Perceived Impressions

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/49842061.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
Relationship: Astarion/Halsin (Baldur's Gate)
Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Halsin (Baldur's Gate)
Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Blood Drinking,
Vampires, Blood and Injury, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence,
Anal Sex, Bottom Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Astarion Needs A Hug
(Baldur's Gate), Gags
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-09-03 Updated: 2023-12-10 Words: 17,989 Chapters:
7/15
 Perceived Impressions
by Acinonyx1

Summary

When Astarion awakens in the aftermath of the Nautiloid crash, it is not to a friendly face but
the press of goblin steel against his cheek.

Now a captive of the Absolute, he is left starving and huddled in the corner, waiting for the
beast that shares his cell to finally strike.

Bears, after all, are not known to be the most gracious killers.
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

What joy Astarion had felt upon the first touch of sunlight against his skin had faded as the
hours had worn on. Now as the sun dips below the horizon, it serves more as a mocking
reminder of how many hours Astarion has been made to walk; simply a clock streaking
across the sky.

He stumbles yet again, the rope around his wrists rubbing the skin raw and face twisting,
more from the cackle of his goblin captors rather than the pain.

“You know, I usually expect my partners to buy me a good wine before they tie me up like
this,” he sneers, though the sarcasm rolls off his captors, who seem to take words at a far
more literal face value.

“No wine,” one barks. “We are not partners.”

“No? Really? I’d say I won’t kiss and tell - but frankly, I’d rather you ate shit.”

Astarion receives the smack of a sword’s sheath to the ankles for that, and must face the
humiliation of crumbling down onto one knee and a dagger under his chin forcing him to
look up at the parasite before him.

Who could have predicted his first day under the sun’s kiss would be so awful?

“You shut your mouth or we’ll spike you and leave you for the crows.”

“I prefer my wine red by the way. But fuck you,” the vampire bites back, though his last word
turns into a sharp exhale of pain as the yank back onto his feet finally rubs the skin of wrists
bloody. With the pace they’re going, his skin will heal over soon and then tear back open
again before they’ve even reached their destination.

The countryside all looks the same to Astarion. It’s not a sight he’s at all accustomed to, and
once they had cleared past the Nautiloid wreckage site a few hours ago, the vampire has had
little landmarks to identify his location with. What use is a fucking windmill when there must
dozens of them in the area?

And so he walks, huffing and overdramatic whenever his feet slip over the ground. Footwear
appropriate for citylife is certainly not fit for climbing grass banks and stumbling over poorly
managed dirt roads.

The first sign of a village peeks his hopes up, but the closer they had drawn to the place, the
more apparent the abandoned homes became. What little life such a small place had once
held is now replaced by a goblin guard and jeers when Astarion is dragged through the place.
And Astarion is forced to grind his teeth and bide his time. If his captors stop to rest for the
night he’ll have an opportunity then.

Though, as luck would have him. They do not stop.

Not at the next goblin encampment they cross.

Not even when Astarion is dragged through the ancient walls of a keep into an open
courtyard where the smell of cooking meat has him nervously picking up the pace to avoid
loitering too long. It’s not just boar flank roasting on the fire and the vampire is rather
thankful when they pass the dozen goblins occupied in their meals.

The darkness that greets Astarion when they make their way down stairs and into the depth of
the keep is a familiar one. It doesn’t matter if it’s Baldur’s Gate’s sewers or the goblin run
dungeons, the feeling is all the same.

Hopelessness.

When a flame is the only light in the tunnels and there is little empathy for the creatures left
to survive without darkvision to help.

“Oi! What’s that?”

Astarion is pulled to a sudden stop. The rope now short enough that were he to lunge forward
he could sink his teeth into the goblin holding it before he could even react. He could tear
through the main arteries. Kill the bastard…and then be cut down by swords.

It’d be a stupid attempt at escape.

“Got another prisoner for the cells!”

“Hah?!” The goblin wanders over. She pokes him in the chest. “We ain’t got no prison cells.”

“Oh…” The fool looks stunned and Astarion wonders which gods grew so tired of his
begging centuries ago that they’ve now decided to punish him by leaving his life in the hands
of an idiot. “Krolla said to—.”

“Krolla ain’t in charge, Sul!” She’s glaring at Astarion now and the vampire has half the
mind to point out that the misunderstanding was hardly his fault. His other captors are
certainly using the opportunity to scurry away, leaving only Astarion, and Sul . “Ain’t got
much fat on him anyway. Put ‘im in the worg pens!”

“Now—now hold on a moment!” Astarion hurries to say. They may as well stake him. “My
manners are a little bit tied up at the moment, but the name’s Astarion, and I assure you I can
be of far more use alive than acting as a pet food substitute.”

The goblin draws closer and Astarion stills under her blade; the steel passes over his cheek
and were he not made of slightly tougher stuff than a normal elf, it would have already
nicked him. Still, one wrong move and she’ll slice his ear clean off.
“Spike’s got the rack full, and he ain’t got no use for another one. You share the pens, or you
feed the animals.” Her attention snaps back to Sul who ends up taking out his desperation to
leave her presence out on Astarion. Were he not already used to day’s worth of rope tugs,
he’d have surely gone flying down the stairs Sul takes him down.

“I hope they gut you alive,” Astarion mutters once he’s got two feet securely back under him.
“Imagine that! Fucking me over because you’re too stupid to understand your own camp’s
hierarchy system!”

Sul looks about as sour as Astarion, and when they finally reach their destination deep within
the ruins, he barks out, “Got orders to put ‘im in the pens!” before anyone can question
Astarion’s presence.

An older goblin eyes them. She’s got three younger ones running about; poking sticks
through the bars of the two cells in the room and squealing in delight at the growls they
receive in return. Though when Astarion is shoved into view, they all become quiet little
turds.

“The worgs or the bear? Got both here, ya know.”

One of the young ones suddenly points to her friend. “One thinks bear!”

The friend points back. “Two thinks worgs!

The final one points at Astarion. “And Three thinks Birka should chop ‘im up and put ‘im in
both!”

Astarion would kill all three.

Birka grins. “Put him with the bear.” She walks over to one of the pens, and smacks the bars
with her blade. “Ya know what bears are like when they eat? They eat ya nice and slow…and
keep ya breathing until the last bite.”

One, Two and Three all exchange looks and as if mutually decided, they splutter into
hysterical laughter. Behind them, a great big form trudges up close to the bars and Astarion’s
cold blood is now ice in his veins.

He’ll die today.

“Nice and slow!” Two repeats. “Nice and slow!”

The beast is huge. It makes the worgs in the next cell look insignificant and when it paces out
of view, it does so with steps so heavy it’s like Astarion can feel the thump of them on the
ground.

At least his death won’t be by Cazador’s hand this time.

“That bear’ll turn him inside out while his blood’s still pumping,” Birka cows and the chants
come again much to everyone but Astarion’s delight. “And this one? Ain’t eaten anything
since we caught it.”
“Inside out! Inside out!” Three sings.

Even Sul has re-found his humor. His grin splits his face and then he’s laughing with the rest
of them. Ugly wheezing sounds that spur the worgs into howling their own song.

“Fuck all of you!” Astarion hisses. He puts his weight into resisting the new tug on his
bindings, but his shoes have no grip and they slide across the dungeon’s floor like warm
butter over bread. “I won’t—I won’t, fuck!”

The vampire’s eyes are wide and when Astarion makes a mad break to try to snatch Birka’s
weapon she pummels the handle of her blade into the small of his back and sends him
hurtling forwards.

“Gnh!”

The rope around his wrists stains red, skin re-opened.

One, Two and Three crowd against him, poking him with their sticks like he's a frog who’d
hopped too far from a pond.

He could push back, let them stake him by accident.

In the end he doesn’t. Though perhaps he should have.

Astarion tiptoes forward instead, through the now open door and then stutters to a stop inside
the cell.

His words can’t help him here.

“I suppose…you don’t have a favorite pet name?” He squeezes out anyway, face pinched and
body tight.

The bear roars, loud enough to shake every fiber of Astarion’s being and enough to even
cause the laughter of the goblins to stutter before their cackles resume.

“We can go through the options and you can pick one,” Astarion whispers.

He inches his way to the left until stone meets his shoulder. Then Astarion presses himself
tight against the wall; so tight he feels like he would slip right through it if he pushed harder.
The vampire drags himself along it and feels the threads of embroidery snag against the
rough stone. His steps are small and slow, sometimes pausing entirely, his cold dead heart
somewhere in his throat whenever the bear eyes Astarion’s movements with more interest
than before.

The goblins howl at his nervousness. They’re a group of them now, peering through the bars,
waiting for Astarion’s demise.

Still, he eventually manages to find a place in the cell’s corner, where the two walls meet.
Astarion sinks down to sit and lets a bitter smile come to his face.
 The corner of his cell hardly provides much cover.

The goblins are correct. Bears are not known to be the most gracious killers. The beast would
eat him alive rather than give him a quick death and Astarion’s vampirism would keep him
alive far longer still.

And so Astarion huddles, knees up and hands by his chest, a pitiful defense against a creature
many times his size.

Astarion had never been one for books on nature and now he regrets not indulging in such
reading from Cazador’s library whenever he had won his master’s favor. He doesn’t know if
he should look or not, if eye contact will keep the bear at bay or act as a challenge.

He looks in the end. Eyes tracking the lumbering beast as it paces their cell. Better to know
when death is coming than to close his eyes and have it come by surprise.

There is little else he can do. With no blade his only weapon are his fangs, and a bear is
hardly a fair opponent. He’d be mauled before he even broke through the skin. A pity too that
such beasts cannot be seduced in the same manner as Astarion’s other conquests.

Eventually, the goblins tire of the lack of blood. Sul is banished from the worg pens back to
whatever his real duties were, and the young ones go back to poking the worgs on the other
side of the wall.

Time passes remarkably slowly when death is only a few feet away.

Were he alone, Astarion would meditate the time away. He has spent years alone with his
own thoughts and this cell is certainly bigger than the coffins and tombs Cazador would lock
him inside. Though Cazador has never made him share the space with a beast.

“Now what use would that pretty face be if we marked it up?”

And thus Astarion cannot meditate and he cannot rest. He must sit and wait.

Through the evening. Through the night. Through the morning.

And again.

Eyes fixed on the bear that paces before him, even when the creature settles to sleep for a few
hours and then awakens with a snorted rumble.

“Oh, don’t mind me, darling.” Astarion can’t help himself one night. He mutters the words
out so quietly he barely hears them himself. “Get your beauty sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

The bear’s ears twitch in its sleep.

Chapter End Notes

I got my feet under me by writing a few Astarion oneshots, but I figured it was time to
give him a story with a little more plot. Let me know what you think!
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The scrape of metal on stone jerks Astarion back into reality. He freezes instantly.

