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"So, what do you think he'll want?" Tavelia asks as she settles into the seat across from him, the dome surrounding Last Light resplendent around them. Their companions are spread about the inn, chatting with the Harpers and tiefling refugees. Astarion is relatively sure he saw Wyll heading toward some Fists as well, but he hadn't cared to look too closely. "Raphael, I mean?"
"No idea," he shrugs blithely. "He'll hardly want my soul for something so trifling, so I suppose I'll be running an errand of some sort. I'm more than up to the task, I'm sure."
"We are up to the task," she corrects, squinting at him a little. The light out on the balcony isn't dim, not exactly, but it plays at shadows across her face. "You don't honestly think we'd make you do it alone, do you?"
In truth, that's exactly what he'd expected. She must read it on his face, because she tuts at him and shakes her head. Black curls gleam almost silver under the moon goddess' blessing, loose across her shoulders and drying after a quick bath. "We've come this far together," she says reproachfully. "And I promised you we'd figure this out, didn't I? I'm not going to make you deal with Raphael all by yourself. Neither will the others."
He hadn't actually taken her promise to help him figure out his scars too seriously. He's whispered too many promises of his own into ears of various shapes and sizes over the centuries with no intention of keeping them whatsoever. And Tavelia has proven herself to be cunning, using her own silver tongue to lie their way through tangle after tangle, her bard's training seeing them easily through sticky situation after sticky situation.
She's a good actor. Almost as good as him, able to play on people's sympathies or preconceived notions to bluff her way right into the heart of enemy territory. It had been incredible to see her coaxing information out of the leaders of the goblin camp without tipping her hand; he's looking forward to seeing her at it again, when they reach Moonrise.
Besides, his scars have nothing to do with their cure. Yes, Tavelia is fond of him—he'd engineered it himself, quite deliberately. But no one is so altruistic as to run headlong into a deal with a devil for someone they've barely known for a handful of tendays—even if they're sleeping together.
"Hey," she coos, reaching forward to take his hand. Her thumb runs over his frigid knuckles, skin warm and alive against his dead flesh. "I promised. You've got my back, I've got yours; remember?"
She smiles, and a shard of ice lodges in his gut.
In another life, the two of them could have been real friends. He likes her; he enjoys watching her twist her tales and cajole secrets out of unsuspecting marks. She's charming, and a good haggler—and she makes an excellent cover for his sticky fingers to do their work. Were it not for the tadpoles, not for Cazador, he could see them getting into trouble together in in the many alehouses of Baldur's Gate simply for the sheer fun of it.
It doesn't hurt that she's stunningly lovely to look upon, too, all long, dark curls and luminescent skin with blue eyes so bright they sometimes make him ache while staring into them. She looks lovelier than ever under the glow of her goddess's blessing, Selûne's divine light making her skin appear almost as pale as his, were it not for the slight pink dusting her cheeks.
She's not as beautiful as him, in his not-so-humble estimation—but she makes a very close second. If he'd seen her while on the hunt, he'd have singled her out for his former master in a proverbial heartbeat.
Once upon a time, from what little he can remember before Cazador, he might have even enjoyed their trysts; especially with her letting him feed during or just after. Not so, now; he's had her a handful of times, and though it hasn't been as bad as before, when Cazador had been whoring him out to the masses of the Gate to lure prey, each had left him feeling unclean, wanting to crawl out of his own prickling skin and scrub the residue of her from his body. It's frustrating, to be so physically attracted to a person, and yet so repulsed by the act itself.
It's not her fault, he knows. She knows nothing of his performance, thinking him a dashing lover she'd fallen into lust with while they could both die at any moment. But he hates it all the same. Hates the feeling of hands grasping at his scarred back, nails digging into cold flesh and sweaty skin flush against his own. Even if it's a person he otherwise likes. Perhaps especially so, given that his attraction is real, but her fondness for him is contingent on him giving his body to her.
It's worse, he thinks, because she'd haltingly confided the morning after their second time that he'd been her first. It's ridiculous, because he's sure he's unmade dozens, if not hundreds of virgins in his time—but something about knowing her has made this all very complicated, indeed. He feels… bad, that her first experience with sex had been entirely disingenuous. He'd had the fleeting thought that she'd deserved better, before ruthlessly crushing it and resolving to continue as planned. There was no going back, after all.
The revelation had reminded him of how very young she is; he'd suspected her to at least be past her first century at first, but she'd surprised everyone by confirming that she'd only seen just over four decades the day they'd arrived in the druid's grove. Not terribly old for an elf to not have taken a lover or two to bed, but surprising, given the general debauchery in the taverns and alehouses in which she makes her living.
He should know. They're his hunting grounds. Honestly, it's surprising they've never met before. But then, he's never paid much mind to the bards playing in the background. People tend to notice if the entertainment goes missing; better to target adventurers, transients, or the poor.
"I made it a point never to get too friendly with the patrons. You meet so many people that the faces all start to blur together after a while. And my mother has worked in Sharess's Caress since I was a child; she made sure I know better than to be taken in by just any dashing stranger." She'd rolled her eyes with a flirtatious grin when he'd said as much, though the effect had been somewhat ruined by the deep rose flush of her cheeks.
