a beating or a flaying for his failure.

Small mercies.

“Fine. Enjoy your brooding, darling.” He stalks away, leaving Wyll to stare mournfully out at the river—still a character in a bloody novel. The tragic hero tonight, instead of the dashing one.

His stomach churns and he loathes that underneath the sting of humiliation and failure, that wounded animal is quivering in relief.

(No one is going to touch you tonight, no one is going to hurt you, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.)

Astarion snaps at it again to be quiet. It’s not even right: he would have been far safer if he managed to bed the Blade of Frontiers.

(Hands touching, claiming, hands inside you, tearing you, and it doesn’t matter how much you beg, how much you cry and scream and pray, it won’t stop. It goes on forever, over and over and over again as the centuries bleed into each other and beneath your pretty shell you are a ruin of scar tissue and bone dust, barely anything left at all–)

Aren’t you glad, the animal whispers, that you don’t have to cut yourself open again?

Because it’s never just one night, is it?

Astarion shakes his head, banishing the memories, and decides to find another bottle of terrible wine to chug. He’s nearly to the alcohol stores when he’s waylaid by a tipsy, fiery tiefling.

“Fangs!” Karlach shouts in excitement, barely stopping herself from putting an arm around Astarion’s shoulders. She still gets close enough that he smells a small section of his shirt singe. Wonderful. He scowls and she holds up her burning palms in placation.

“Whoops.”

She looks so genuinely sad that Astarion’s ire vanishes against his will.

“You look proper upset, mate,” she continues, peering at him. “Wyll turned you down, huh?”

Astarion realizes, with an anxious jolt, that he hasn't put his mask back on. He’s still transparent.

He frantically opens his mouth to spin a lie, but before any honeyed words can spill out, Karlach is shaking her head and passing him the wine bottle she’s clutching. It’s half full, warm to the touch.

“You don’t need to explain,” she says with a tenderness that flattens him. “Drink up, yeah? It’s a party!”

He takes a long gulp and suppresses a grimace. This wine is even worse than the last bottle. Sour swill.

“Ugh.”

Karlach grins. “That’s the spirit!”

“This is a miserable party,” Astarion spits, no longer caring if his tongue gets him into trouble like it always seems to. “This is disgusting wine. All of this was a ridiculous waste of time and all we got for it was a stupid pat on the head.” Another swig. He desperately wishes he could get drunk, find some kind of peaceful oblivion. “And Wyll Ravengard is a self-righteous fool.”

“Harsh,” Karlach observes.

Astarion glowers at her. “Am I wrong?”

“Kind of,” she says with more of that appalling gentleness. “I mean, he can be a bit much at times with all his heroic declarations and whatnot, but he’s a good man. You know he is.”

“Of course he is,” Astarion grumbles. “That’s the problem.”

(He’s far, far too good for you, the sniveling creature that you are.)

What would it be like? Astarion wonders. To be a person?

He almost asks Karlach, but at least he has some self-preservation instincts left. The person who was Astarion Ancunín died bloody and battered with Cazador Szarr’s teeth in his neck. He crawled up from the grave dirt: a corpse given twisted life.

Nothing can fix that. Make him whole and real again.

Make him worthy of someone like Wyll Ravenguard’s attention.

_ _

He lets Karlach follow him to his tent. He drinks two more bottles of wine and watches her giggle with delight at a mage’s sad little light show, elbowing him until he claps and entirely missing the condescension he weaves into the gesture.

The humiliation fades, the animal settles.

He tries not to think about any of it.

_ _

True to Wyll’s word, he doesn’t bring up Astarion’s second little mistake.

Instead, he waits until the middle of a two-person supply run to ask softly, “was any of it true? About your father?”

“I wanted it to be,” Astarion admits before he can stop himself.

He hates the blooming sympathy in Wyll’s eyes. So much that he almost wishes Wyll had just staked him and been done with it.

_ _

Since he’s failed to truly secure his place in this group, he becomes more watchful, more careful. Over the past two centuries, he’s learned to wield observation as a tool for self-preservation. Figure out people’s tells, what makes them tick, and it’s easier to lure them into a bed and close the jaws of the trap. Understand the shifting tide of Cazador’s moods and it’s easier to weather them and come out alive, if never unscathed.

He’s already gotten the broad strokes of his traveling companions. Lae’zel favors efficiency above all else; Shadowheart keeps her cards close, always wary; Gale loves the sound of his own voice, but beneath the easy confidence of a prodigy lurks bitter remorse and blooming self-doubt; Karlach is a refracted beam of sunshine, desperate to soak up every bit of life she can in case it’s snatched away again; and, as established, Wyll is a fool of a man who sold his soul to play hero.

Quite the merry band, not even counting the runaway vampire spawn.

But he needs more: the right strings to pluck if he’s ever backed into a corner. So he collects smaller, seemingly insignificant details.

He lets Lae’zel tell him of dragons and the Astral Plane, her eyes so bright in her face that it makes her seem young. Her devotion is the compass driving her entire life, the very purpose of her existence, and Astarion contemplates what will happen when she learns just how unfeeling gods are. Will she simply find another cause to pledge herself to? For now, Astarion accepts her combat pointers and her insults and answers her occasional questions about this realm she’s found herself trapped in with only minimal teasing.

Shadowheart seems to know her goddess is cruel, even though she refuses to say who she worships (it’s obviously Shar). But like Lae’zel she’s hoping for some kind of reward for her devotion—a higher plane she’ll never be allowed to reach. Astarion debates, for a moment, showing both women how alike they really are, but decides that he’d rather keep his head.

Instead, he coaxes a few scant personal details from Shadowheart: that she likes Night Orchids (typical) and she can’t swim and there is someone in Baldur’s Gate she is desperate to return to, a flickering tether that survived the purge of her memories.

Gale likes books, or rather, likes knowledge. He craves it and the power it can give him, which is something Astarion can understand even if he can’t fathom having the undivided attention of a goddess and squandering it so badly, he ended up with a magic bomb in his chest. But beyond all his bluster, Gale is lonely. Tragically lonely. He never mentions only friends, just that tressym of his and his tower, warded off from the rest of the world, surrounded by his books.