By the hells…He’d been focused for so long that Astarion had accidentally slipped into a
brief bout of meditation without even realizing it.

Teeth clenched and body buzzing from the sudden nerves, Astarion seeks out his cellmate.
The bear is locked onto Astarion too, its eyes focused near the vampire’s foot, evidently to
the bowl Astarion finds pressed against it.

He grimaces at the sight. Were Astarion’s stomach even able to handle proper food, it would
not be able to handle this. A ladle full of brown slop has been presented to him. Dished up in
a bowl that had likely fed many and had not been washed once.

Astarion finds his grimace extending to the bear, a sarcastic smile on his lips as he slowly
pushes the bowl away with his foot; both to get the dish out of sight, and to avoid his leg
becoming bear food in the event his companion decides that Astarion’s meal was rather it’s.

“It’s not exactly to my tastes, but I can appreciate the effort,” he says, and ends up slamming
his head back into the wall when the bear growls. Astarion eases after a few tense minutes
and then says, “You know, darling. We should really work on how you express emotion.”

The beast rumbles out a sound when it pulls itself up onto its feet. It stalks in closer and
Astarion pulls his limbs as tight against himself as possible, only to exhale in relief as the
bear finds interest in the bowl Astarion had rejected.

It’s soon nose deep in the dish, pushing the bowl across the floor as the bear’s tongue scrapes
it empty.

Astarion supposes that bears are not as picky as people. And honestly, this one can’t afford to
be. He can only count himself lucky that out of its two food sources, it’s not Astarion that the
beast’s chosen to chew on.

The days bleed into one another and Astarion measures the length of them by the changing of
the goblin guard. One, Two and Three don’t appear everyday but still often enough to soon
have Astarion’s prison littered with pebbles. Their target practice is with the bear; the young
goblins too dumb to hit the vampire’s smaller frame, though not for their lack of trying.

The beast roars loudest on those days. And though it rattles Astarion’s eardrums, he hopes for
the day that one of the three gets emboldened enough to come within swiping distance.

He is met with two more servings of brown slop in the coming days. Three meals for twelve
days. All eaten, but not by Astarion. He grows hungrier by the day instead; gums beginning
to ache and hands twitching to hunt.

In Baldur’s Gate he’d put his urges to use - it’s easier to play with people when their lips taste
like honeyed fruit, even when Cazador would never allow him a taste. Here, there is no
distraction to occupy his mind. Just an ever pressing hunger that makes Astarion grind his
teeth.

"Ya think you're above us?" Birka barks one day when Astarion once again turns his nose up
at the offering of food.

“Yes,” he says. “Perhaps ask something less obvious next time.”

“We feed elf parts to the worgs. Legs and arms and torsos and all. If the bear won’t eat ya
soon, something else will.”

The vampire snorts.

There’s an unpleasant clanging sound and both cell inhabitants flinch, only to realize it’s just
the bowl bouncing off the floor. It rolls across the space, smearing brown into the stone until
it comes to a trembling stop.

Astarion tilts his face to finally take in Birka’s sneer between the bars. “You’ll lick it off the
floor when ya hungry enough,” she says before stalking off.

Astarion cocks an eyebrow at the bear. “I hope you’re not planning on eating that. The
service has hardly been to our standards.”

The bear roars back and though Astarion has little talent in communicating with animals, he
translates the beast’s reply into an affirmation.

There appears to be a growing mutual understanding between him and the bear. He tests it
out one day by finally stretching out his legs, grunting as his muscles protest from the
inactivity.

The bear looks to him; huffs, returns back to its lazy sleep.

And so Astarion has claimed a slightly bigger piece of the cell for himself.

As it turns out, his old sewer playgrounds and his current home share more similarities than
just in tone and darkness. Said similarity presents itself in a scurry across the floor one day,
slipping through the bars, drawn to the spilled food.

Two centuries have made the behaviors of rats predictable. And so Astarion tracks this one
with dangerous precision, saliva pooling in his mouth, nostrils flaring at the scent. His senses
are keen from his hunger.

Alas, he is not the only hunter in the cell. Though he is the only one bound, and thus the pest
dies under a swipe of a paw, and not the mad scramble of a man on the cusp of beginning to
starve.
The rat hits the wall; dead instantly, it drops and is swiftly scooped up by the beast. Rodent
bones are fragile, and under a bear they are like autumn leaves crushed in a child's palm.

Astarion lowers his gaze, unwilling to stoke his hunger further by watching someone else eat.
He pulls at his bindings instead and ignores the scent of blood in the air.

His attention is pulled back by the calling sounds of the beast. It paces around the cell in
heavy thudding steps, rat long gone, exhaling in snorting rumbles.

“What? Rat not up to your usual standard?” Astarion snaps. Frustrated, he pulls at the rope
and bears through the protesting pain in his wrists. Under Cazador, all but Astarion’s most
pitiful pleading was silenced when his master fed. But now with his influence no longer
tugging at Astarion’s body and mind, the vampire’s dissatisfaction is allowed to bubble up as
more than just a frown.

“Fuck! You know I didn’t ask to be here! But really, what am I even missing?! An expensive
wine bought by a pretty boy in a tavern..” Astarion tips his head back. Eyes closed, he
whispers, “Like I could have enjoyed either of those things.”

He hears the beast wander closer, and perhaps it’s the thought of wasting precious energy that
stops Astarion from cowering at their proximity to one another.

“Careful now. I have all too many pebbles and much better aim than those goblins,” he
threatens when the bear plumps down near him. There’s little bite to his words though and
Astarion finds himself sagging against the wall, feet close enough to the beast that were he to
shift to the left a little the two would touch.

One rat means there are surely more in the dungeons, and it doesn’t take more than a week
for another to appear. It runs in the corners of the room, hiding in the shadows and feeding on
the crumbs that fall from Birka’s lips. It steers clear of Astarion’s cell for many days and
manages to cause a permanent pinch in the vampire’s expression.

He spends entire days tensed, lips parting into a silent snarl whenever the rat comes too close,
looping in and out between his cell’s bars before disappearing off to scavenge around Birka’s
ankles. It’s rather pathetic, to have become so starved of blood that a rat’s heartbeat is like
thunder in his ears.

His stomach churns, hour after day, morning bleeding into dusk. Astarion’s want growing.

The day the bear catches the pest is one where Astarion lurches forward; bound hands
extended as far as they can and ending up like a begging man before the beast.

The rat squeals. Its tail is trapped under a paw, scrambling when the bear lowers its head to
pick the prey up between his teeth.

"Would you—Would you so terribly mind if I borrowed that?" Astarion stumbles out.

The bear turns to him.

"You'd get it back, of course! Maybe a little dry, but I don't think your tastes are quite that
sophisticated."

“Did I not tell you, my boy? That you would stoop so low as to beg for filth.”

There's a faint snapping sound and the rat goes limp between its jaws. The bear growls and
Astarion swallows his disappointment.

In the alleys of the city, Astarion is a true predator. Here, he’s little more than a bystander, left
hungry and wanting in a cell where beauty and charm are not assets.

Astarion’s eyes close and he bows his head. No more a begging man but a weak imitation of
one in prayer. There’s no one to pray to though. He clenches his teeth and balls his hands up
into tight fists.

He feels a giant mound of fur brush against his side. The vampire jerks his head up and his
focus on the abandoned rat left on the floor.

There’s a beat, and then Astarion’s not thinking. He crawls forward on knees and tied hands -
a sad sight truly - until he’s kneeling with a dead rat in his shaky grip.

He brings it to his mouth.

Bites.

“Mnh.”

Gods, he was starving.

He clutches onto the rat desperately, fingers squeezing so hard he feels bones break under
them, holding on tight as if someone would take it away from him.

The taste of rat is all too familiar - thick and unpleasant - and when Astarion closes his eyes
he's back before Cazador. A worthless spawn thankful to its master.

Astarion drinks in a few desperate gulps until there’s not enough left to drink and he resorts
to sucking the drops into his mouth. His eyelids flutter when there’s nothing more to drink,
when his attempts to pull blood come up with nothing but the texture of fur on the tip of his
tongue.

Astarion pulls the rat from between his teeth, licks his lips clean and then uses his wrist to
drag any smears from his cheeks to a part of his skin he can reach.

His next inhales are shaky, his body tingling from the sudden rush of energy before he
relaxes, thoughts clearer than they’d been in weeks.

There’s no Cazador here. Only the gaze of a creature of the forest who regards Astarion in
silence. It approaches in three heavy steps.
 "You know, dear. This may be an improvement on my last meal. You can never really get the
stench of city sewer out of the fur." He inspects the rat and carefully pulls spider webbing off
the body with his fingers. "I suppose we should be thankful they made it this far."

Astarion offers out the rat and then lets it fall before his cellmate. The creature makes a dull
thud on impact; its corpse a dried out husk and the only remains of its blood now coating the
vampire’s teeth.

The bear inspects the remains, snout dragging through the fur. It glances up, and there’s
something in its eyes that has Astarion feeling sheepish.

“Forgive me, darling,” he says in return to the bear’s gaze. “Where are my manners? My
name’s Astarion.”

What poor introductions they are. From an undead man; hair stiff, clothes ruined and skin
covered in a layer of grime. Even Cazador would disapprove.

Though animals are not like people. And the bear does not seem to mind. It lowers its head
again, scoops the rat up between its jaws and swallows it whole. The beast shakes its head,
tongue lolling out and Astarion snorts.

“Still not to your tastes?” he teases. “I imagine I taste quite a bit better, and I must say I’m
surprised you haven’t taken a bite yet. Perhaps even a bear is smart enough to know just how
boring their slow death would be without a pretty face to look at. Honestly..” Astarion slumps
against the closest wall, satisfied for now. Feeling just a tad dramatic he pouts at the bear who
has settled back down nearby. “My nighttime activities are hardly the most respectable, but
even I have complaints about this establishment.”

Chapter End Notes

Choo choo, all aboard the angst train!

Thank you for all the lovely comments for the first chapter.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Something is wrong.

"Hello? Do you mind?!" Astarion scrambles to move out of the way but the bear seems
insistent on squeezing him between itself and the wall.

Something is definitely wrong.

Astarion just about gets his feet under him before he’s flat against the stone, the beast
incredibly close as it anchors itself to the ground and lets out a deep roar.

There’s a group of goblins descending the dungeon stairs. Too many for a guard change. Too
many to not have the bear growling as they near closer; their faces a mixture of hideous
curiosity and disgusting excitement.

The worgs in the pen next to them erupt into noise at the unusual disruption, and Astarion
realizes that this may be it.

How strange, to spend two centuries cowering under Cazador’s rule, only to die so very far
away from his master.