"Oh?" he'd purred, standing close enough that he could feel the heat of her. She still hadn't put her clothes on at the time; it had made his hair stand on end, feeling her breath on his chin as she'd tilted her face to meet his gaze. "And what does that make me, then?"
"Well, you're not a stranger anymore, are you?" she'd shrugged, stepping back and finally pulling her loose shirt on to cover her nakedness. He'd felt instantly better, donning his own with a constructed lethargy that belied his eagerness to be covered.
His plan to ingratiate himself to her has worked well. She seeks out his company often, sitting up late with him after the others have gone to bed. Being a high elf like himself, she needs less rest than them, and enjoys the quiet of the night before her trance. She spends the time with him, when they don't both have to sit watch the same night; sometimes in silence, sometimes sharing a bottle of wine and talking in soft voices. Sometimes, they sneak off together for sex. Others, she confides in him, about her mother and sister, the nightmares she suffers when she falls into true sleep, how she misses her deceased father. They laugh together at Gale's longwindedness and Wyll's naivety, though her mirth is more good-natured and fonder than his.
He knows Tavelia far better than any of their other companions, though they've only known each other for perhaps a handful of tendays. He's lost track of how long they were traipsing through the wilderness, vanquishing villains and playacting as heroes of the downtrodden.
She'd accepted his vampirism with only a little trepidation; since the discovery of the Amulet of Silvanus, she has allowed him to feed from her a few times, when hunting has been poor. Not every night—he can usually get by on whatever bandits or animals he can find—but occasionally, when he can't find anything, or they stop too late into the night, or during their trysts.
And she's far less judgemental than most, he finds. He's found himself saying things to her that he'd never dream of exposing to the others, beyond the carefully selected morsels of information he'd fed her to gain her sympathy—about Cazador, about what the past two centuries of his life has been like. He's found solace in unburdening himself, and validation in her anger on his behalf. She's already promised to help him end his former master when they get to the city, and he thinks she means it, if the burning anger in her eyes when he tells her of some fresh horror is any indication.
She'd even argued on his behalf with Wyll to allow him to feed on their enemies, securing him a near endless supply of blood. It never satisfies, not completely—but such is the curse of vampirism. At least he isn't in a state of starvation anymore, and doesn't have to rely on what rats he can catch scurrying through the palace.
As if she senses the direction his thoughts have gone, she smiles ruefully. "Do you need to feed?" her voice is soft, likely in case they're overheard by the Harpers. They'd discussed it during the hike to the inn; it would be better to keep his affliction secret for as long as possible. He has no doubt that the High Harper would have no compunctions about calling down her entire armed force on his head if his fangs strayed even slightly toward any living necks.
"Perhaps in a little while, pet." He forces a smile and raises his goblet of wine. "There isn't exactly a lot of privacy out here—and we wouldn't want any Harpers finding us in any compromising positions, now, would we?"
He takes a pull of his wine as she smiles with a small giggle. After so long, he doesn't even react to the sour, vinegary taste. The sedative effect of the alcohol helps to manage the hunger, at least a little, dulling it along with the rest of his senses. It's the only reason he keeps drinking the vile stuff.
She sips at her own glass with pink cheeks, grin on her lips. Not for the first time, he's envious; he wishes he could taste, truly taste, the wine. Judging by her expression, it's a good one.
"I know it's been hard," she says softly, smile fading, "since there hadn't really been much supply in the Underdark. Unfortunately, I think it might be even more scarce here."
His lips twist. "I know, darling. I shall have to rely on your generosity until we can leave this foul place."
"I won't leave you to go hungry," she promises. "I have the amulet. If you get the opportunity when we get to Moonrise, then take it, but until then, I don't think there's anything living in this curse that would even be safe for you. Gale says this place is saturated in necrotic magic."
"Thank you, darling," he sighs, draining the last of his drink. "Perhaps later, when we're settled in for the night."
"Jaheira is organising rooms for us. I think we're going to have to double or triple up." She looks at him from under her eyelashes. "Bunk with me?"
"Of course," he purrs. There's really no way to get out of it, is there? "I look forward to it."
They remain in the lobby long after everyone else has gone to bed, with only the Harpers on guard still milling about by the entrance for company.
Tavelia is mixing potions the way Shadowheart taught her, brewing basic healing concoctions over the fire with Jaheira's permission. Halsin will bottle them when he wakes from his own trance in a few hours, so she only has to focus on brewing them and then pulling the cauldron off the fire to cool.
Astarion has finished sharpening his daggers, the whetstone packed carefully away. It must be after midnight, but it's impossible to tell.
She yawns as she finally pulls the cauldron off the fire, lowering it to the ground to cool. Halsin will find it in the morning. "I think I'm going to turn in," she murmurs. "You can feed whenever you're ready," she offers with a smile.
"Now's as good a time as any," he purrs, stowing his gear. He's gotten away without having to perform for a while now—the Underdark had been far too dangerous to wander far from camp—but he doesn't think he can get away with it now that they have true privacy and a real bed.