So Astarion lets him ramble and swallows back most of his snide remarks. And maybe, once in a tenday or so, he deposits a new book he found while dungeon crawling on top of Gale’s growing pile, just to earn himself a few morsels of gratitude.

Karlach is delighted by everything, as exuberant as a puppy, and for some reason, Astarion finds it easiest to indulge her, though again he doesn’t examine why. Perhaps because she cannot touch him in the way the others can. She, for all her fire and her might, is safe. And she’s so full of life: it blooms from her face like the sun, crackles along her skin like the flames that envelope her. She revels in everything from the boring scenery to Gale’s passable cooking to random trinkets they find in old ruins. After two centuries of death and rot, he finds such fervor … fascinating.

So he lets her keep some of the trinkets he scavenges, even though it would be better to sell them, just for the bright grin she gives him as she hangs them from her tent where they dance and spin in the light.

_ _

Wyll, he avoids. He’s learned his lesson, twice over. There is nothing he could do to sway a stalwart monster hunter to the side of a monster.

_ _

One perfectly average morning, they run into a perfectly average pack of ghouls trying to traverse the mountain pass in search of Lae’zel’s elusive creche. But this time, in the middle of the fierce battle one gets its claws in Astarion before he can stop it—tears straight through his stomach and half his organs in a line of fire that nearly burns a scream out of his mouth.

He rallies quickly, sealing the pain away. It’s inconsequential and he needs to focus so the next swipe doesn’t get his throat. He eviscerates the offending ghoul with his daggers and launches himself at the next one with a fanged snarl. The world descends into a hazy whirl of blood and glinting weapons and the burnt ozone smell of unleashed magic.

It’s over only a few minutes later—the ghouls all slain and their undead masters returned to bones. Astarion hasn’t found time to go hunting in the last two days so fortunately he doesn’t have much blood to lose, just a sluggish trickle. The wound is mostly concealed beneath his armor and he decides not to call attention to it as the others urgently discuss finding shelter for the night, in case there are more unpleasant surprises waiting further into the mountains.

Injuries are common, in this line of adventuring work, but the fact that Astarion is one of the fastest members of the party means that so far Shadowheart has only had to patch up a shallow cut here and there. He’s not sure how to approach a serious one and in his defense, he’s so used to pain that it takes over an hour of hiking to fully register just how serious it is.

They’re navigating a narrow trail along a cliff with Wyll in the lead, ostensibly guiding them towards a series of caves he spotted scouting, where they can shelter from the storm clouds gathering overhead. The path forces them to walk in a single file line with a sheer drop of thousands of feet to their right and the cliff face to their left, which is just marvelous. Astarion misses the ease of paved roads, even though he long ago ditched his soft city boots for proper ones thick enough to crush someone’s skull.

He’s fiercely concentrating on the irritating pain of a pebble digging into his sole to distract from the distant agony shredding his non-functioning organs. The pebble is easier. The pebble can be removed as soon as they finally decide to camp. The wound in his stomach is familiar and he knows better than to complain about it. Complaining, begging, screaming—it all just leads to more punishment.

(You’re chained to the floor of the kennel and the metal rests on an exposed, bloody chord of muscle and sinew because all the skin of your forearm is gone and you can’t seem to stop sobbing, can’t swallow back the animal whimpers seeping between your gritted teeth and when Godey shuffles back into the room, you can’t stop the sounds from shaping into words, into pleas for mercy because it hurts, it hurts, you didn’t know pain like this existed in the world, dying hurt less than this, oh gods please let you die….

Godey just chuckles at your display and sets the knife against your other arm. Says that maybe he’ll start with your shoulder this time and—)

The whole world tilts suddenly, without warning. A familiar voice shouts, “Fangs!” A sheer drop of thousands of feet suddenly looms beneath him and he has a split second of terror to realize that he lost his footing and gods, he’s going to fall, before something grabs his wrist.

Searing pain follows and he shouts as he’s hauled back onto solid ground and the sickly smell of his own burning flesh assaults his nose. He hits dirt and stone on his back, stunned and gasping like a suffocating fish.

“Shit!” Karlach’s worried face appears overhead, blotting out his blurry view of the sky. “I’m so sorry, mate, but you just collapsed and I couldn’t let you fall….”

Ah. Karlach grabbed him. That’s why his arm is burned.

And he was falling…he was falling because a ghoul gutted him. His body must have given out. Five tendays away from Cazador’s torture, indulging in full meals, has turned it soft. He curses himself for the weakness, for slowing them down when he’s been trying so hard not to be a burden.

He licks dry, chapped lips and debates if he can sit up. “Apologies.” At least his voice is only shaking a little. “I must be more tired than I thought, darling. I just slipped—”

“Astarion,” Shadowheart’s sharp voice cuts off the rest of his excuses. He turns his head to find her frowning, pale eyes icy in her delicate face. It’s an expression she often directs at him, so he’s not sure what he’s done to cause it this time besides being an idiot and nearly falling off a bloody mountain.

Then he registers that her gaze is directed at his stomach, not his face. She’s peering at the obvious gash in his armor—the jagged edges of the leather dyed incriminating red.

“You’re hurt,” she says, sounding surprised. Offended. “How long have you been hurt?”

The others have started to cluster around as much as the terrain allows them, hovering like ridiculous, judgmental mother hens, and he’d quite like a pit to spontaneously open in the earth and sink him down to the depths of the mountain.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart says again, even sharper. “How long have you been hurt?”

Oh. Yes, she did ask him a question. He blinks. “How long ago was the fight with those charming ghouls?”

Inexplicably, Karlach curses. Then Lae’zel does as well, glaring at him like he’s insulted her almighty queen. Gale is shaking his head and Wyll and Shadowheart just look stunned.