He gives a fruitless tug at his bindings again and then looks up at goblins who’ve come to a
hesitant stop outside his cell. The goblins grumble among each other, none wanting to be the
first to venture into the pen.

“An audience? For me?” Astarion sneers. Hides his fear behind his words. “You never even
got my wine order correct and yet you know me so well.”

“That’s ‘im! I said I brought ‘im in, didn’t I?!” A voice calls, conveniently from the safety of
the back of the group.

“Sul! How I’ve not missed you,” Astarion smiles, his voice like sweet poison.

“Buncha fuckin’ weaklin’s,” Birka drawls. “Hurry it up!” She shoves her way to the front of
the group, jabs a key into the lock, turns, and pushes the cell door open as the goblins surge
into the pen.

The bear attacks and a goblin goes down instantly, his scream cut short and left to be
trampled over by his companions. The others charge forward, with sticks and knives, and it
takes several inches of steel sinking into the beast’s leg for it to withdraw, growling all the
time as it's herded into the opposite corner.

Two goblins grab Astarion by the arms and he's pulled from the cell in a manner that has him
almost tripping over his feet.
"A little excessive, don't you think?" He spits. "The worgs will hardly recognize me as food if
I'm blue and purple all over."

But it's not the worg pen they take him to. Instead there's a scramble - one that has Astarion
keeling over from a sword hilt to the stomach - and eventually he's shoved into a chair. A
thick strap of leather goes up and over him, and is then pulled tight around his neck. Not to
choke, but to keep him in place.

“I told you! I found ‘im and I-I knew! I knew!” Sul blabbers, keeping a wide bay of the chair
but stealing respect for himself from any goblin close enough to catch his attention. Until he’s
abruptly shoved out of the way and into a scared silence by a passing goblin.

This one walks up to Astarion. She's older than the rest, fingers missing on both hands and a
scarred eye that is unseeing. She inspects him, peering over him and sending shivers across
his body.

"This him?"

"This the only elf we got," Birka confirms. "Bowls been empty but dont think it's him
eating."

"Mm," she grunts back. This time she uses a wooden pole to tilt Astarion’s face from side to
side. "Priestess' got me doing work I know shit about. Says we've got a vampire in our pens."

Shit.

"Now - just listen just a—."

"Don't know what your kinds supposed to look like, but—." She uses the stick to tug the
corner of Astarion’s lip up. "I've seen plenty a fangs in my life. And ain't ever seen 'em on an
elf before."

“Well what would you know about Baldurian fashion?” Astarion sneers and she laughs at his
reply.

“Priestess Guts says there’s value in you freaks. So how’s it work? You got necrotic essence
in those teeth?”

“Please, do you take me for a virgin?” He leans forward, face twisted. “If I was capable of
necrotic energy half of Baldur’s Gate would have crisped up in the sun by now!”

“Don’t mean we ain’t gonna check what you’ve got to give.” She comes in close. Close
enough to have the other goblins jittering with nerves, unsure if they should interrupt to keep
their leader safe. A wide grin splits her face into two when Astarion relents and tips his head
away from her.

"Bring the cup!"

“Yes, Gurk!” A goblin hurries over, offering up an empty goblet.

The cup is old; the metal on one side having begun to rust away into a reddish hue from a
lack of kind treatment. Certainly, it’s not meant for any sort of collection - the engravings on
it far too complex for that - and had likely been pilfered from a dead corpse long ago.

“Gonna bottle up that decaying power of yours. Priestess Gut’ll use it. Or sell it. Don’t really
give a shit.”

Astarion snorts, distaste obvious despite the wariness with which he's eyeing the goblet.

"Excluding the fact my performance for once would not be up to expectation, if you're
wanting me to dribble into that cup you must be stupider than you look."

“Oh?” She’s back to poking at him with the wooden pole, giving a series of slaps against his
cheek until the hurt makes Astarion hiss and twist away. “Who says we need you to do
anything? Mirg!”

“Yes!” The goblin’s clearly more afraid of Gurk than she is of Astarion, and with eyes
looking like they’re about to pop out of her head, she receives the wooden pole thrust into her
hand in exchange for the goblet.

The leather tightens around Astarion’s neck when the goblin behind him feels him shifting at
the approach of Gurk’s hands.

“A cup like that without wine is practically sinful,” Astarion offers last and then presses his
lips tight together into a thin line when the goblet is pressed right under his nose.

“Ain’t gonna be empty for long,” Gurk mutters and then gets in even closer.

Gurk uses the edge of the goblet to pry Astarion’s lips apart, pushing more as the vampire’s
face twists in displeasure.

Astarion’s eyes squeeze shut and he grunts at the handling, until he slips out a noise that parts
his lips enough for the cup to slip past.

The thick rim is jammed up behind his fangs and Gurk presses the goblet up to force Astarion
to bite down, like a wild animal being milked for its venom.

They’re after the life draining power of a true vampire, and Astarion has none of it to give.

Instead he’s humiliated. Hurt. Gums bruised up and teeth scraped. The cup smacks against
his chin in Gurk’s efforts and Astarion’s exclamations of pain are muffled. Every attempt to
get away is blocked and Astarion has no choice but to bear through it.

There’s laughter in the background, amusement at Astarion’s torment.

Disapproval too. In the form of growls that register at a lower tone that the shrill cackles.

Astarion struggles, expressions uncomfortable and left with his fangs over the goblet’s rim,
lips peeled back and eyes squinting at the effort of it all.
"Fuck!" Gurk hisses, suddenly dislodging the goblet from between his teeth enough for
Astarion to gasp.

"I'm a spawn!"

The laughter, that had stuttered out at Gurk’s cursing, resumes at Astarion’s words.

They don’t believe him.

"You are just an insignificant little boy."

"I'm just a spawn!"

Unhappy with the empty goblet and ignoring Astarion, the cup is soon back, forcing his
mouth unnaturally wide, gums protesting and voice now muffled.

"Mngh!"

This time Gurk puts her palm across Astarion’s face, pushing up against it so hard the
vampire thinks his nose may break.

All for necrotic essence that never emerges.

He smells the sweat and dirt off her skin. Feels the pressure of her touch on his face; one that
lacks hesitance and shoots a stinging pain up through the top of Astarion’s mouth the more
she digs the cup in.

She pushes and pushes and pushes, making Astarion shake under her touch. His legs flail at
the pain, trying to get a leverage under him to push away only to end up with the elf groaning
as Gurk forces his head back even more.

The goblet is eventually wrenched from his mouth and Astarion is left coughing, swallowing
down the saliva that had pooled in his mouth and gagging at the taste left on his tongue.

Teeth clenched and chest heaving in anger he spits, “Don’t you fucking get it by now?!”

Gurk pulls a face, displeased and turns her wrath at Sul. “You said he walked in the sun!”

Astarion can hear the fool cowering. Thankful for the short rest, he bows his head, chin
against his chest and tries to bite down the ache throbbing through his jaws.

“H-He did! I promise! Walked ‘im all the way here myself!”

“Ain’t no fuckin’ spawn walkin’ in the sun. No fuckin’ no normal vampire either!” She’s
shaking the goblet over Astarion’s head at Sul. “What’s the Priestess gonna say when we
ain’t got anything in a bottle?”

“Gurk,” Birka’s stomped up to her. “He don’t need to go to waste. Worgs are still hungry. It’ll
please Guts enough.”
“Hm.” Gurk thinks for a moment. Then shakes her head. “We’ll take the Grove and then I’ll
yank his fangs out myself. Sell ‘em for all the trouble.”

Left with a goblet with only Astarion’s saliva smeared down the outer detailing, she throws
the object at Mirg’s chest.

“Alright. Lock him up!” Gurk calls.

“Yes, Gurk!”

There's a heavy thud on the table beside him.

“I’m done with this nonsense.” Turning and heading for the stairs, she glances over her
shoulder. “Let the monster rot,” Gurk grunts.

Astarion isn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he turns to glance at the table. A chain
perhaps, something to reinforce the rope that had become so frayed around his wrists during
Astarion’s captivity.

Certainly not that.

The contraption is all metal, scraps pieced together, brazed with little care for technique. At
its front is a thick disc - its size no larger than a medallion - from where two plates of metal
extend, bent into an imitation of straps.

A heavy lock sits at the back.

“Wait…” Astarion wheezes out, eyes flickering back to Gurk’s retreating back. “Wait!”

They can’t…

Not like this.

“I’m not—!”

A goblin picks the gag off the table and approaches.

“I’m a spawn, you idiots! You don’t need to do that!” Astarion protests, body now alight with
fear and eyes shooting around the dungeon, trying desperately to catch a goblin’s eye.

“Open up!” The goblin says and rattles the gag in his hands. There’s nothing but glee in his
voice.

“You cannot!” Astarion shouts, body going tight suddenly until he shoots forward in a mad
lurch that is instantly caught by his captors. He’s thrown back into the chair and there are
hands on him. On his face and his shoulders and torso. A group of goblins keeping him
pinned, leather strap tightening around his neck as the goblin holding the gag slips behind
him.
Astarion hears the hinges creak and becoming frantic, the vampire almost chokes himself
trying to pull away.

“Gh—! No! H-Hold on!”

The metal strap smacks into his chin.

“Please!”

He tries to twist away and yet the front of the contraption is still bumping against his lips,
teeth clenched until Astarion’s gasping in pain at a new hit aimed at his stomach.

“N-No! Wait! Ghh!”

The metal disc pops past his lips, flat against his tongue until it’s righted to sit snug behind
his fangs, making Astarion into a helpless mute.

“Ngh! Mn—!”

The metal has been cut with haste and is not perfectly smooth. With the vampire’s struggles
and the goblins trying to get the gag secure, it scrapes against the roof of his mouth where it
locks behind Astarion’s teeth and cuts his tongue when he tries to push it out.

He howls around the gag, fighting still, trying to get his shoulders up enough to stop the
goblin from fixing the lock into place.

The bear roars and there is a frightened squeak from a goblin as the cell doors protest the
impact of something huge against them.

“Fuckin’ shit!” Birka hisses and tugs on Astarion’s hair hard enough for him to feel the
strands rip. It keeps his head up and unable to move. The metal around his face gets pulled
tighter and tighter, until there’s a clicking sound, and Astarion is dropped back down into his
seat.

“Not gonna be biting anyone now, ey? Don’t matter what kinda vampire ya are,” Birka
sneers. “Not gonna be sayin’ much either.”

The metal bites into his cheeks, secured so tightly around his head that it makes his skin
bulge around the device. It’s a weight, heavy enough that he can feel the effort needed to
keep his head up.

It does not stop his enraged scream.

The goblin closest to him goes tumbling down with him when he attacks. He’s left to the
mercy of Astarion’s hands; nails that manage to dig into the skin of his face and tear until
there are streaks of red on his cheeks and the vampire is yanked away.