He's been looking forward to a real bed for the past few hours. As much as camping had been a novelty to him, its charm had quickly worn off with all the dirt and bugs and the snoring from Gale across the camp. Having a private room, even if only for a few days, is a luxury he doesn't recall ever having. Aurelia had already been there when he'd been a new spawn, and Violet had come along a decade or two thereafter; he's never had a space to himself.
He technically doesn't have it to himself now, either, but he truly doesn't mind sharing with Tavelia. She's quiet, neat, and most importantly, isn't forced upon him in some kind of twisted mockery of a sibling bond. He chose her, even if only as a target of his manipulations. She's quite possibly the first major choice he's made since escaping Cazador.
He reaches for her when she locks the door behind them, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her back against his chest. He's gratified to hear her breath hitch and her heartbeat kick up speed as he puts his lips to her ear and murmurs, "Alone at last, my darling."
She shivers in his arms, a small sound slipping from between her lips. He's a bit perturbed that this gets easier every time; the first time he'd held her like this, in the forest, he'd wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Now, at least while their clothes are still on, he finds himself eagerly drinking in her warmth. It's cold in the shadow-cursed lands.
"Oh," she breathes, "I… did you want…?"
"Don't you?" he hums, tongue tracing the flat edge of her ear. "Isn't that why you announced to all and sundry that we'd take the room with the solitary bed?"
"I, ah," she gasps, "I was mostly thinking that it would be easier to feed you in private. You know it bothers the others when we do it outside."
"So considerate," he hums, pressing a light kiss below her ear.
"It's late, anyway," she tilts her head as he trails open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. "We should rest up."
"Are you sure? I could be persuaded…"
"I'm sure," she says, firmly this time. "I'm sorry; I'm just… too tired. I'll make it up to you tomorrow night, I promise."
He loosens his grasp with a show of disappointment that he doesn't really feel. She spins in his arms and stands on tiptoe to press a chaste kiss to his lips, leaving him blinking owlishly at her as she gives him a shy smile with pink cheeks. "Let me get changed and then we can get you taken care of."
He lets go entirely, blinking as she bends to rummage through her pack for her camp clothes. He shakes himself, beginning the process of unbuckling his armour to change into his own. By the time he's slipping his ancient off-white shirt over his head, she's sitting primly on the edge of the bed, watching him with her restorative amulet clutched in one hand.
His skin prickles a little, but there's no lust in her gaze as he comes to sit at her side. She loosens the laces of the neckline of her shirt and turns toward him at the waist. "Go ahead," she gestures to her throat.
He zeroes in on the two little pinprick scars already left in her pale skin. He's only tasted her blood a small handful of times, but he distinctly remembers the flavour; her richness, the decadence, how sweet she'd tasted on his tongue the first time he bit her. She'd been his first, and nothing else has compared since.
She gasps in pain as he leans in and sinks his fangs into her skin, trying to line up with the scars as closely as possible; hungry as he is, he doesn't want to leave her with a mass of ugly scarring on her pretty little neck.
He grips the back of her head with one hand, tangling his fingers in her hair, and his other arm wraps itself around her waist in an iron grip. He pulls her toward him until their chests are pressed flush, an instinctive response to struggling prey; but she doesn't struggle. He can feel her heartbeat hammering against his own breast as well as the pulse surrounding his fangs as he begins to drink, but she doesn't make a move to extricate herself from his hold.
He drinks deeply. She's his first meal in three days, and the first in over a tenday that hasn't fought back.
She leans into him with an exhale, hands resting lightly on his biceps and fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She'd described the sensation to him, once—about the numbing effect his fangs have when they're pressed through her flesh, the icy shock that spreads through her while he's feeding. He knows it hurts. But, if the way she sighs into his ear and her entire body relaxes against him is any indication, she likes the pain. Why else would she offer her neck to him in the throes of passion?
When he feeds on their enemies, it's a violent act—he overpowers and takes, drinking their lifeblood as they struggle to escape him. But feeding on Tavelia is shockingly intimate—a gesture of trust on her end that he hasn't really earned, considering his manipulations. He never feels closer to her than when his fangs are buried in her neck.
He imagines it's how most normal people feel about sex. Not that he'd ever know; he's quite incapable of that now, no matter how much less he despises Tavelia's intimate company than any other conquest he's had to date. It still leaves him feeling empty and dirty afterwards—not like this, where he walks away feeling sated and powerful.
"'Starion," she murmurs into his ear, petting at the back of his head with a soft touch. "No more. Gonna faint."
He takes one last pull before carefully withdrawing from her neck, exhaling roughly as he chases a few stray droplets with his tongue before pressing it to the wounds to close them. She's colder to the touch and trembling violently in his hold, her body going into shock from blood loss.
"You let me take too much," he accuses softly when the wounds are closed, pulling away and wrapping her fingers tighter around the amulet still held in her fist.
Her smile is dreamy as she brings it up to try to tie around her neck with fumbling fingers. "Wanted you to be fed properly," she slurs. "Not much else out there. I'll be fine."