“Hours ago, fangs,” Karlach says. Her hand hovers, like she wants to lay it on his head but just remembered that she can’t. “That was fucking hours ago.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Shadowheart demands, already shuffling down to get a closer look at the wound.

“Storm coming in,” Astarion mumbles. “Needed to get to camp, right? I … would hate to slow us down—”

Shadowheart unceremoniously undoes the straps of his leather jerkin and he nearly bites through his own tongue at the rush of panic that surges up his spine and throat. Plenty of people have wanted to fuck him injured before, especially Cazador, but in front of all the others? It’s probably punishment for weakness, designed to humiliate him. Cazador liked that in the beginning, before Astarion lost all sense of shame and it stopped mattering who was there to bear witness….

Shadowheart’s hands untuck his torn shirt from his belt but her touch is clinical, a healer’s not a tormentor’s. She eases the fabric up to expose his stomach and utters an oath.

“Hells, Astarion,” Gale says, peering over Shadowheart’s shoulder with a sickened, shocked expression. “You were walking with this?”

“I’ve had worse,” Astarion mumbles. So much worse. A gut wound is nothing, practically a mercy.

For some reason, Wyll looks like he’s been punched. “Worse?”

“I—”

“Stop talking,” Shadowheart orders and his jaw clicks shut with instinctive obedience. “All of you stop asking questions and let me work.”

Silence falls over this absurd gathering. Even Lae’zel has learned to heed their cleric during healing. Astarion knows she used up most of her reserves in the earlier fight, but Shadowheart still hovers glowing hands over his body, gritting her teeth against exhaustion.

Why? He wants to ask her, but she told him not to speak. Why in the Nine Hells are you wasting this on me?

His undead flesh begins to stitch itself back together. The lacerations across his organs close, the tattered, gaping edges of the wound seal. He can feel none of it, only a strange, cooling numbness that always accompanies Shadowheart’s healing spells. She doesn’t have enough power to fully heal him, he’ll probably need blood for that, but his innards are no longer in danger of painting the ground and he might be able to walk again. At least until they reach this fabled cave.

“There.” Shadowheart sits back on her heels. “That was the worst of it.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, reasoning that the command of silence won’t extend to expressions of gratitude.

“You’re an idiot,” she grumbles at him. “You should have told me before you nearly pitched off a cliff.”

“Something I will keep in mind next time, dear,” Astarion promises and carefully pushes himself upright, glad that he gets into a sitting position before someone can jump in and help with hands on his back.

“Wait,” Karlach looms over his shoulder, reaches for his arm and stops herself again. “Your wrist, mate.”

Astarion glances down at the ring of burned skin. It stings, but Shadowheart’s face is a map of bruises and sallow weariness, and thunder chooses that moment to rumble low and threatening across the darkening sky.

“It’s nothing, darling,” Astarion insists. Then realizes that he owes her too. “Thank you for saving me from a rather inglorious death.”

Karlach doesn’t look appeased. “I’ll get you a potion, soldier,” she insists. “As soon as we camp.”

I need blood, Astarion almost hisses, but he knows better than to ask for it. To remind them all of his unfortunate nature.

He hums in noncommittal agreement and works on the rather arduous process of getting to his feet. Wyll, Gale, and Lae’zel all try to reach for him but he brushes them off with a small wave and a smile that he hopes is more disarming than grimace.

“Well,” he declares, upright and only swaying a little. His body is going to carry him to camp. He will force it to keep going just like he has a thousand times. “Now that this delightful little sideshow is over, shall we keep moving before we get drenched or turned into lightning rods?’

He takes a determined step and his legs hold. Mercifully, the path is also too narrow for anyone to walk alongside him and grip his arm or put hands on his waist. The rest of the group has to content themselves with bracketing him against the cliff as best they can and watching him for any signs of another collapse. The weight of their attention prickles unpleasantly across his skin and he doesn’t meet any of their gazes, focused on the ground in front of his feet and not tripping into an undignified heap.

At least the cave isn’t far, and it’s as roomy as Wyll promised, providing them ample space to build a fire and pitch their tents. Astarion’s pack is snatched away by Lae’zel before he can open it.

“Do not be a fool,” she snaps. “I will take care of your tent.”

“Ah,” he says helplessly. She pins with him a frown, which he takes to mean that he’s supposed to sit dutifully by the fire like a proper invalid.

He hates it. He’s going to owe them all so much for this and if he can’t pay with his body, what is he supposed to offer? How can he hope to tip the scales back into their proper position?

He sits dutifully by the fire, too tired to risk incurring more Lae’zel’s wrath. Karlach produces her promised potion and hovers while he forces it down his throat. It lightens the burn on his wrist and eases the ache in his stomach by another few degrees.

“Much better, thank you, darling,” he says.

Karlach wrings her hands together. “You’re still not healed, though. Do you need another potion? I think I have another I can spare—”

He won’t be able to hunt in this weather. The final traces of his injury will linger until he can track down proper sustenance, which will likely be tomorrow night.

He smiles up at Karlach. Offers her a pretty lie, “trancing tonight should fix the rest, don’t worry, Karlach dear. Stop hovering like an owlbear mother and go pitch your tent or something.” He waves at the spot she’s claimed in the corner of the cave.

She still hesitates. “You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

At last she leaves and he can peacefully tuck his legs against his chest, trying to soak up some of the fire’s warmth. Beyond the cave’s mouth, the sky opens and the smell of water and wet earth drifts inside. He loathes it. It reminds of the kennels, of a tomb.

“You said worse.” He’s so tired that Wyll’s voice startles him badly enough to flinch. Wyll crouches next to him, a frown on his face, and Astarion wants to hiss at him. Scurry into the shadows so he can avoid this interrogation. “That you’ve had worse than a gut wound any mortal would have died from.” Wyll shakes his head. “You complain when your feet hurt or your clothes get wet or a bug tries to bite you. But you walk for bloody miles with a gut wound and don’t say a word?”

Astarion laughs and it’s an ugly sound, ragged and bitter.

“Tell me, hero,” he says, just as bitter. “What do you think I am?”