Astarion is thrown back into his cell with a shove that sends him crumbling down to the floor.
Unable to catch himself with his hands, his shoulder smacks into the stone after his knees,
and the following hurt of his face catching the last of his weight squeezes a sound of pain
past his gag.

“Nhg!”

Panicked, Astarion scrambles onto his knees, hands up and immediately clawing at the
contraption on his face. He gets little for his efforts besides scratching up the skin of cheeks.
But he tries anyway, pulling at the joints and clumsily feeling out the shape of the lock
keeping him imprisoned in the worst possible way.

Cackles erupt behind him and Astarion - unwilling to show his captors his own horror -
crawls towards the safety of the corner he’d sought so many weeks ago. And with his back to
the cell entrance and walls hiding him as best as they can, Astarion again digs his fingers into
his cheeks and pulls at the metal until his fingers are shaking and his jaw aches from the
shifting gag.

Hunched over on his knees, he eventually lets his hands fall. His eyes - before wide with
terror - now close. His forehead furrows and he exhales deep out from his nose.

He stays there until the laughter dulls. Until the goblins have had their fill and grown bored
of the elf’s trembling back. Only then does Astarion move enough to lean against the stone.

He has…

He has faced worse. Astarion has felt the patterns that a blade can carve and met the kiss of a
whip on his skin. He knows pain and he knows torture.

Still.

This seems so foreign.

Cazador liked to make Astarion weak. Lesser. But he never took away Astarion’s bite; words
that fell with the ease of rain on a spring day, or the charm of perfect lips tilted up in a smile.

The goblins have robbed Astarion of both.

And provided a guarantee of a desperate hunger that would soon come.

Astarion hears a huff and he glances up to meet the bear. The beast is near, its head swaying
from side to side before it gives everything a shake and wanders in close.

Astarion has spent weeks talking his fears away.

Now, Astarion reaches out his hands instead.

The bear presses into them and Astarion’s fingers disappear into thick fur.

He spreads his fingers, the span of both hands not enough to cup the bear’s face, but enough
to thumb across the bridge of its nose and feel the coarse hair part under his touch.
The lace on the cuff of his shirt hangs in ruined strings of thread, too light to get lost in the
bear’s coat.

Astarion drops his arms.

He feels the bear come closer still. The giant beast brushes up against him and Astarion
watches, eyes half-lidded as the animal slumps down onto the ground beside him.

It gives an immediate warmth against Astarion’s side, removing the cold off his leg, the bear
close enough that it’s every breath shifts the vampire’s body just a little.

An attempt at comfort perhaps.

One that starts, and never ends. For the bear stops moving much after that.

Astarion stops counting the days.

The goblin guard changes. He does not care.

The ache in his jaw disappears into a numbness and the vampire spends day after day with
his head leant against the wall to alleviate the weight of the gag.

When another pest finds its way into the dungeon to scurry about its shadows, Astarion
squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head in his only available effort to block out the
temptation. His other senses don’t let him ignore it and as the hunger builds and the rat passes
into their cell, Astarion finds himself shivering.

But Astarion does not move.

The bear does not either.

And eventually the rat disappears from the dungeon, leaving Astarion wound up tight, jaw
impulsively clenching around his gag.

Astarion knows all too well what starving feels like. Ironically, Cazador has trained him well
for such situations. Other spawn may go insane over time; bite their tongues off when their
ravenous nature finally takes hold.

But Astarion sits; still with his sanity but weakening day by day. His eyelids droop and his
muscles relax and when he stops fake breathing to conserve energy, the bear nudges him with
its nose until Astarion moves enough to still show he’s alive.

Now they’ve stopped bothering to feed Astarion, it’s only a matter of time before the bear
passes.

Astarion finds his world tipping one day, sliding against the wall until he’s slumped against
the bear. The creature rumbles out a sound and the vampire feels it vibrate through the both
of them. Its fur is thick enough to bury half of Astarion’s face in it, and it provides a softness
that contrasts with the harshness of steel on skin.
 Astarion may be practiced in the art of becoming nothing, the difference here is that with
Cazador, starving was only ever temporary. Whether it be weeks or months or years,
eventually Cazador would grow bored. There was always an end even if Astarion didn't know
when it would be. Here, Astarion doesn’t know if there will be an end.

In a few months Astarion would be robbed of his speech, even without his gag.

After that, it would be difficult to predict what else he would lose.

When his siblings had last pulled him from the sarcophagus after his year long isolation, they
had held Astarion in their arms and dripped blood onto his tongue to get his eyes to open.

Perhaps the goblins would get bored of their useless vampire before his body becomes too
weak to function. De-fang him like Gurk intended and then throw what’s left to the worgs.

For now he takes comfort in his cellmate. He leans his weight fully against the animal, lets
thick fur caress his skin and feels the steady beat of the bear’s heart.

Chapter End Notes

There is something very wrong about a silenced Astarion...

 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The dungeon shakes, throwing Three’s aim off balance more than her own natural ability and
sending the pebble she throws into the opposite corner of the cell.

The metal cell doors creak, and dust falls from the ceiling, blanketing Astarion in a layer of
ground sand as the very rocks of the keeps foundation shift. An earthquake, if not for the
shakes traveling down from above.

Astarion wonders if the entire keep is about to collapse atop of him. Then he stops
wondering, for he’d be too weak to save himself anyway.

Starvation has begun to trap him within his own body over the weeks. It’s formed a
disconnection between his mind and his limbs, making them numb, heavy and increasingly
difficult to move.

His fingers dig into the bear’s fur as dust settles in his skin, his hair, his eyelashes. It makes
the outside of him a muted brown color and blends the two trapped beasts of the cell together.

There’s dust now inside Astarion’s mouth, and what feels like soft powder on his skin feels
coarse when it rubs into the inside of his cheek. He tries to swallow it down to stop the
scratching, but ends up choking due to the gag, leaving the sand stuck at the back of his
throat where it hurts worse than before.

The bear shifts under him—presumably stirring from a slumber at Astarion’s rasping cough
—until it moves with an urgency, standing up in a hurry that billows up a cloud of dust and
causes the vampire to slide off from where he was curled up on the bear and topple to the
floor in a heap.

He does not move.

Outside the cell the young goblins have begun to squabble, seemingly more distracted by
each other than the sudden quakes of the keep.

“You didn’t hit it! You didn’t make it squeal!”

“That’s not fair!” Three yells.

“You’re not fair!” The others bark back and there’s the sound of them fighting over their
stash of rocks before it’s broken up by approaching footsteps.

“Ya wanna grow into a weaklin’, Three?” Birka snaps. “Two of them there ain’t doing much
and ya didn’t hit either!”
“Weakling! Weakling!” One snickers, until the bear roars and the young ones all go
scrambling back in fright, pebbles now forgotten.

The beast is certainly interested in something, for it rumbles out another call, loud and drawn
out until a thud sounds in the distance in reply.

A commotion, though Birka doesn’t seem to think so. She spits into their cell before turning.
“‘Bout fuckin’ time! Ya late for guard change!”

Were she to have paid attention, Birka would have seen her death coming. Instead when the
bear rams into the cell doors and the already weakened hinges snap, the gate comes crashing
down on the goblin, snapping bones and crushing organs and leaving her lifeless beneath the
bear as it charges past.

The screams of the young goblins are silenced next and Astarion is left behind in his cell,
unmoving as the yells and sounds of battle breaking out carry from further and further away.

There are strangers in the dungeons, that much is evident. Escaped new incoming prisoners
perhaps, or an unlucky lot of travelers who’d stumbled right into a goblin camp.

There’s the sound of steel hitting flesh and the grunts of exertion.

There is a heaviness in the air too, the type that makes goosebumps break out on skin and
leaves the space jumping between an unnatural cold and a sudden warmth. The type of
heaviness caused only by magic and the energy residues it leaves behind. It crackles in
Astarion’s ears and blasts light across his vision despite how far removed he is from the
chaos.

Then. It all ends. Rather swiftly as the dungeons had never housed more than a few goblins
on duty. The last sounds are the worgs dying, seemingly executed in their pen.

A quiet fills the dungeon. Interrupted by boots against the stone and the murmur of distant
voices.

Astarion’s attempts to draw notice to his cell go unheard, for the sounds he’s able to get past
the gag are hardly enough to be caught from across the dungeon.

The bear has disappeared and if the strangers don’t check his cell before they leave, he'll be
left alone. Forgotten.

He certainly wouldn’t be able to crawl to the cell entrance.

Shit.

“Astarion.”

He jolts at the sound of his own name; one that hasn’t been uttered in a long time now.
Dragging his cheek against the floor until his face is towards the cell door, Astarion takes in
the figure who knows his name.
There’s a giant standing in the doorway. An elf; bigger than Astarion’s ever seen, scars across
his face, arms corded with thick muscle and a dagger in his hand.

The man takes a step forward.

"You think a wretched thing like you could escape me?"

Astarion panics.

The bear has left him in the chaos. Escaped or killed by the man now nearing Astarion, the
one tasked by Cazador to bring him back under heel.

He'll be groveling for forgiveness before sunset.

No—!

Astarion pushes to get away, to lift his body from the floor. His arms shake and his eyes
water at the exertion he doesn't have the energy for. His fingers press imprints into the dust
under his hands.

"Gnh!"

His gag feels like a weight around his head and he hardly recognizes his own limbs for they
don’t move how they should. They hurt, crying in protest as the vampire collapses against the
wall and then tries to drag himself against it.

“Astarion! Wait!” The man rushes forward now and Astarion tries to go for his face when the
elf kneels down to grab him. His fingertips only just graze the stranger’s face before falling in
exhaustion, wrists getting caught in the man’s grip.

Astarion inhales, an impulse from the panic thrumming through him.

He’ll—.

He’ll…

His eyes widen.

He breathes in again and yes, there’s that scent that’s so familiar now. It’s all over the cell but
here, in this elf, it’s the strongest. Astarion has curled up against this before, ran his fingers
through its fur and missed his companion’s smell when breathing no longer became a priority.

Astarion breathes now.

Chest heaving, Astarion pushes forward with his fingertips until they bump against the
leather of the man’s clothing. He’s afraid if he doesn’t smell, if he doesn’t touch, that this
druid before him will disappear altogether.

“I didn't mean to alarm,” the man murmurs. “I forget that I am a stranger in this form.”
The elf presses into his touch until Astarion’s palms are flat against his chest. He keeps the
vampire’s arms up, letting Astarion stay in contact without having to try.

Astarion glances up. And though the eyes he meets are not the same shape or color as before,
they are the same ones he faced for the first time so long ago. Now the color of the bear’s fur
is present only in the gray of his eyes.

Wild Shape. Astarion hadn’t even considered it.