Normally, he would leave her and chase down something else to fill himself up after feeding on her, but she's rather recklessly let him take enough, this time. So, with nothing better to do, he takes the amulet from her and ties it himself. She sighs the incantation, and green light washes over her form.
Pink returns to the apple of her cheeks after a few moments, and Astarion allows himself to breathe again. Powerful as the amulet is, he has no desire to push its limits and discover that there's an amount of blood loss it can't heal.
"All better," she whispers, looking up at him with hooded eyes.
"Reckless little fool," he murmurs with affection, thumb brushing over her cheek. "The others will be very cross if I manage to accidentally kill you, you know."
"Shadowheart could bring me back," she says softly, leaning into his hand. "Besides, I know you won't."
It's these moments that blur the line between reality and the lie in his mind—when he's feeling sated and warm from her fresh blood, and she's placid as a sleepy kitten, curling up at his side. He doesn't flinch away when her head comes to rest on his shoulder with a tired sigh, affection and guilt swirling in his gut.
She deserves better than this. Than his lies. But he needs her on-side when they reach the city, or Cazador will reclaim him. The thought pierces his little bubble of contentment with an icy fear that he tries to shake off.
"You should trance, love," he jostles her a little, voice soft. "Big day of questioning the locals and resupplying tomorrow."
She hums, rubbing her temple against his shoulder. "Join me? S'cold here."
"Of course, darling," he agrees easily, shifting to pull back the threadbare blankets. He can't exactly supply any body heat of his own, given that he's quite literally stolen what little he has from her, but he will happily allow her to warm him up if she insists.
He allows her to curl up at his side, head resting on his shoulder. It doesn't take her long to slip into reverie, her breath warm against his neck.
He pulls up the blankets and tucks them around her shoulders. It really is cold out here.
There's an uproar in the morning when his true nature is discovered. Jaheira, apparently, is familiar with his kind; she simply hadn't looked too closely at him the night before.
So much for keeping it quiet.
"You expect me to believe that the spawn means no harm?" Jaheira snarls, refusing to take her eyes off of Astarion. There are no less than a dozen Harpers surrounding them in the lobby, weapons drawn; the tieflings are huddled off to the side, watching with wide eyes. "Did you even know what he is before now, girl?"
Tavelia, bless her, is standing between him and the High Harper, looking every bit as aggravated as the elderly half elf. Lae'zel and Shadowheart flank Astarion from behind, while the others loosely form a line behind them, looking uncomfortable but ready to step in if needed.
"We've known what he is since nearly the beginning," Tavelia snarls. "He's not going to hurt anyone."
Astarion isn't too sure about that. If the Harpers attack, he's definitely going to hurt some people.
Jaheira doesn't buy it. "I know he is handsome, girl, but he is dangerous. I would not be doing my duty if I did not put him down before he bites someone."
"He's never bitten one of us without permission." Tavelia growls. "We have an arrangement; he eats our enemies. If you don't turn yourselves into enemies, you have nothing to worry about."
"And when there are no enemies for him to feed on?" Jaheira demands.
"Animals," Tavelia sniffs. "Failing that, me, as a last resort, and only ever with permission."
Jaheira's eyes fly to Tavelia's neck, covered by a scarf to hide the bite mark of the night before, and Astarion's hackles go up. He can see the judgement in her eyes as she realises what the scarf hides, and his lip very nearly curls. It's none of the old bint's business what they do.
Tavelia loosens her stiff posture, tone turning beseeching. "You asked us for help with Thorm. Astarion is part of our team. Ask any of us; we all trust him."
"If I may, High Harper," Halsin speaks up from the back of the group. Jaheira's attention shifts to him. "I must admit I harboured similar doubts, myself, when I realised his true nature. But he has proven himself to be a staunch ally, and has helped save many lives. Including my own."
"Yeah!" A child's voice shouts from over near the tieflings. "He helped fight off the harpies back at the Grove!"
"Wasn't he part of the raid that took out those goblins?" An adult voice queries.
"We all slept in their camp, and he never touched any of us!" A woman adds. He thinks it may have been the bard.
There's a murmur of agreement from that corner, and it seems to be what finally convinces the old woman. She relaxes, holding up a hand. "At ease, Harpers. Be about your business."
There's some shuffling and clanking as weapons are stowed and they slowly begin to disperse, though not without some wary looks cast his way. He narrows his eyes at one particularly suspicious woman, but she eventually lets her friend steer her out of the room and away from his gaze.
"Do not misunderstand me," Jaheira is saying, addressing both Astarion and Tavelia. "I have known many vampires and their spawn in my time, and none of them have been trustworthy. I will be keeping an eye on you." She points at Astarion. "Do not make me regret giving you the benefit of the doubt."
"Of course," he simpers with a grin that flashes his fangs, hands held up and open. "None of your Harpers need worry about their pretty little necks. I shall be on my very best behaviour."
"See that you are," she sniffs. To Tavelia, she says, "Our quartermaster and the tiefling smith are outside, if you wish to trade with them."
"Do you mean Dammon?!" Karlach gasps, practically vibrating in excitement.
"I believe that is his name, yes," Jaheira nods. "You'll find him in the building to the left when you exit the lobby."