Wyll’s frown carves deeper into his face, pronouncing the ridges on his cheeks created during his transformation. “I will admit… I had assumed that you were a pampered spawn of a vampire lord. From your complaining and your fine clothes. Even though you can fight, I did not think you were very accustomed to hardship.”

Astarion laughs again, a hysterical giggle.

(Oh, to be the image that Wyll paints. Pampered, can you imagine?)

“Oh, darling, you know nothing about spawn, do you?” He doesn’t wait for Wyll’s answer. “I was … sired by Lord Cazador Szarr. I was his slave, my body compelled to obey his every command.”

He stares into the fire, the crackling flames soothing and easier to bear than looking at Wyll’s face as he lays his past bare between them. There is no point in trying to hide it now. And perhaps he wants Wyll to understand, to see.

“He was such a gracious master.” His voice dulls, unable to conjure his usual flippance. “He sent me out as bait to lure pretty things back for him to feed on. He used me in whatever manner he desired. When he was merciful, he let me feed on rats and bugs to curb the starvation. When he wasn’t, he locked me in his dungeons and flayed me. Broke my bones. Caned me. Carved me open and dug out my insides and healed me so he could start over because one punishment was never enough. I was stupid, stubborn—not an obedient enough pet—and I had to learn..”

Beside him, Wyll has gone very, very still.

“So you see,” he grits out, digging his fingers into the fabric of his pants. “Why this is nothing.”

“Astarion,” Wyll says and Astarion doesn’t think his name has ever been so heavy, weighed down with what almost sounds like grief.

It makes him bristle.

“I don’t need your pity,” he growls, finally shifting to pin Wyll with a glare.

Wyll looks guilty and anguished and angry all at once. “It’s not….” He takes a shaky breath. Fixes his composure back to that of the charming Blade. “I apologize for my misconceptions. They were unfair to you.”

“It’s fine, darling,” Astarion says, still too acidic and unable to care. “I didn’t want any of you to know.”

He liked pretending to be a person too much.

Wyll accepts this with a jerky nod. “I see. Just … next time tell us when you’re injured, Astarion. You don’t have to hide it. Not from us.”

(Next time, Wyll snarls in the firelight, it’ll be a stake through your heart.)

“As I told our dear cleric,” Astarion says. “Lesson learned.”

Wyll leaves him alone after that, off to pitch his tent and catalog their supplies, most likely, as though Gale doesn’t keep meticulous, obnoxious tally of everything they forage.

Astarion closes his eyes, exhausted to the empty core, and lets himself drift somewhere far away.

_ _

After his unfortunate and embarrassing near-fall, something shifts in camp: a small, subtle change that confuses and terrifies him in equal measure, especially as it begins to grow more noticeable.

It starts with Gale setting a book in Astarion’s lap one night.

“Found this in the monastery,” he says. “Hardly educational material, wonder which monk was hoarding it. Not to my tastes, so you’re welcome to it.”

Astarion turns it over to discover that it’s an adventure novel—the cheesy kind that he sometimes used to read when he was able to hide stolen books in the dormitory. They were pointless drivel, overflowing with cliches, but provided a few hours of blissful escape. An emotion he doesn’t have a name for catches in his throat as he traces his fingers over the worn cover.

He tries to think of what he’s done for Gale recently, to warrant this strange kindness, but his mind comes up empty. Just yesterday, he insulted the new robe Gale procured from a forgotten trunk. Gale doesn’t even wait for an expression of thanks, just ambles back to his tent before Astarion can open his mouth.

Lae’zel, still reeling from being declared an enemy of her people and the idea that her queen might be lying to her, accosts him one evening, clutching a game of lanceboard in her hands. Of all the things.

“You will teach me this strategy exercise,” she declares, setting it between them.

“I haven’t played in a long time,” Astarion murmurs.

He used to join the occasional game on his night hunts, using it as a means to reel in prey. But then it became an indulgence, another form of escapism, so naturally he was punished for it. Cazador shortened his window to bring victims home and broke his hands three times, making sure to carefully shatter every bone. He never touched a board again.

“You should ask Gale.”

Lae’zal makes a disgusted, dismissive sound. “Chk. He will spend an entire evening prattling about the rules. You show me.”

She looks strangely earnest and Astarion realizes that she’s desperate for a distraction from the seismic changes of the last few days and for some reason, she’s chosen him to provide it. Only instead of bedding him, as he would expect, she wants to play strategy games.

He’s not sure what to make of it, but he finds himself setting his book aside.

“Alright,” he concedes, swallowing down a near-instinctive darling because Lae’zel warned him on the first day never to call her that again. “I’ll set up the board.”

Lae’zel shuffles closer to watch and for once, he doesn’t have to suppress a flinch at her proximity. How novel.

“Do you know any healing spells?” Shadowheart asks him one afternoon, interrupting his attempt to mend a fresh tear in one of his shirts. Her voice is as blunt as ever, but her face betrays surprising nervousness.

“Darling,” Astarion says, biting off the thread. “I can manage a cantrip or two, but hardly more than that. I have no affinity for magic like you.”

“Okay,” Shadowheart says, easy acceptance. “Then you should take this.” She passes over a golden amulet, inlaid with green gemstone. He can sense the magic brimming in it, sparking gently over his fingers when he takes it from her.

“It will help you cast a healing spell,” Shadowheart explains in response to his baffled, questioning look. “Just a simple one, but effective in battle.” She shows him the gesture to make, the incantation to say. “And then the amulet will channel the Weave for you.”

Astarion stares down at the amulet with a mixture of uncertainty and terror. Why is she giving him this? What does she want in return?

“You’ll wear it?” She asks him and it’s an actual request, lacking her usual imperious tone. “Astarion?”

“Yes, darling,” Astarion says, knowing better than to refuse a gift, no matter what the eventual cost of it will be. “Though I must say, if you want the pleasure of my company, you hardly need to ply me with magical artifacts first.” He accompanies the words with a scripted, sultry smile.