“It was rude of me to have your name for so long without you having mine in return. I am
Halsin, the archdruid of Emerald Grove.”

Halsin. Astarion imagines the name would roll easily off his tongue. But for now all he can
do is allow Halsin to tip his head to the side to inspect the lock at the back of his prison.
Halsin pries gently at the contraption, keeping the weight off Astarion and testing the strength
of the lock only to bring Astarion back to him, frustration evident on his face.

“The lock holds strong, I would not risk you in trying to force it.” His voice is like dusk. The
relief of coming night after cowering from the day. Soothing and deep, even when the words
hold a bitterness not directed at him.

Halsin lifts the dagger in his hand next and Astarion’s brow furrows in a silent question.
What fear he had held for the man moments ago has disappeared. Now there’s trust that the
blade will not be used against him.

“I may still be able to help.”

A nick to Halsin’s fingertip gets the blood beading up on the skin.

Astarion’s entire mouth throbs. He grunts out a sound, all instinct, and finds himself forcing
his bite tighter and tighter around the gag until Halsin digs his fingers into his cheeks to stop
him.

A smear of blood ends up on his lower lip, close but impossibly far away.

"Don't hurt yourself, little elf.”

Astarion’s lips are cracked and dry, pulled already tight around the gag. When Halsin
attempts to tug the corner of his mouth just a little more, just enough to slot his bleeding
finger into his mouth, Astarion’s eyes squeeze shut from the pain. His lips crack further and
now it's not just Halsin’s blood against them.

The druid recoils instantly. A flash of anger on his face that he calms quickly.

"I am sorry."

It's not just this he's apologizing for.

His clean hand eases Astarion’s lip back to where the pain throbs through it the least.
“I thought I could ease your discomfort but it seems I only worsened it,” Halsin says.
“Perhaps our rescuers can provide more assistance than I. Can you stand?”

No.

Halsin loops Astarion’s bound hands over his head and with a firm grip on the vampire, he
lifts Astarion up until it’s just the soles of his shoes touching the ground. Halsin bears his
weight, patient through Astarion’s exhales of pain at the protest in his muscles, legs having
been bent for such a time that instinct almost makes them curl back into his body.

Finally Astarion puts his own weight down on his feet and Halsin eases his hold.

Astairon’s legs buckle under him instantly and he’s saved from crumbling and taking the both
of them down to the floor by a strong arm around his waist.

Halsin doesn’t say anything and Astarion appreciates his willingness to ignore his fumble.
The druid simply rights Astarion back on his feet.

They try again.

And again.

The release of Halsin’s Wild Shape has relieved the man of his own coating of sand but now
that Astarion struggles against him, he smears dust back onto his cell companion, dirtying
him the more he fails.

They try yet again.

Until Astarion’s entire body trembles even in Halsin’s arms. His toes curl in his ruined shoes,
trying so hard to keep himself upright on his own when he can barely manage to keep his
head from lolling against Halsin’s chest.

Eventually the vampire does let his head tip forward, an instant relief for his neck and yet it’s
not the reason he squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s done. He’s so, so fucking done with all of this.

Astarion makes a noise. He’s frustrated at his weakness; ashamed now at showing it to
someone and not something. How pathetic, to not even have control of one’s own limbs.

“Easy, little elf,” Halsin reassures. He keeps the pity out of his voice. “My Wild Shape bore
the brunt of the goblins’ torment. Do not be ashamed now, your body has been strong.”

What a foolish man.

Astarion’s fingers cling to Halsin tighter.

“I apologize. I’m sure you know if you cannot stand, I must carry you.”
 Halsin gently unties the ropes around Astarion’s wrists. The loose threads of his clothing
have long become entangled in the bindings, and when Halsin pulls the rope away, it tears at
the vampire’s clothing, snagging seams open at the cuffs until the string snaps.

Astarion feels a little like his clothing; like pretty lace now frail and unraveled.

Astarion had spent the first decade of his life as a vampire begging for help that never came.
Now, more than two hundred years later, acknowledging the help of others when it is given
without Astarion’s flirtations or body as prepayment feels strange.

They have been through a lot together, and Halsin is kind, yes, but he has not yet named the
price of his assistance.

Unable to properly reply, Astarion’s world flips suddenly. Halsin has bent enough to hook an
arm behind the vampire’s knees and hoisted the man up, making Astarion like a virgin on a
wedding night and just as helpless as one, though the groan he releases is one of pain and not
of nervous excitement.

Gods, it is all rather absurd. And humiliating. To be so trapped in body and voice, held up in
a giant’s arms because Astarion cannot do anything for himself.

“I - I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have asked if you’d prefer to ride on my back. Though I have
only faced our rescuers for a brief moment, it’d be best to do so again when my voice can
provide more just growls,” Halsin offers, evidently a little unsure, but ultimately nodding to
himself.

“Come. Let us properly meet who we owe our thanks to.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for all the comments! I've been re-reading them a lot in the past
week as a bout of demotivation really had me struggling to get this chapter out.
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The people before them would have been considered an oddity of a friend group even within
the walls of Baldur’s Gate. And for them to be the sudden raiders and victors of a goblin
camp, makes the sight of them all the more strange.

A tiefling. A human. A githyanki. And a half-elf.

Were Astarion not gagged and struggling to keep his eyes open, he would have surely
sneered and poked his way with insults around the strange lot. And more likely, he’d have
done it with a blade against one of their throats.

As it is, Astarion is left to flick between the bunch, trying to assess whether the cold gaze of
the githyanki is more dangerous than the mage, who’s currently clicking his fingers,
displacing the last residues of magic out from his hands in spurts of purple light.

The cleric is indifferent, and the tiefling seems so wrapped up in checking that the strings of
their lute had not snapped during the battle that it’s not until Halsin is towering over them
that they glance up.

“Ah!” They swing their lute onto their back and take a few seconds to peer at Astarion before
blinking up at Halsin. “That’s why you ran off!”

“I apologize for cutting our conversation short before. You have been true friends of nature,
to not attack a wild bear in the chaos of a fight, some would call it lunacy.”

“We seemed to have a common enemy at the time,” the tiefling grins. “Though I’m glad no
one stabbed you in the end!”

“Can’t say I wouldn’t have singed your fur if you’d come in too close, mind you! Gale of
Waterdeep, it’s a pleasure,” the mage says before his face pinches and he nods at Astarion.
“Seems like your friend’s a little worse for wear.”

“If there is anything you can do.” Halsin’s expression twists and he ducks his head for a
moment. “I…do not possess the strength for a healing spell at the moment.”

“Chk. We did not come here to aid another istik, and not one so weak,” the githyanki spits.
“Put the pretty one out of its misery, he is of no use. We are here for another purpose.”

“I’d have thought even a githyanki’s bloodthirst to have been quelled by now, but you are
living up to your people’s reputation Lae’zel.” Though there may have been a look of
disinterest on the half-elf before, it shifts into a disdain that finds its target in the githyanki.
She approaches Astarion and it’s all too obvious she’s only doing so to spite Lae’zel who
clicks her teeth in reply.
“The name is Shadowheart,” she says and casts a hand across Astarion’s body. A soft blue
spreads like mist over Astarion, cool and gentle until Shadowheart frowns at what she finds,
and the healing spell vanishes in exchange for a golden shimmer from her fingertips.

"I'm sure you already know this, but he is a vampire," Shadowheart says.

Astarion stills.

“Stupid boy! Did you truly believe anyone would help you?”

Tension falls upon them, curling especially sharp in Astarion’s stomach where it twists into
fear. He’s defenseless, utterly so and there are suddenly four pairs of eyes on him, all wary,
and with two creeping onto the side of hostile.

Though it seems he’s not the only one on edge now.

Astarion feels Halsin shift. His grip tightens and he pulls Astarion back just enough for the
movement to still appear casual, like he’s readjusting his hold and not intentionally making
the distance to reach Astarion a little further.

"Ah, goblins are not exactly the most fond of delightful conversation but that explains the
muzzle." Gale squeezes out a smile. “I may be open-minded, but perhaps best stay away from
the mouth end, hm.”

His tone is light enough to ease some of the discomfort in the space and Tav claps their hands
together, happy with the seemingly quick resolution.

“He is a spawn. He has done me no harm and I would not allow any done to him,” Halsin
explains, his words spoken without any tremble of doubt. And though Astarion doesn’t
understand what he’s done to obtain such trust from the man, he’s grateful for it nonetheless.

“Suit yourself,” Shadowheart replies, voice cold as she withdraws her hand. “Physically there
is nothing to heal. He's weak because he's starving. I’d say the goblins probably did a smart
thing. Though tell me, why didn’t he burn under a radiant light?”

“What did you do?!” Halsin’s words are a growl, loud and thundering out from his chest. He
takes a full step back this time and while his movement jostles pain throughout Astarion, the
vampire bites down his gag to prevent a noise of weakness from escaping.

“Clearly nothing, it didn’t work.”

“Hta'zith!” Lae’zel hisses. “Gut him! Who knows what else he’s hiding.”

“I would…strongly like to protest against more bloodshed. We came here for the archdruid,
let's stick to the plan everyone,” Gale says.

“I hate to side with a gith, but I agree. Vampires should be killed at the best of times; a
mutated one is just more trouble.”
“H-Hey wait!” The tiefling pushes to the front. “We won’t be gutting anyone! The man can’t
even walk so what’s he going to do? Fling his fangs at us?” They gesture wildly—as is
natural for all bards—and then whirl round to face them. “It’s not an issue that he’s a
vampire. I’m sorry, Halsin. Look, we’ll all just take a moment to calm dow—.”

The tiefling catches Astarion’s eye.

A headache hits instantly. It's intense, thrumming through Astarion’s entire body and making
his bones ache. There’s a squirming sensation behind his eye and he claws weakly at Halsin,
curling in on himself best as he can.

This time, Astarion makes a noise.

He hears his name being called.

But when Astarion closes his eyes he suddenly finds himself sneering down at his sibling.

"If you pray louder, I'm sure someone will eventually answer."

She looks up at him, her gaze red. "You prayed once too."

Astarion’s lip curls up in distaste. "My dear sister, at least one of us wasn't stupid enough to
continue past the first decade."

Everything tips to the side and now the world seems so huge and bright. He's running through
fields with a group of tiefling children, laughing through a memory that is not his own.

"Tav!" A voice calls and an apple hits him in the chest, caught in his hands before it can be
muddied in the soil.

Astarion blinks and he's in a familiar alleyway behind a familiar tavern. The morning is fast
approaching but the sky is cloudy.

He has time, and the half-elf before him has enough alcohol on his breath to make this easy.

"My wife…my wife will—," he slurs, eyes unfocused.

Astarion’s finger under the man’s chin swiftly silences him.

"Oh darling, your wife doesn't need to know," Astarion purrs. "I'll give you a taste now and
then you will come home with me, won't you?"