"C'mon!" Karlach spins on her heel. "Let's go see him! Maybe he's figured out how to fix me!"
A new pair of bracers, a fresh quiver of arrows, and one bone-cracking—but not burning—overly enthusiastic hug from Karlach later, Astarion has already had enough of this day with all the suspicious eyes on him. So, for the Absolute to attack mere moments after the Selûnite cleric has given them her blessing is just the icing on the fucking cake.
They manage to secure her quarters fairly quickly, given that all eight of them had been visiting her at once, but it's carnage in the rest of the inn. He's one of the first to burst into the lobby, shooting one of the winged monstrosities overpowering a Harper at the bottom of the stairs without a second thought.
He helps drag the bodies out for cleanup while the druids and Shadowheart see to the wounded. None of the Harpers acknowledge him as he and Wyll toss another body on the pile for burning and head back inside.
"Don't let them get to you, man," Wyll claps him on the shoulder as Astarion sneers at yet another Harper going out of their way to skirt around him.
"I don't," he grumbles, "care what they think."
He doesn't care, is the thing. At least, not what they think about him. But he'd overheard two women earlier, muttering between themselves about Tavelia and how foolish she is for letting a bloodsucker anywhere near her neck.
"She probably spreads her legs for him, too," one of them had spit nastily. "They shared a room last night. Silly girls like that will do anything for a pretty face."
He'd spun around and given them the most menacing glare he could muster. They'd squeaked and practically run away at the sight of him.
He doesn't know why he cares. Or, rather, he suspects he does, and he isn't happy about it.
It was supposed to be simple. Easy. And it has been, up to a point. There was nothing in his plan that said he couldn't like her; it's probably the only thing that has made deliberately seeking her company bearable. The gods help him if he'd decided to approach Lae'zel or, heavens forbid, Gale. He would have thrown in the towel long ago if he'd had to pretend to be interested in Gale's long-winded soliloquies about the Weave. And Lae'zel…
Well, Lae'zel ever so slightly terrifies him. He's not entirely sure he would survive the githyanki version of courting, if the way he'd overheard her propositioning Tavelia one night is any indication.
But his fondness for Tavelia has gone beyond the simple easy camaraderie they'd shared before the Underdark. He learned a long time ago that getting attached to a mark only invites suffering; why, in the name of the gods, he's gone and done it now is beyond him.
It would be so much simpler if he didn't care. If she was just another drunk, selfish mark that he could seduce and then put from his mind. But she had to go and be kind, and helpful, and compassionate, and he'd foolishly begun to forget himself and soak up all her goodness like a pitiful, desperate sponge.
He remembers he used to want someone like that, a long time ago. Someone who would take him away from Cazador's palace and soothe the aches in his weary, tattered soul; a knight in shining armour who would save him from the hell his unlife had become.
Foolish fantasies, back in the early days, when he still had hope. As if any knights breaking into a vampire's lair wouldn't have killed the spawn first, so Cazador couldn't use them as a living shield.
Tavelia wouldn't, though, he knows. She'd have taken one look at the pitiful wretches in the dormitory and kennels and promised to save them. Hell, she probably will do that when they get to the city, and it comes time to confront his former master. She and Karlach, who had overheard them discussing it one evening, have both already pledged their support when the time comes.
The perks and the downfalls of living atop one another in camp, he supposes. They all know the bare bones of his history, now, though most have the decency not to bring it up in his hearing.
He slinks away to their room when the cleanup is almost over and dinner starts being served. He doesn't usually mind hanging around the fire with a glass of wine when they're eating in camp, but he's tired of being stared at by the Harpers and tieflings.
He's just settled in to do some mending—one of his sleeves had been torn in the fight—when the door opens. He looks up to see Tavelia balancing a bowl in one hand with two goblets in the other. A bottle of wine is tucked under her arm.
"There you are," she smiles, using her hip to shut the door behind her. "You get tired of all the stares, too?"
"About five minutes after we woke, darling," he drawls, not bothering to hide it.
"We'll be out of here tomorrow," she promises, putting her bowl on the small table and setting out the goblets. "Wine?"
"Always, my dear," he purrs, watching as she pours a generous splash into each cup. He accepts one when she passes it to him, making sure to brush his fingers against hers and nearly preening at the pleased flush in her cheeks as she sits to eat.
The best thing about Tavelia, in his humble opinion, is that for all she makes her living by being on stage, she's not the type to chatter or make a production unnecessarily. He luxuriates in the silence, broken only by the occasional clink of her cutlery, or the thunk of a cup being set onto the table.
It isn't until she's finished eating, and he's moved on to his second article of mending, that she speaks again. "We were talking about scouting out the ruins of the old town tomorrow." She sets her bowl aside. "Apparently the Harpers have spied movement out there, but they haven't gotten close enough to confirm what they're looking at, exactly."
"Probably more cursed undead," he says absently, flicking out the fabric in front of him to sit flat on his knee to inspect his work.
"Probably," she agrees. "But we need to know if they're under the Absolute's control or not. If they're Thorm's, he might be able to call on them when the Harpers assault the Towers. And Halsin wants us to keep an eye out for something that might snap the man downstairs out of his stupor, so. We'll be on the lookout for something like that, too."