Shadowheart merely frowns at him, as unaffected as always.

“It’s a gift, Astarion,” she says flatly. “You can repay me for it by looking after yourself. I don’t want to put you back together after you’ve fallen off a mountain.”

Why do you care? He can’t possibly matter to her. Not this much. Not at all.

“I’ll wear it,” he still finds himself murmuring.

She nods in satisfaction and leaves him to his mending—the amulet warm where it now rests beneath his shirt, as though seeping life into his hollow chest.

A mere two days later, as they approach the border of the Shadowlands, Karlach returns to camp from a scouting run with a suspicious burlap sack and an expression like she’s found another stray puppy to adopt, as if Scratch and an owlbear cub weren’t enough. Astarion braces himself, but the bag doesn’t seem to be moving and Karlach makes a beeline for him.

“Fangs!” She holds out the bag. He eyes it warily.

“Hello, dear. What’s that?”

“A present.” Karlach grins, shaking the bag at him. “C’mon, stop staring like it’s gonna bite you and take it.”

A present? Why is everyone in camp suddenly determined to bring him things? At the start of this little adventure, he was insulted frequently for his hoarding tendencies and the various pointless decorations he procured for his tent. Lae’zel scoffed at the amount of pillows in particular.

Now this is the third gift he’s received in half a tenday. Anxiety runs sharp down the length of his spine, coils hissing through his ribcage. Gale and Shadowheart both spurned his advances, just as Wyll did outside the Grove. Karlach can’t even touch him, let alone fuck him. But what else could they want? What else does he have to offer them?

None of this makes sense and he loathes uncharted territory.

“Astarion,” Karlach’s voice has gone soft, practically tender. “Just take it, mate. It’s nothing, really.”

Astarion tentatively accepts the bag and opens it. Nestled inside are several spools of golden thread and a long bolt of black cloth that’s soft and thick to the touch.

“What?” Astarion breathes in astonishment. “How?”

“Ran into a traveling merchant on our way back,” Karlach explains. “And I know you like stitching and stuff like that. Heard you grumbling about wanting to make a cloak now that the nights are getting colder and I thought this could help? I hope I got the right stuff.”

She shifts her weight nervously, like she’s actually worried about her gift being inadequate. Astarion isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry or flee.

For two centuries, the only gifts he received were designed to hurt him: a silver collar that his master thought would look pretty around his neck; a new whip Godey wanted to test; jewelry that would make him more appealing to the noble he was supposed to seduce; a gag that would hold his mouth open for an easier fucking, made of metal that dug cuts into his skin.

But here: a book, an evening playing lanceboard, an amulet, pretty cloth and thread—have the others been observing him in the same way he’s been analyzing them? Taking notes, running a tally. Here’s how we can make the little vampire compliant, grateful, indebted.

“Why?” He blurts.

Karlach blinks. Frowns. “Uh … shit. Is the cloth not right? I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“No.” Astarion hiccups through a panicked breath, a floodgate opening inside of him. “Why did you get me this? What … how should I repay you? Do you want to bed me? I—the fire might make it a challenge, but it wouldn’t kill me. I’ve dealt with burns before, I’m sure I could manage, if you wanted to have me—”

“What?” Karlach yelps, cutting off his distressed, useless babbling. “Fucking hells, mate, no.” She puts her hands up: a gesture of reassurance, of supplication. “I don’t want to hurt you. Even if I wasn’t on literal fire, I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Astarion stares at her quizzically. “You wouldn’t?”

Her expression is so very gentle. A fresh set of claws to his stomach. “No, of course not.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d hate it.” His hands twitch. She smiles: a sad, horrifically knowing thing. “Wouldn’t you, fangs? You flinch sometimes, when we get too close. When you think we won’t notice. I see it, though. You don’t like touch. You’re all scarred up. In here.” She taps her own chest.

Oh gods. He’s been turned transparent again—paper-thin layers stripped back to expose ugly, damning truth. He clutches the bag to his chest like a shield, caught between wanting to run or tear Karlach’s throat out for exposing him like this. For the way she’s still looking at him like she understands, brimming with compassion.

Gods.

“I—that’s absurd—” He flounders, his usual deflections deciding to abandon him at sea.

“It’s okay,” Karlach insists. “Just … did I get the right cloth?”

“It’s very nice cloth,” Astarion mumbles in surrender and Karlach beams at him—a ray of concentrated sunlight that infuses warmth right into his bones.

“Yes!” Karlach says, pumping her fist in victory. “Swish.” Her grin turns a little crooked, almost … affectionate? “Make a smashing cloak, okay, fangs? Show me when it’s done.”

“I will.”

And then she’s gone, tail swishing merrily behind her. Alone in his tent, Astarion runs his fingers reverently over the fabric and wishes he knew what to feel.

_ _

The Shadowlands are bleak and festering, worse than any crypt or dungeon Astarion has been trapped in. Here the darkness is alive, slithering through dead grass, coiling in the very air, poised to strike and consume. He misses the sun with a ferocity that surprises him. Two centuries without it and after only a handful of tendays in its warmth, he craves it almost as much as blood.

Speaking of blood, there is none to be found here. Not even rats. The only living creatures are those already claimed by the shadow curse, warped into grotesque monstrosities whose tainted blood would rot him from the inside.

He quickly becomes reacquainted with the cutting ache of starvation. It’s more brutal now than it’s ever been, mercilessly sawing through sinew and tissue to bone marrow. It’s a gaping maw that threatens to swallow him whole, strip him down to a mindless beast—nothing left but the monster always lurking under his veneer of humanity.

He fights it with every drop of his draining willpower. Six days and he stops trancing, afraid of losing control. Eight days and there are no reserves left in his body—when he’s grazed by a goblin’s knife he can just see torn, bloodless flesh and the white of bone. A tenday and a half and Wyll pulls him aside as they make camp, guiding him to the edge of the moonlantern’s protective circle.

“Astarion,” Wyll says, grim-faced in the eerie light. “When was the last time you fed?”