The world splinters.

The strum of his instrument is cut short as he scrambles back from the approaching man.

"Didn't I tell ya to scram?"

"The Madam said I could play until—." He's slammed into the wall.

"I'll snap ya fingers if ya don't put that fuckin' lute away!"

Something wet wriggles up his cheek and when Astarion goes to wipe it from his face, he
finds himself trapped and aboard the Nautiloid.

The parasite crawls through his lower eyelashes until all he can see is teeth.

A brief snap of darkness and now Astarion is on a beach, though the hands he pushes into the
sand are not his own.

"Astarion!"

His eyes snap open.

Astarion is not in the palace, or a tavern or a field or the Nautiloid. He's here, blinking back
at the man who's currently scouring his body for a new injury.

He finds Halsin has backed them away and dropped into a crouch. The edges of his body
flicker a warm light, growing more intense when Lae’zel levels her blade in their direction.

“He’s got one too!” The tiefling rasps as a way of explanation. Tav has both their hands
clapped onto their cheeks, a bizarre effort to hold their head still to alleviate the pain that
apparently had been mutual.

“Vampirism? Yes, we’ve established that,” Shadowheart says. She’s yet to draw her own
sword but it’s clear the heaviness in the air is her doing when Gale flaps a hand in her
direction.

“Oh, stop it!” He snaps. “I’ve never been one to push away a new ally and we shouldn’t be
starting now! A tadpole that protects its host from the drawbacks of vampirism? It’s
fascinating! Though I imagine with his current condition it hasn’t fixed the blood drinking
habit.”

“Chk. And you wish for an ally after your own neck?”

“I wish for an ally!” Tav yells. They now have fading pink handprints atop of their blue
cheeks. “We came to free the archdruid and in our search for answers we have found another
not under the control of the tadpole. Instead of seeking Halsin’s help as intended we have
squabbled among ourselves over a man who cannot harm us even if he wanted to!”

Shadowheart sighs. “I suppose you are correct. Just hope that when the spawn gets peckish
that it’s not you who he’ll be draining.”

“Tadpole? You cannot mean..” Halsin looks down at him, peering intently as if to catch sight
of the parasite behind the white of Astarion’s eye. It's the first time he has heard Halsin sound
so lost. “Oak Father preserve you, little elf. You’re infected, aren’t you?”

“It’s why we’re here. We heard you could help,” Tav says.

“I’m sorry to say, even if I were at my full strength I would not be able to undo the magic.
There is no cure to be found here, not in me, or in this keep. But I overheard that the cultists
send their captives to Moonrise Towers. Innocents go in, True Souls come out."
“Moonrise Towers,” Tav repeats.

“If you want to find a cure, you must head there and discover how the tadpoles are being
manipulated.”

“We’re supposed to believe they left him behind out of the goodness of their hearts?”

“It was not their original intention.” Halsin finally glances up at the party, though not with the
same look he gives so freely to Astarion. “These are pens for animals, not people. It was by
Silvanus’ grace that Astarion ended up in my pen, and not the worgs’.”

“He’s lying. Trying to protect his mate.”

“Oh no. No. I believe him,” Gale replies. “It never did seem that ridding ourselves of our new
friends would be so simple.”

“I can…understand your distrust. Though it does not bring me any joy now, I too was
hesitant of Astarion’s company when we first met, as he was of mine,” Halsin says. “They
were cruel to him. Unjustly so.”

“The muzzle,” Gale nods. “Lockpicking is not exactly a prowess of mine, that’s a skill
acquired through illicit affairs. But, I can have a look.”

Halsin makes Gale come to them, and despite the look of protest on Lae’zel’s face, the
mage’s curiosity cannot be hidden in his quick steps to near them. He peers at Astarion’s gag,
wincing when he realizes just how tight the metal digs into his skin.

“Spared no expense, did they.” Gale’s eyes flicker from the clumsy slabs of metal to the bolt
on the side of Astarion’s cheek that has surely scratched the skin under it raw. Near the back
of Astarion’s head he finally comes to a stop as he examines the heavy lock at the back.

“Ooh, yes, that’s...unfortunate. I suspect our spawn friend here would not appreciate the
gesture of help I can provide. Handy as I am with fire manipulation, melting metal into skin
is unlikely to be at the top of his preferences.”

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself to feel the bitterness of his situation before
the resignation seeps in.

Perhaps in a twisted way, it is better like this. To not owe Gale something too.

Though, he would have been no stranger to entertaining two men.

“I will take him to the Grove then,” Halsin says. “Thank you, we would not have escaped
these perversions of nature alone. Though we have caused quite the commotion, I cannot
imagine the enemy does not know of our escape. How many remain?”

“Um. About that...” Tav replies. They suddenly look more guilty than they have this entire
encounter.
Halsin looks between the strangers, equally confused. “The goblins may not be smart, but
this keep has strong fortifications. It is easy to defend. You cannot have taken it alone?”

“We kind of…well. They had a lot of gunpowder lying about,” Tav whispers, teeth clenched
into a painful smile.

“Yes. Well…I can’t say I was exactly thrilled at casting the first spark,” Gale says. “Although
it was likely better than having goblin guts strewn upon you in the grand scheme of things.”

Halsin laughs in his relief. “I owe you a debt, having ridden this place of the Absolute, nature
is free to cure itself. If you would be willing to, return to the Grove before you continue your
journey. Moonrise Towers is not a place to approach ill-prepared. I would be able to provide
assistance.”

“Consider the debt already paid!” Tav insists. “You’ve given us the strongest lead we’ve had
so far.”

“We’ll take our leave now. While this place may not be the answer to your ailment, I hope
you will find something of use here nonetheless.”

Shadowheart has returned to her prior disinterest, a slight rise of the brow the only gesture
she provides as Halsin carries Astarion past her.

Tav smiles and Gale nods. “Perhaps the next time we speak, Astarion, words will be
exchanged both ways. Thank you, Halsin.”

They pass Lae’zel, the githyanki who had never sheathed her blade after drawing it. Her
sword arm is more relaxed now, and it’s the glower into the back of Astarion’s head that is
the most threatening.

At the end of the dungeon, they climb a set of shallow stairs, and another, passing flickering
torches on the walls.

Until Halsin pushes through the dungeon doors and an odor immediately assaults the pair.

Burnt flesh.

Charred, really. And still recent enough for Astarion to feel the heat of the aftermath of their
rescuers’ endeavors.

“I do not relish the death of any living creature,” Halsin murmurs. “But may the Oak Father
forgive me, for I relish in it now.”

There’s a lack of blood in the air; for most of the goblins’ bodies had been blackened to leave
nothing but a shadow of remains against the stone. Most had seemingly been caught off
guard by the blast, some buried under collapsing walls that they never would have felt.

Astarion’s eyes continue to flicker around, still on edge despite his senses telling him even
the rats had been burnt from existence.
 Halsin’s steps are slow, and though he holds Astarion securely in his arms, he is surely at the
limits of his strength too. They round a corner and there’s relief in the druid’s sigh as the
captors they see here are just as dead as the others. There’s exasperation too, for their walk
out of this place seems all the more longer with starvation long having taken hold of the both
of them.

It appears that the keep was a sanctum. Abandoned, then defiled first by goblins, and now
their remains. Astarion takes in the statues they pass, many damaged beyond recognition, and
finds himself not caring.

Yet another god who had not answered Astarion’s pleas.

Eventually the warmth of the explosion begins to fade, replaced by the chill of air whistling
through old stone until they climb the stairs up to a door blasted open and falling off its
hinges.

There is death in the courtyard too, but they are outside and as Halsin steps out Astarion
basks in the feeling of sunlight on his skin. He inhales deep to replace the air that had gotten
stale in his lungs and wonders if he may finally be able to enjoy the gift provided by the
illithid the goblins had denied him.

Until Halsin hisses, freezing and tugging Astarion into the shade with a jolt so sudden it pulls
a grunt out of the vampire.

“I am sorry. I did not think…” His voice falters and Halsin’s hand inspects Astarion’s
exposed skin. “It does not burn? They were correct. A blessing of the tadpole perhaps.”

Astarion is carried hesitantly back out into the light and he whimpers when Halsin arranges
his head to lie back against his bicep to expose his face to the sweet caress of morning light.

“Rest, little elf, we’ll be in the safety of the grove soon enough.”

Chapter End Notes

Alas my fic was not quite canon divergent enough to avoid talking about canon plot
points, but I hope I managed to wrap it all up in a decent little package! At this rate we
might even get a conversation between our duo soon..
 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It had been over two hundred years since Astarion last heard what daylight sounded like.
He’d forgotten it since then.

And so he listens now. Exhausted as he is, he listens.

And hears what life is like when it’s not cast in moonlight.

The world is less afraid when the sun is out; life does not need to scurry in the corners of
shadows. Even the wind sounds different when it blows through sun-kissed paths.

Astarion wonders what he'll need to do to carve himself a space in all of it; unnatural, undead
and unbreathing as he is.

Astarion is not here by his own merit afterall; there’s a tadpole worming around in his head, a
freak encounter having given the gift of feeling the sun’s embrace.

It’ll be by his own doing if he gets to keep it.

Halsin’s breathing is labored against Astarion, the druid forcing himself past his own fatigue.

Perhaps Halsin’s doing too. If the vampire plays this game right. Even if something twists in
his gut at the idea of it - there’s something strange between him and this man now, a rope of
trust that Astarion is afraid will unravel at any moment.

He clings to it all the same.

Unable to meditate properly, Astarion spends the time in brief flutters of sleep, closing his
eyes only to jerk awake a few moments later.

At some point Halsin lowers him down next to a shallow stream. He uses his dagger to help
rip off a piece of his own clothing, dips the cloth into the water and then gently wipes at the
dust still clinging to Astarion’s skin. His forehead and cheeks are cleaned and with a touch
that is barely there, Halsin dabs at Astarion’s lips, the damp cloth helping to sooth where
they’re held stretched open.

Then, Halsin approaches the stream a second time, cupping water into his hand and drinking
his fill.

When Halsin carries Astarion over the stream, he does so tensed up until it's clear that the
tadpole has once again prevented the vampire from burning, this time over running water.

He walks. And walks. And walks. Until the sun sets and the moondark begins. Until his steps
slow and Halsin settles Astarion against a small rock formation tucked just shy off the main
path. Halsin comes down on one knee, exhaustion evident.

“I just need an hour,” Halsin offers, and when he lets himself fall down against the rock wall,
the druid does so with a loud grunt, letting himself only fall into his meditation once he has
checked Astarion over.

At some point Astarion starts out of a sleep and reaches for familiar fur to only find a man —
who also jerks out of his meditation at Astarion’s flailing.