He hums in acknowledgement. "Seems like a waste of time, if you ask me. I can hear him from here; his mind is more scrambled than Gale's eggs in the morning."
"I don't expect we'll find anything," Tavelia nods, pouring herself another wine and offering to top his off. He pushes his cup toward her in answer. "But I did promise we'd look, at least. No harm in that."
He only hums into his wine, watching her over the rim of his goblet. She catches his eye and smiles a little, ducking her head at his scrutiny.
"Do you have any plans before trancing tonight?" she asks quietly, sipping at her wine.
"I can think of a few… pleasant ways to distract ourselves after the horrors of today," he purrs, setting his mending aside. Reaching under the table, he allows his hand to find her knee, fingers splaying out over the bottom of her thigh.
He's treated to her entire face turning red. It's one of his favourite things about her; she's so sweetly inexperienced that he can hear her heart begin to speed up in her chest when he so much as looks at her a certain way. It's endearing. And he's certainly used it to his advantage more than once, to wrap her around his little finger.
"It's a little early for that, isn't it?" she whispers as he takes her goblet with his other hand and sets it on the table, but she doesn't move away.
"We're supposed to be resting, darling," he cajoles. "I can't think of anywhere better to do that than in this nice, comfortable bed."
She flushes darker. "I don't tend to get a lot of rest when you get your hands on me," she mumbles.
He takes her hand and tugs her out of her chair as he stands, ignoring his discomfort and drawing her into his personal space. He wraps an arm around her waist and bends to purr into her ear, "Then it's fortunate that we need less rest than the others. Besides, like you said, it's early." He presses a featherlight kiss on her jaw, and her breathing quickens. "We have plenty of time, darling."
She tilts her head back, allowing him to press fluttering kisses along the column of her throat. He feels her swallow thickly when he reaches up to untie her scarf and his lips brush across the twin puncture wounds he left the night before.
"I never used to be so easy to entice, before," she murmurs, sounding a little put out.
"It's me, darling," he says smugly, breathing the words into her ear. "I have that effect on people."
She hums under his lips, fingers threading into his hair. "You do," she agrees breathily, and he knows he has her.
The worst part, other than the discomfort of performing the act itself, is that he's unable to escape afterwards. They're sharing a room, which means he has to trance in the bed that stinks of sweat and sex when they're done.
She's still pink in the cheeks, even after his feeding, cuddled up to his chest and lazily drawing patterns with her fingertips into his skin. The touch is light, accompanied by some absent humming, but all he can think of is that he wants to be somewhere else.
He doesn't hate cuddling, really. This is easily the most pleasant part of any encounter, but he wishes he could put his clothes on.
"Are you alright?" she asks, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at him. "You feel like you're a realm away."
He looks up at her. She has the blanket tucked around her chest to ward off the chill, but she's otherwise just as naked as he is. Her hair spills over her shoulders in glorious, riotous curls, mussed from tossing her head in the throes of passion, and his fingers burying themselves in it while he fed. The area around his bite is pink and inflamed; she hasn't used the amulet, yet. He hadn't taken quite so much as last time.
Not for the first time, he admires her beauty. He wishes he could indulge in his very real attraction to her without the self-loathing that always accompanies their sex.
She deserves better, a high-pitched, nasally voice that sounds suspiciously like his former master whispers in his mind. You play the part of a lover, but it's only going to end in tears. She will leave you when she discovers the truth.
"I'm fine, darling," he reaches up to tuck a curl behind her ear. "Just thinking."
"What about?" she tilts her head, blinking big blue eyes at him.
He fights not to clench his jaw. Her question is earnest and comes from a place of concern—but if he told her the truth, it would be more trouble than it's worth. Instead, he does what he does best:
He lies.
"Just wondering what kind of undead we'll find in town, tomorrow," he sighs, turning to stare at the ceiling. He lets his tone drop into a growl as he noses at her shoulder. "If they're Thorm's, we're going to have to kill them."
"Don't sound so excited," she giggles a little as she settles back against his chest. "I'm hoping it's nothing."
"That's no fun," he wheedles. "You know I adore watching you kill things."
It's not even a lie. She's rarely more resplendent than after a battle, with blood splattered over her face and grinning in pride at their victory. He's felt the impulse to lick the blood off her face more than once when she turns her toothy smile on him in the aftermath.
"That's not a compliment a woman usually likes hearing," she muses, pressing her lips to his chest. "But I'll take it."
"Shall I give you my favourites, again?" he asks archly. "I do so enjoy watching you blush."
She swats him gently. "Please. As if I didn't see through all that the first time."
"Did you, now?" he raises an eyebrow. "They worked, didn't they?" he teases, craning his neck to look down at her mess of black curls.
She looks up at him, fondly exasperated. "No. I agreed to sleep with you because I like you, not your pickup lines." She presses her face into his chest to hide her blush.
"Oh?"
"Of course!" Her voice is muffled by his skin. "I've never met anyone like you. You're rude and mean, but you can be awfully sweet when you want to be. And funny. I've never met anyone who makes me laugh like you. Mean jokes and all."