Astarion stiffens. Is this a test of some kind? “Ah, darling, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m in control and all of your lovely necks are perfectly safe. We have a pact, remember?”

Wyll’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s not what I asked,” he says, though his voice is patient, lacking the sternness he approached this topic with before. “How long?”

Astarion brushes his tongue over the edge of his fangs. Doesn’t look at Wyll’s face as he sighs and says, “A tenday and a half. Since we entered this gods-forsaken place.”

Wyll nods. “That’s what I thought.” He leans into Astarion’s line of vision, refusing to let him escape. “You’re starving, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” Astarion snaps. “It won’t affect my ability to fight and it won’t kill me. It’s an … inconvenience I’m used to. You don’t need to concern yourself with it, my dear. I understand the terms of our pact.” He dips forward in a slight, subservient bow. “Now, if that was all, I shall return to watching Gale attempt to make a meal of the two dozen apples he’s been inexplicably hoarding.”

Wyll grabs his arm. Astarion recoils, jerks it free. “Don’t touch me.”

“Sorry,” Wyll says immediately, palms up. “But you’re misunderstanding me, Astarion. I didn’t ask because I was afraid about your control. I know you won’t hurt us. You shouldn’t hurt yourself, either.”

“Oh?” Astarion arches a disbelieving eyebrow. “And what is your grand solution, then? I can’t exactly hunt here, can I? Unless you want to deal with a different kind of monster after the curse has taken me.”

“You can have some of my blood,” Wyll says and violently tilts Astarion’s whole existence on its axis.

“What?”

“You can drink from me,” Wyll repeats and his handsome face is open, honest.

Astarion doesn’t trust it for a second. “Is this a test?” He asks bluntly, tired of these games. “I decline, then, darling. I told you I’m in control and I meant it. I know you don’t trust the word of a monster, but in this instance—”

“Damn it, Astarion, it’s not a test.” Wyll’s voice hardens, losing some of its usual composure. Astarion blanches again and Wyll sucks in a deep, steadying breath.

“I’m concerned about my friend,” Wyll says softly. “I don’t want him to starve and I have the means to help him. I would be the worst kind of hypocrite, not to mention unspeakably cruel, if I kept that help from him.”

“Your friend?” Astarion asks, stunned. He tries to remember a time when someone applied that moniker to him and comes up empty. He’s been a slave, a whore, a dog, a monster—never a friend.

“My friend,” Wyll repeats, still sounding agonizingly sincere. “Whom I greatly misjudged when we first met and for that I’m sorry.” A rueful smile twists his mouth. “I am learning that I need to refrain from deciding a person’s character based solely on initial impressions.”

Astarion sniffs, aiming for haughty and mostly sounding on the verge of tears. “True, you are quite insufferable in that regard.”

Wyll smiles, unoffended. “So, my friend,” he says, straightening, and something in Astarion’s chest sings. “How should we do this? Wrist? Neck again? Your tent? Mine?” A pause, then a firm. “And you won’t owe me for this. If anything, this is my repayment to you for threatening you with a stake.”

Gods. It seems Wyll has been talking to Karlach. Either that, or Astarion has lost control of his masks entirely. He thinks he should be more worried about that than he currently is. Right now, the hunger is a thrashing, living thing, desperate to be sated and occupying all of his mental faculties.

“My tent,” he decides after a moment of consideration. He’ll feel safer amongst his own things. “No … no weapons.”

“No weapons,” Wyll agrees.

“And I don’t know,” Astarion continues, addressing Wyll’s first question. “I … you were my first. I was never permitted to drink the blood of thinking creatures while under Cazador. That night your neck just seemed easier but … whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“My neck is fine,” Wyll says. “If that’s what’s easiest.”

Astarion nods, feeling awkward and devoid of his usual grace. “And I …” How honest should he be? The wounded animal has reared its head alongside the hunger, wary of a trap, snarling at Astarion that he cannot trust this monster hunter, he cannot trust anyone, why hasn’t he learned that lesson?

But Wyll is trusting him. And he’s so very tired of being afraid.

“You might have to tell me when to stop, darling,” he murmurs. “I’m … I’m not sure I’ll know, since, as we have established, I’m a bit starved at the moment.”

He waits for Wyll to rescind his offer, but Wyll only inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll tell you when I’m at my limit, I promise.”

“Right.” He tamps down on the absurd urge to wring his hands—a gesture he suspects he’s picked up from Karlach. “This way, then, dear.”

He leads the way to his tent, glancing around the camp to check on the other members of their party. No one is paying him or Wyll any attention. Gale is focused on preparing dinner while Lae’zel hovers judgmentally, and Shadowheart and Karlach seem to be comparing notes about the best places in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion wonders if they know Wyll has approached them, if they talked about it.

His masks must truly be eroded because Wyll leans in close and whispers, “they know. We discussed strategy.”

“Strategy?” Astarion asks as Wyll pulls open the flap of his tent and ducks inside. He makes himself comfortable on some of Astarion’s pillows.

“Well, Gale and Karlach are unfortunately unable to contribute, but Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and I figured we could keep a schedule. I wanted to be the first to offer, though. I felt … it was necessary. Due to our last encounter.”

The full weight of Wyll’s statement doesn’t register at first. When comprehension dawns, Astarion frees, halfway to his knees at Wyll’s side. “Schedule?”

“To make sure you don’t starve,” Wyll explains, as though it’s obvious. “Apologies, depending on circumstances, we may not be able to manage every day, but every other day, at least.”

“You’re all … going to let me have your blood?”

Is this a dream? Another test?

Wyll reaches out very carefully, signaling the movement, and squeezes Astarion’s hand. “Of course. We would have done this sooner, but I … I wasn’t sure how you would react and at first, I thought you might still be managing to find prey, since I didn’t see any symptoms of hunger.” Another squeeze. “You hide your pain too well, Astarion.”

“Two centuries of practice, darling,” Astarion murmurs. “I’m an expert.”