It’s a man, not a bear, who cups Astarion’s face, thumbs stroking the skin under his jaw to
ease where he’s bitten down hard enough to have pain trickle out along with his panic. His
grip is firm, skin warm and calloused over the long decades.

Halsin could take Astarion now. When the disorientation makes even their shadows dance in
Astarion’s eyes. He’d hardly be able to push the druid away.

And yet Astarion reaches for the rope between them and pulls it taunt. The torn cuffs of his
clothing spread like cobwebs on Halsin’s skin.

“Settle, little elf,” Halsin whispers, and the stone against Astarion’s back no longer feels like
a cell wall. It can’t. Because it had been a bear that had comforted him in those long weeks.

And now, when Astarion’s fear melts away, it’s this form of Halsin that helps to make sure
his skin is not pinched against the gag.

He's lifted back into Halsin’s arms soon after; the druid forgoing a proper rest now that
Astarion has spoiled it. Then they continue, Astarion’s body limp as he’s carried, feeling like
there’s glass in his veins when he’s jostled too hard.

Astarion is barely conscious when he hears shouting eventually. It’s followed by a heavy
creaking sound that can be felt vibrating across the ground.

Abruptly, Astarion is thrust in a flurry of conversations that pass by quickly, too many to
understand and most cut short.

“Why’ve we opened the gates? Close them! Quickly!”

“Is that the archdruid?”

“They didn’t think he’d return. Do you think he’d approve of what they tried to do?”

“Archdruid Halsin!”

“I’ve never seen a moon elf before. Ya reckon they’re always so…dead looking?”

“I have removed rot from my brothers’ and sisters’ wounds with more kindness than with
what that Kagha treats us with!”

“I understand, Amek. We will see what the out—. Is that…Halsin?”

“Who’s that? Was he with that other group?”

“He looks terrible. Do you think he’s alive?”

“Silfy, what is in your hand? Did Mol put you up to it?”

“Astarion,” Halsin murmurs - quiet so only the vampire can hear. “I know it must hurt, but I
must urge you to breathe for me.”

Astarion breathes like a dying man. His inhales stuttered, bones aching as his chest rises,
everything pushed out in a labored wheeze once the air starts to get stuck in his throat.

Pathetic. Truly. And even more so with the attention they draw.

The bustle has stirred up a small crowd at the entrance of an open cave.

Tieflings. All of them. Young mixed with the old, all a little worse for wear and many
holding weapons in hands that don’t know how to use them.

“Halsin is back! We should ask if the goblins have been—.”

“Now is not the time! Can’t you see! Someone’s hurt.”

Certainly this is not quite the sort of attention Astarion relishes in. This is the type where they
feel sorry for him; where they try not to stare out of pity and yet just make it worse when
their eyes inevitably flicker back. And to have it come from a group such as this...

Astarion’s too weak to feel anger.

“Dammon!” Halsin calls, stopping before the gathering. “Is Dammon here?”

Another tiefling pushes through the group. This one has sweat on his forehead and soot on
his hands.

“Halsin? You're back?” He sounds just as surprised as the rest of them.

“Gather what you need to pick a lock, then follow me,” Halsin says.

“Oh?” Dammon’s eyes slide over Astarion. “Yes! Of course!” He hurries away into the
depths of the cave, freeing up space in the group of tieflings for a handful of gaping children.
The only ones truly openly staring.

“Is he okay, mister?!” A girl finally asks. Too late for a reply as Dammon brushes back past
her.

“This may be easier at my workstation, they don’t permit us near the Sacred Pool,” Dammon
says. Voice low. He’s keeping pace with Halsin down a curling path.

“He deserves privacy,” Halsin replies. “I would give it to him, in any way I can.”
“Of course,” Dammon says, falling back as a light energy falls on them. There’s magic in the
air here, mixed into the wind that pushes through Astarion’s hair in a way that makes it
impossible to separate.

Druid magic.

Intertwined with nature. Listening and giving. Knitting plants out of nothingness and carrying
the whispers of the forests.

“Archdruid Halsin! We thank Silvanus for your safe return!” A druid calls across the clearing
and there’s the sound of animal calls echoing his words.

“Halsin.” An elven druid has approached; her face sharp and colder than the others. “Thank
Silvanus. Though this is not our way, we don't permit outsiders here.”

“Druid Kagha, they come with my blessing.” Halsin’s still walking and Kagha’s irritation at
the slight is clear in her next words.

“Then I will object. I have acted on your behalf in your absence to protect the Grove. This
one—” she gestures a hand at Dammon, “must go back to his people. I'm sure they can help
with whatever ails the elf.”

Halsin stops.

“You would go against my word?” he asks. Halsin’s voice has pitched low, but it carries little
of the comfort he normally gives with it. There is a threat in those words, one barely
concealed.

“I will go as is needed by this Grove! While you have chased shadows of the past and
smeared your scent over this outsider, I have worried about the oncoming goblin—.”

“The goblins have been eradicated,” Halsin snaps. His grip on Astarion tightens, a mirror of
his actions from not so long ago. Halsin’s forehead pinches and his lips curl up in anger.
“Burnt like parasites from this world by outsiders whilst you have done nothing! You would
now try to undermine an archdruid?”

She clicks her tongue and presses her lips into a thin line. Still, she says nothing in return.

Perhaps for the better.

“Do not forget yourself, Kagha,” Halsin adds.

Dammon is quick on their heels when Halsin moves again, ducting with them through the
doors of an inner sanctum and audibly sighing when the stone puts a barrier between them
and Kagha.

“I hope they have not all been like this,” Halsin apologizes.

“Not all, but many. Rath has been kind but Kagha has ruled in your place with an iron fist.”
Dammon answers. “A lot changed while you were gone, Halsin. Zevlor would like a
discussion, I’m sure but…let me help him first. You appear close.”

“Yes.”

Halsin turns into an open circular room and Astarion is soon eased down to sit on a stone
slab. There is a thick fur pelt under him, thin sheets bundled in the corner and a stuffed pillow
flattened from use.

Here, Halsin’s scent is heavy, and Astarion’s fingers curl into the fur as the rest of him
topples straight into Halsin, unable to keep himself upright.

“I caught a few glances as we walked here,” Dammon says as he comes in closer. “The lock
is old. I can see why you didn’t try to force it, but picking it should be easy.”

“May the Oak Father be good to us.” Halsin settles down on one knee before the bed,
arranging Astarion to face him. This close together, Astarion could count the creases around
Halsin’s mouth.

A hand grasps the lock in one hand, easing the weight off the back of Astarion’s head.

Dammon hisses at the heaviness but he does not say anything, placing an extra pick between
his lips and peering in close.

There is a soft pressure just above the back of Astarion’s neck. It comes and goes with the
sound of old metal straining, picks digging into the mechanism.

“I don’ wan’ to t’uch too muc’,” Dammon mumbles and Astarion can feel him twisting the
lock more towards him. “I’s rusty, pick migh’ snap.”

Astarion closes his eyes, letting Halsin hold him still and only reopening them once he hears
a loud click. Dammon is right there, spitting the spare pick from his mouth and using both
hands to carefully lift the lock up and out of the metal scraps it’s holding together.

Astarion’s forgotten to breathe.

"Alright, it's done," he says. "Could you…?"

"Thank you, Dammon." Halsin lifts Astarion’s face towards him. "Let's get this off now."

It takes a while, a lot of gentle coaxing and Halsin’s fingers carefully helping Astarion to
open his mouth enough to get the gag past his teeth. Weeks of wear have locked the
vampire’s jaws tight around the metal and when the gag finally slips free, it does so with a
pained sound.

A firm hand under Astarion’s chin is the only thing that gets his mouth to close properly,
Halsin having to push the vampire’s lips together when his jaw refuses to move. The relief is
so great Astarion has to blink the tears away.

With support against his chest, he’s sat up more properly this time. A cup is pressed into his
hand and Astarion spills water all over his fingers as they shake while bringing the rim to his
lips. He takes the water into his mouth, and spits it into the ground next to him. It comes back
tinged red and brown, blood and sand finally washed off his gums. He takes another sip and
coughs up the water as it dislodges the dust from the back of his throat.

Halsin takes the cup from him.

“I’ll ask them to bring food. You’re both starving, I’m sure.” Dammon has taken to
retreating, now hovering by the entrance, tools and lock in hand.

“Just a mild soup for Astarion, it would be unwise to force anything heavy upon him.”

“Of course!”

“Dammon.” Halsin turns to face the blacksmith. “When was the last time a fresh hunt was
brought in?”

“Must have been a few days now. We got lucky with a boar; still have the legs salting but
there’s blood sausages and some loin that’ll be good if you wanted something specific?”

“We are not picky. Thank you.”

It is only once the footsteps have faded that Astarion remembers this is the first time they’ve
been like this.

Astarion and Halsin.

Now both with voices that utter words.

And faces with emotions to conceal.

There’s a blade back between Astarion’s teeth; his weapon likely rusted from disuse but still
just as familiar as always.

"Taking—.” The word croaks out of him, sending Astarion coughing and bringing up more of
the dust lodged deep in his throat. Still, when he rights himself and manages to look at Halsin
with more than just a squint of discomfort, he finishes his sentence.

“Taking me to your bedchamber already…? You’re…awfully—bold.” The playfulness is

more pitiful than anything, but Astarion rejoices in the sound of his own voice.

No matter how it sounds.

An exhausted smile creeps onto his face.

It meets another’s.

“For as little as we have known one another. I had missed that voice.”

“Darling...I am aw-awfully shallow,” Astarion’s voice wheezes out, though it becomes more
his own the more words he pushes through. “This form…is far more pleasing to the eye.”
“For as much as the bear is a part of me, I would not fault you for not missing its presence.”

The end of their rope has not been properly sealed. It’s complicated now.

“All that fur…” his normal lilt is not quite there, and Halsin can certainly feel his tremors. It
hurts to talk but Astarion doesn’t stop. “Had those filthy goblins not played dirty…we may
have gotten quite acquainted in our own ways. Though as it stands now, I am rather weak.”

What use is there trying to deny what is so obvious.

“I had once thought myself versed in all of nature’s beings.” Halsin looks sheepish. “Forgive
me, the customs of vampires are unfamiliar. Where is it that you prefer to drink?”

“In a tavern. With a red that doesn’t taste like vinegar,” Astarion says, and when he swiftly
realizes his choices are not so limitless, he changes his answer. “I know what you were
asking the blacksmith. I appreciate it. The feeding habits of vampires…are hardly even
catered at the best establishments. You saw what I eat.”

“Rodents?”

“If my master permits it,” Astarion sneers.

There’s something in Halsin’s eyes. It flickers past and disappears before Astarion can catch
it.

Then.

“What about people? Where do you prefer to drink?” Halsin’s heartbeat is as steady as the
words he utters, leaving Astarion stunned for a moment.