He… doesn't know what to say to that. Of course, he's done his best to be enticing over the past month or two, but he hadn't thought she was that fond of him.
"…I know you're not serious about me," she says quietly after a moment of silence, warm breath fanning across his skin. "And I don't expect whatever this is to last much beyond getting these tadpoles out of our heads. But I do like you."
His stomach twists. He… doesn't remember the last time someone said that to him. It causes a curious warmth to spread through his chest, originating where his dead heart resides. He blinks at the ceiling as he realises that the little voice in his head was right; this will end in tears, one way or the other.
He doesn't even notice that he's been too quiet for too long until she starts to stir.
"I'm sorry," she says, sitting up with her voice thick with unshed tears. "I've made things weird. I should have kept my mouth shut."
She ducks her head to avoid his eyes, making to climb out of the bed. Quick as a whip, he sits up and wraps his arms around her waist, drawing her back to his chest and pressing his lips to her bare shoulder. "Where are you going, love?"
"To sleep in the other room?" she says, uncertain.
"Don't be ridiculous," he presses another kiss to her skin. "You took me by surprise, that's all. Stay."
"Okay," she whispers, leaning back into his hold and tilting her head to give him better access to her skin.
Gods below, he doesn't want to let her go. If it's going to end in heartbreak, be it hers or his, then he's just selfish enough to hold on to the lie for as long as possible.
It doesn't even take another full day for her to surprise him again.
He's known from the day they met that she has a silver tongue, but to see her talk a literal devil to its own death on his behalf is, quite frankly, a little terrifying. And so incredibly attractive, he doesn't know what to do with it.
She smiles at him with sparkling eyes when the body falls from the ledge the orthon had been on. "I think Raphael will be pleased with that, no?"
"Does that even count as us killing him? That had better count," he complains.
"Oh, it counts," She assures him as Gale and Karlach start sifting through the ashen remains for anything useful. "We met him and he died as a result of the encounter. Raphael never said how we had to kill him."
She's quick to remind Raphael of as much when he appears. The devil merely holds up a hand with an amused, "I'll admit, it wasn't exactly what I had in mind; but a deal is a deal."
And now he's armed with the knowledge that Cazador intends to sacrifice him in a ritual to gain ultimate power. How does the bastard keep surprising him after all this time?
The devil leaves after imparting his awful news, and she puts her hand on his arm. When he looks down into her upturned face, she's as fierce as he's ever seen her—and he's seen her plenty fierce since the beginning of their misadventure.
"We're going to kill him," she promises darkly, fingers curling around his wrist. "He won't touch you again. I won't let him."
Looking down into her face, he has a horrible realisation.
All this time, he'd thought he was the one setting the trap for her. Enticing her into his bed, keeping her invested in him—it was easy to play the part.
But he's fallen into his own trap.
Shit.
She doesn't question his reticence on the way back to the inn. He climbs up to their room, unseeing, as she stops to tell Shadowheart that they'd discovered a Sharran temple beneath the mausoleum. He thinks he hears mention of going to explore it when they're done at Moonrise, but he's so absorbed in his own thoughts that he doesn't pay it much mind.
He can't keep doing this. He'd known he'd liked her—but he hadn't realised just how deep he was standing in it until she'd looked at him with that vow on her tongue.
He'd felt bad about misleading her before. Now, knowing that she actually likes him… he can't do it anymore. He can't keep lying. Not to the first person who's actually cared about him in two centuries. Even if it makes her hate him, he doesn't think he can look at her smile and not feel guilt every time she bestows it on him.
He looks up when she opens the door, satisfied smile on her face as she closes it behind her. It slides off her lips the moment she gets a good look at his face.
"Do you have a moment?" he asks, bracing himself for the end and feeling shame swirl in his gut as trepidation takes over her pretty features. "I think we need to talk."
Astarion is all too familiar with shame. It's been his one constant bedfellow for the past two centuries, making its sluggish way through his veins every time he lured some unsuspecting victim into the boudoir or bit down into a disgusting, putrid rat. Lately, it whispers venom into his ear every time he touches her. Every time he kisses Tavelia's knuckles or makes a suggestive, snide, or otherwise irreverent remark into her ear, and watches as her cheeks pinken and her lips broaden into a smile is met with guilt, and shame.
He is ashamed as he admits to everything. Not just his manipulations, but the exact nature of his slavery under Cazador. Having to admit that—while he finds her wildly attractive, and that his compliments have by and large been genuine—he doesn't actually want to be having sex with her feels… impossible to forgive.
She's blinking away tears by the time he's answered all her questions about the true nature of their relationship—that he likes her, finds her attractive, even that their sex has meant something to him, even with as much as he hates himself in the aftermath.
She surprises him again.
"You already know I care about you," she says thickly, wiping her tears away with a sniffle. "Deeply."
"Really?" He'd honestly expected to be slapped and kicked out of camp.
She nods, face twisted into a pained expression. "What do you want to do?" she asks, taking a deep breath and setting her shoulders.