Wyll looks sad at that, but he doesn’t push the matter further, just loosens the collar of his shirt, exposing more of the scarred plane of his neck. They’ve all piled on more layers in the last few days, trying to combat the ceaseless, unsettling cold permeating the Shadowlands.

“Shall we?” Wyll says. He doesn’t let go of Astarion’s hand and Astarion finds he likes that—the anchoring pressure.

He inches forward on his knees and draws in a shaky breath as he cautiously cups the back of Wyll’s head with his free hand. Wyll doesn’t flinch away from him, only a little tense in his arms. His blood smells divine and Astarion can feel saliva gathering in the back of his mouth.

“Relax, love,” he whispers and then plunges his fangs into Wyll’s skin.

Wyll jerks slightly, a gasp falling from his open mouth, but he doesn’t try to get away, just slides a bracing arm around Astarion’s waist.

And the blood. Gods, the blood. It’s as sweet as he remembers, even sweeter. Potent and intoxicating enough to make his limbs shake and his head spin. A broken sound spills past his teeth as he sucks in mouthful after mouthful. He wants to take it all, to drink until there isn’t a precious drop left in Wyll’s body and at last he’s sated and strong again. What he’s meant to be—not a weak, starved beast begging for scraps.

“Astarion,” Wyll says from somewhere very far away. “I think that’s enough.”

No, the monster inside of him snarls. Go deeper, take more, he can’t stop you—

Astarion quells it, shoves it back into its dark corner where it can growl at nothing, and detaches his fangs.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and licks gently at Wyll’s neck to soothe the sting of the punctures he made. Then he comes back to himself a little more and realizes that such a gesture is probably far too weird and intimate, no matter how instinctual it currently feels.

“Sorry,” he says again and pulls away, quickly wiping any stray blood from his chin.

Wyll doesn’t look upset. Or in pain.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You stopped.” He smiles, tender. “I knew you would.”

So much trust that he doesn’t know how he earned. So different from the force of Wyll’s hands shoving him into the dirt.

“Are you feeling better?” Wyll asks, sitting up a little more and dropping his arm from Astarion’s waist.

Funny, he’d forgotten it was even there. That Wyll was touching him.

“Incredibly,” He breathes in response to Wyll’s question.

The hunger is quiet, satisfied, and his senses have sharpened. Not quite back to the level he’s become accustomed to, but his head is mercifully clear.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It was nothing,” Wyll says and once again sounds like he means it. “Just a little blood.”

“It was a gift,” Astarion counters.

Another gift, to add on top of the others. Overwhelming.

“It was a debt repaid,” Wyll says, seemingly determined to have the final word. Stubborn, insufferable man.

“Still, I won’t forget it.”

Wyll accepts this at least, with another dip of his head. “Come, let’s rejoin the others. See what Gale monstrosity probably created with those apples.”

Astarion laughs, a little shocked at how easily it punches free from his mouth. How warm and genuine it sounds. Judging by the startled, then pleased look Wyll gives him, he hasn’t laughed like that before.

“I shall enjoy the show, dear,” he says, pulling the tent flap back so that Wyll can slip past him. “Immensely.”

Around the fire, the others greet him with a mixture of waves and nods but Karlach sidles up to him and nudges him gently in the side, so fast that he only feels a flicker of heat. “There ya are, fangs,” she says. “Welcome back.”

They really see him, Astarion realizes. They notice things that he likes and when he’s hurt or starving. They’ve cracked all of his masks, perhaps permanently. But he is starting to suspect that there is no tally being made, no debts he will be expected to repay.

He doesn’t know quite what to make of it. But it’s nice.

It’s more than he could have ever dreamed of, curled up bleeding in the kennels and dreaming of escape, revenge, death. Anything that would make the suffering end.

It might be more than he deserves.

But he’s always been selfish.

_ _

When Dammon finally manages to fix Karlach’s engine (temporarily, though no one wants to think about that), Astarion is the first person she sweeps into her arms.

He lets out a startled, undignified squawk as he’s lifted off his feet and spun in a dizzying circle.

“Easy, love,” he says, trying to regain his balance when she sheepishly sets him down again. “I’m delicate, you know.”

“Sorry.” Karlach coughs in embarrassment. “Got, um, caught up, there.” She’s practically vibrating out of her skin. She hasn’t been able to touch another person in over a decade and he was her first choice to embrace.

Yet another thing, he doesn’t understand.

He watches her hug Wyll, then Shadowheart, then Gale. Even Lae’zel allows a quick squeeze, though she looks like she’s being held at daggerpoint the entire time. But then Karlach circles back around to him and he realizes that there is something he can give her. That here is a way to offer his body without it hurting.

Because gods, he actually trusts her not to take more than he wants her to.

“Come here,” he says and holds out his hand.

She frowns at him, a clear question in her eyes. Are you sure?

He waves his hand in response, indicating she should take it, and she does with adorable glee, lacing their fingers together.

“Wow, you’re cold,” she notes.

“I’m dead, darling,” he says. “No working metabolism to generate body heat.”

“Right.” She squeezes his hand. “I forget sometimes.”

“Well, I apparently have a personal furnace now,” he teases as he leads her toward the camp they’ve pitched near the inn, well within the protection of Isobel’s shield. He thinks they’ll both fit in his tent and Karlach doesn’t believe in adding walls to hers, so this will give them more privacy, as well.

Karlach hesitates at the threshold when he pulls the flap back. “Hey, fangs, remember what I said about me not going to demand sex from you? That totally still stands now that I can touch you.”

“I know,” he assures her and it isn’t a lie.

(He trusts her. Remarkable.)

“But I figured a hug is rather paltry after ten years, darling. And I’m obviously the most inviting person here to cuddle with. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are too prickly, Wyll has those fetching horns that are still a touch awkward to maneuver around, and Gale would talk until your ears start to bleed. So,” he sinks down onto his bedroll and pats the space next to him. “Come, come.”

Karlach’s whole face lights up. Her obvious delight hooks in his chest and pulls taut. “Really?”

“Really.”

A delighted noise and suddenly he has a mountain of a tiefling wrapped around him, engulfing him like he’s the teddy bear she keeps near her tent. Instinctive panic kicks through his stomach but he bleeds it away with a long exhale. She’s safe. He’s safe. This can feel good.

Nothing painful is going to happen.

“You okay?” Karlach asks immediately, always so damned observant.

“Mm,” he hums and lets her adjust into a more comfortable position, settling at his side and curling carefully around him with their heads resting together.

She’s so warm, it’s like basking in the summer sun. He likes it, he discovers, now that the fear is dissipating.

“You know, I kinda thought you’d be all bony,” Karlach notes. “But you’re real soft, fangs. And cold. And you smell nice.”

“Bergamot,” he tells her and then, following a whim, carefully runs his fingers through her hair. She makes a pleased, happy sound. “And some rosemary. So I don’t smell like the walking corpse I am.”

Karlach snorts. “Don’t call yourself a corpse, fangs.”

“It is technically true.”

She burrows closer and her lips press to his temple, light and affectionate. “Well, you’re a person to me.”

Astarion’s breath hitches. He blinks at the ceiling of his tent, stunned by the sudden blur of tears obscuring his view of it.

A person. Has he actually managed to become that? Ever since he woke up in the sunlight, he’s been trying to assemble the bloody fragments of himself into … something. Not something whole. He knows that is beyond him.

But something worthy of respect. Something that can walk tall, instead of crawl in the dirt. Something more than a slave or a monster. Something powerful. Something feared. Something that will be able to march back through the doors of Cazador’s palace and drive a knife repeatedly into his chest.

He’s not sure he’s managed to achieve those lofty goals. Instead, he’s stumbled into new, unexpected territory.

“Can I … can I show you something?” he asks Karlach.

(He trusts her, he trusts her, he trusts her.)

Karlach pushes herself up on her elbow, frowning at him. She looks worried, though. Not angry. “Of course. What is it?”

Astarion sits up, grateful when she shifts to give him some space. With a fortifying breath, he pulls his shirt over his head before he can talk himself out of going through with this and turns his back to her.

He knows that the lantern in the tent will illuminate the scars coating his skin, mixing with the glimmering silver of Isobel’s shield in a play of light and shadow. He forces himself not to hunch, not to hide, as he hears the shocked, horrified sound Karlach makes.

“It was an early gift,” Astarion murmurs. “A poem. From my master. He carved it over the course of an entire night. With an ancient blade he called his needle. He made plenty of revisions. Started over if I screamed or winced too much.”

He feels Karlach inch closer. Her voice cracks as she says, “fucking hells, soldier. That’s barbaric. But … it’s. It’s not a poem.”

(“A sonnet,” Cazador whispers, stroking your tear-streaked face, nails cutting into your cheek. “My love letter to you, boy. So you’ll stay bound to me forever.”)

“It’s not?”

“This is Infernal,” Karlach says, the heat of her hands hovering a few centimeters above his skin.

“You can touch me,” he whispers and her fingers brush gently along the scars. “And you’re sure?”

A bitter laugh. “I’d recognize the language anywhere. It’s Infernal.” Her thumb rubs across a curving line. “And it’s bloody weird. I think it might be part of a pact, but pieces are missing. Like this is just a fragment of it.”

“Part of a pact?” Astarion shudders, fresh terror blooming cold in the cavity of his chest. Just when he thought he had reached the end of the horrors that Cazador could wrought upon him. “Gods, what did he do to me? What is he up to?”

Karlach’s arms wrap around him and her chest presses against the ruined mess of his back, scars to scars. “It doesn’t matter, fangs,” she says fiercely. “We’re gonna kill him for it, whatever it is.”

Astarion freezes in her hold. She doesn’t notice, hooking her chin on his shoulder. “I’ll hold him down while you knife him. Deal? The others will definitely help too. We’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere and you can gut him like a stupid fish.”

“Really?” Astarion whispers. “You’d help me?”

“A hundred times over,” Karlach says and a sob claws at Astarion’s throat. “As many times as it takes.”

“He’s an all-powerful vampire lord. He won’t be easy to kill.”

Karlach snorts. “Please, we’ve got a soldier of Avernus, an archmage, a bloodthirsty githyanki warrior, the Blade of Frontiers, a cleric of fucking Shar, and the most powerful vampire in existence. I think we can take him.”

Astarion hiccups out a laugh, closing his eyes. Gods, he can almost believe it. Hope is such a tenacious, monstrous thing.

“He took all of me, I thought,” he says, relaxing further into Karlach’s embrace. “Reduced me to a mindless, broken thing. And I came to accept that. To believe there truly was nothing left. But I think I might have been wrong.”

“You’re a person to me, fangs,” Karlach repeats, pressing a grounding palm to his stomach. “A bit broken, sure, but look around you. We’re a bunch of fucking messes. Full of scars and skeletons and missing pieces. You fit right in.”

“Insulting,” Astarion huffs and Karlach laughs against his skin.

“Take it as the compliment it is, mate.”

He will. He already knows he’s going to cling to her words as fiercely as he can. He thinks of the power he’s so desperately craved, glimpsed in blood and death and the subservience of others. Cazador’s power—and the only way to defeat him was to claim it for himself.

But perhaps he was wrong in that too.

Perhaps there is power here—in Karlach’s arms around him, in their companions waiting beyond the tent. In being someone worth bestowing gifts upon, worth trusting, worth caring for. In being a piece of a greater whole. Battered at the edges, but still slotted into place.

He cannot keep anything good, but perhaps he will be allowed to keep this.

“Thank you,” he tells Karlach and it is gratitude for so much more than her earnest reassurances, than her fierce declaration of his personhood.

She has saved him—her and Wyll and the others. Because even if he eventually meets his end at Cazador’s hand, he will have known this: what it means to be free, what it means to be himself.

The kiss she presses to his shoulder, lingering and affectionate and loving, tells him that she understands.