"I… don't know," he admits, feeling a little lost. He honestly hadn't expected the conversation to go this well. "It's been so long since I've had to decide what I wanted."
"I…" she takes a death breath, releasing it with a steadying exhale. "I won't lie and say that this… doesn't hurt." Her smile is tremulous, but it's there when she meets his eyes. "But it does help to know that it wasn't all a lie. Maybe…" she licks her lips, clearly thinking. "Maybe we could… slow down. Be together without sex for a while, until you… figure out what you really want. I can wait as long as you need."
"I…" he pauses, blinking at her offer. "That almost sounds like a challenge," he tries to bluster, but she shakes her head.
"I don't want you to force yourself," she says softly, reaching out to take his hand between both of hers. She runs her thumbs across his knuckles, looking down at his fingers curled against her palms.
His lips twist. "But what about you?" he asks softly. "I know you've been… enjoying yourself."
She looks up at him sharply. "That was before I knew how uncomfortable you were," she says with steel in her voice. "You can't honestly expect me to enjoy it now, when I know you hate it."
"I don't hate it, not exactly," he sighs. "Not with you. It's just… after."
She reaches up to cup his face, fingers sliding over his jaw. "I'll be fine," she promises. "I lasted forty-three years without sex; I'm not about to die without it, now. You… you're far more to me than that. If we ever do have sex again—and we don't have to, to be clear, but I'm just saying, if we do—I want it to be because you want to. Not because you feel like you have to."
He closes his eyes, turning his face to kiss her palm. "Thank you," he murmurs.
"May I hug you?"
He opens his eyes at the unexpected question. Her eyes are still red-rimmed and wet with tears, her cheeks splotchy with emotion, but she's never looked more lovely to him. He simply nods dumbly, unable to take in the breath to speak.
Her arms come around his body, holding him to her warmth.
He's hesitant as he returns her embrace. He doesn't remember the last time he held anyone—or anyone held him—without the expectation of sex in the near future. But as the moments drag on, he relaxes into the circle of her arms, face buried in her hair.
"Honestly," he mumbles into her curls, "I have no idea what we're doing. Or what comes next. But I know that this?" He squeezes her a little tighter. "This is nice."
"Just, please tell me," she murmurs into his chest, "if something makes you uncomfortable. I don't want to force you to do something you don't want to do."
"I'll admit," he feels a pang of disappointment when her arms begin to loosen, "it's a novel concept. But I shall do my best."
He releases her when she pulls away. She stares at the bed with a frown. "Should I go sleep in the other room?" she offers diffidently.
"No," he shakes his head. "I—when our clothes are on, I—I enjoy your company, Tavelia."
"Alright," she nods. "Give me a moment to change, then. I'll be right back."
It's on the tip of his tongue to argue that she doesn't have to leave to change. It's not like they haven't seen each other naked before. But then he realises that he actually wants the privacy to change without being looked at. "Alright. I'll… see you in a few moments."
She smiles a little, brushing her fingers against his cheek before ducking out of the room, clothes in hand.
He changes quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed by the time she returns. It's… awkward, almost, as she gingerly takes a seat next to him and offers her hand.
He stares at it for a moment before taking it in his. She threads their fingers together, frowning down at them.
"What is it?" he asks after a moment of silence.
"I was just wondering," she sighs, then looks up at him. "What about when you… feed on me? Is that…?"
"That's completely different. Obviously," he shakes his head a little, "I don't like being reliant on you as my only food source. I'd prefer to be able to find my own, and not just because I want to be able to provide for myself. But it's not… I do enjoy it, when you allow me to."
She exhales shakily. "Alright. Good." She nods. "In that case, are you hungry?"
"You're… still willing to let me feed on you tonight?" He blinks down at her, nonplussed.
She frowns up at him. "Well, yes? I did say I wouldn't leave you to starve. That hasn't changed." She flushes a little. "And… it's a way we can be close without sex, isn't it? It's intimate. Or am I… putting too much thought into it?"
"My dear," he reaches up to touch her cheek. It's warm under his fingers. "There is little in this world that I enjoy more than being close to you in that way."
Her smile is broad, this time, as she reaches up to untie the laces of her neckline. "Go ahead, then. I don't know about you, but I'm tired. I'd like to rest early, tonight."
He leans forward as her collar slips down her shoulder, head tilted to expose the healing bite mark. He presses his lips to it, murmuring, "As you wish, my darling," before biting down.
He groans as her blood flows into his mouth. She tenses for only a moment, before relaxing into his hold as always. She's warm, and pliant, and wraps her arms around him while he feeds. Perhaps he holds her tighter than he needs to—but he can't help but feel relief as his hunger is sated.
She stayed. He'd exposed all the ugliest parts of himself to her, and she'd stayed. He'd think it was a dream, if it weren't for the fact that the only dreams he has are nightmares.
A gentle hand begins petting his hair, a low humming coming from the throat beneath his lips. He's so lost in her blood that it takes him a moment to realise that he's breathing heavily, tears siding down his nose to land on her skin.
She says nothing when he withdraws his fangs and closes the wounds with his tongue. She just holds him, and lets him hide his face in her neck.