He cannot possibly mean…

“If that’s what you are offering, dear. Then truthfully…you would be my first,” Astarion
whispers. “I would not know.”

Surely he has misunderstood.

“Then it would be a first for us both,” Halsin replies instantly. “Come. The blood is strong in
the neck.”

Halsin pops pieces of his armor free, opening up the space around his neck and shoulder,
exposing tanned skin all too willingly.

“I’ll…I’ll just take a little, I swear,” Astarion shivers.

The druid places a hand in the small of Astarion’s back and uses it to gently pull the vampire
towards him, until Astarion finds his face buried in Halsin’s neck, nose dragging along the
skin. Halsin is warm all over, but here Astarion can feel the blood thrumming just under his
touch.
 Astarion parts his lips, mouthing over the Halsin’s neck, pushing into him, suckling at his
throat and feeling a heartbeat against his tongue.

He’ll just take a drop. Enough to free him from his weak body, and then hunt after to ease his
sanguine hunger.

His teeth graze the skin.

“Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

Astarion jolts, makes to pull away until Halsin guides him back, and holds him through his
shakes.

Cazador will flay the skin off his feet when he finds out.

His exhale pools heat into the crook of Halsin’s neck.

He can’t —.

He's so hungry.

The goblins may have delighted in his silence but Cazador will make him sing .

“You must feed, Astarion,” Halsin urges, words against his ear in that low rumble so different
from Cazador’s snivel.

Astarion bites.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the delay! I hope you still enjoyed this chapter, especially now that our 3rd
main character, the 'gag', has met their death.

Thank you to Howlinkiro for the support as I stress my way through every chapter.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s…

Astarion’s eyes roll up.

The blood on his tongue is hot and thick and yet so different to his usual feeds. It’s
exhilarating. Terrifying. To go against Cazador’s rules and taste the blood of a thinking
creature.

Of Halsin.

Who tastes deep and rich, good enough to have Astarion licking over his skin as he drinks.

His fangs have sunk all the way in and his bite is comfortable, for once not crushing rodent
bones and pushing fur between his teeth.

Astarion has been starved. He’s felt the agony of it. The weakness and the torment of being
trapped.

But now Astarion is returning.

Halsin’s blood is energy. Dripping down his throat and then spreading outwards into his
limbs. It eases the hurts and erases the exhaustion of existence.

And when Astarion next pushes into Halsin, it’s not because he’s too weak to hold himself
up, but because he wants more .

Astarion sucks down Halsin’s blood and finds it pooling warm in his stomach. It’s intense
and Astarion has fallen hard and fast to the addicting taste.

More.

The rush of it all. It almost makes him dizzy.

“Astarion.” He hears, and feels a hand against the nape of neck trying to ease him back.

No.

He latches on tighter, every instinct telling him to bite harder, to feed more . Astarion’s
fingers scratch up Halsin’s back, trying to find a way to keep him in close and ultimately
fisting into the fabric of Halsin’s clothing.

“Astarion.”
His throat makes an audible sound with each swallow, Astarion becoming greedier with
every passing moment. Blood spills down the sides of his mouth in his urgency, making a
mess of his cheeks and chin, acting not as a deterrent to stop, but one to keep going.

There’s still more blood in this druid. Enough to satiate him if Astarion bleeds him dry.

Astarion’s body sings.

He tastes…by the gods…

Halsin shifts against him, making an effort to pull away and causing noise to rip from
Astarion’s throat. It’s almost a snarl; possessive, angry that his prey would attempt to escape.

There’s a firm pressure on his forehead. Something pushes back against him, more and more
until Astarion’s mouth lifts and his fangs break free of the skin.

Astarion is yanked away, nails scratching down Halsin’s arms until he finds himself sat,
gasping for air he does not need, blinking through a haze no longer caused by hunger, but
from the taste of blood on his tongue.

It has smeared all the way down his neck and bled into the fabric of his clothes.

Astarion’s hands come up, dragging through the stain on his skin and then pushing the fingers
into his mouth to lick the blood off them too. With now two clean fingers on his tongue,
Astarion drags his other hand across his skin, getting more blood on his fingers…under his
nails, and shoves those fingers into his mouth.

“Look at your hands, boy! You will go to Godey and request he remove each nail. That ought
to keep them clean.”

His chest heaves. There’s still fresh blood in the air.

He makes to duck his head and take the collar of his clothing into his mouth, to suck the
wetness out of the parts of the cloth stained red. Until he feels a large hand on his knee and
Astarion looks up instead of down.

Oh.

It comes suddenly; the snap out of his brief frenzy. It leaves Astarion unsure and
disorientated. He drops his hands and hides them in the ruins of his sleeves, now mortified at
the feeling of his own saliva on his skin.

He hadn’t meant…

“That was…” He's stumbling. Physically trembling - gasping. Unsure.

The punctures on Halsin's neck bleed, two lines leading down past his collar, becoming
sluggish as Astarion tracks them. Red stains sit atop the skin and Halsin shifts his shoulders
to alleviate the hurt left from Astarion’s icy kiss.
To lose control like that. Cazador will—no, Halsin will…

How must he look? A ravenous beast now the chains have been broken.

But then Halsin smiles.

“When the food is brought down, I imagine my own hunger to emerge just as ravenous as
yours.”

Astarion blinks back at him.

What?

Then, he sits up straight, sniffs with a false indifference and offers a “Yes, well…you are
rather delightful. How could I resist?”

It’s not an apology. But an acknowledgment of his actions, in his own way. The only way
Astarion can manage, even with Halsin kneeling before him, paler and far more tired than he
had been before.

Astarion scrambles for his usual mask - one that can account for the drying spit on his fingers
and red stained on his teeth.

It seems Halsin has the patience to allow him to search for it.

“I understand when instinct seems to force us into actions we would rather not partake in.
And…if I invoke such a large appetite, who am I to question your choice to indulge in it,”
Halsin says, and there’s a tired laugh. “Though you will have to leave some for me."

“Oh? Is that why you took me to your bed? To indulge?” Astarion leans back, delighting
when his arm supports his own weight.

Halsin observes him again. The skin around his eyes shows his age. He looks so awfully
weary now; so big…strong, and yet now that Astarion’s taken more than was agreed, Halsin
appears as if one good breeze would blow him right over.

Astarion licks his teeth clean.

Then, when that doesn’t seem to be enough, he brings his fingers to wipe away the red
crumbs of drying blood from the corners of his mouth. Astarion’s fingertips feel the cracked
skin of lips and he pulls a face at the texture. Regardless of how soon the skin will soon stitch
itself back together, it’s all rather disgusting.

How undesirable he currently is.

And yet, Halsin has taken him to bed. In a way. Smiled at the dance Astarion has spun with
his words…

But.
For as plain as Halsin appears in his words, he is rather confusing.

“Hm.” Uncomfortable with Halsin’s silence, Astarion casts his eyes around the room. It’s all
boring stone — unimaginative. And certainly not secure from nature’s caress if the erratic
heartbeat skirting around the edges of Astarion’s senses is anything to go by. At least
Cazador’s rats did not keep the master himself company.

“You know, in all my years I’ve never experienced the delight of entertaining a druid. It’s all
quite…” He searches for the word, tilting his head as he does so. “Quaint. But I hope you
people have more than a bucket to clean yourselves with.”

“We have buckets,” Halsin states, laughing at the gasp Astarion feigns. “But I can offer a
spring nearby too. The druids bathe at first light and the tieflings do so when we say goodbye
to the sun. It’ll be empty at this time of day.”

“Empty you say? Aren’t you fortunate that I left enough blood in you to have some fun?”

Astarion reaches out. For the first time it’s not to seek comfort or help, nor is his arm
trembling from the effort. No . He’s reaching out with another intent, one with clear meaning.

His palm touches Halsin’s bicep and his fingers feel out the thickness below them.

He squeezes and lets his mouth curl up in the corners.

“You’ll join me, won’t you, darling?”

“We…We have been in each other’s company for a long time,” Halsin says, expression
unsure as he leans back until Astarion’s hand falls from his arm. He gives Astarion’s leg
squeeze and removes his touch entirely. “I imagine you would like some privacy at last.”

Astarion swallows the rejection quickly. “Of course. I’d hate to see what comes off our skin
in the water. We’ll just have to enjoy each other’s company again later on.” He gives a laugh,
one that’s pitched just a tad too high for his normal tone.

Halsin smiles back and gods, he’s actually being genuine. “I…I would like that. I will deal
with some business in the Grove, and then bathe once you have had your fill of the springs.”

“Yes yes, I understand, darling. Important business. I have some myself you see, with a pool
of water large enough to drown in.” Astarion waves him off, rocking up to stand on his feet
and being unable to hide the surprise of being steady on his own legs. “Not…that I can
swim.”

Trailing out of the inner sanctum after Halsin is slower going than Astarion would have
hoped for. He’s almost clumsy on his feet, muscles working that he hasn’t used in a while and
coordination just so slightly amiss. The vampire still ensures he’s stood up tall though, hiding
his stained collar with one hand and throwing Kagha a cold sneer as he catches her glare.

Halsin leads him off the main path, ducking behind the cliff face where the informal track has
the sun shining through the greenery above them.
They come to a stop eventually beside a tree stump, with the druid motioning forward as to
the direction of the spring.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Mm, aren’t you a sweetheart? But. No . I’m sure my list is far too extravagant for a druid’s
Grove to supply. And difficult, if we’re to add Cazador’s gruesome death to the list.”

“It may not be immediate. But if the removal of an illithid tadpole is on your list also, that is
something I can at least support you in.”

“Yes, well, it’s currently allowing me to stand in sunlight so…”

And act as a spawn independent from its master.

Astarion’s face twists and he gives a weak shrug. “Its removal is not exactly high on my list
of wants at the moment.”

He changes the topic before Halsin can comment.

“Speaking of wants! I suppose I should be careful on what I choose to snack on around here.
There are certain ways I’d like to take you, but none are in a fight, and wouldn’t that be
dramatic if I fed on a rat and it turned out to be a friend of yours?!”

“The Grove’s druids do not choose the rat as a Wild Shape form,” Halsin laughs. “But after I
have eaten and Nettie has cast a healing spell, I am happy to allow you to feed again if that’s
what you need.”

“An archdruid as a blood-bag,” Astarion smiles, “My dear, if people were to find out you’d
be the gossip of the…well, the Grove. All five people! But do be careful,” he switches to a
dramatic whisper. “rumours spread fast.”

Halsin laughs again, warm and open and Astarion preens at the sound of that rumble. It feels
the same as sunlight.

He’s almost inclined to try again. To ask Halsin to join him; to wipe the dirt from both of
their bodies and bask in the druid’s care. He’d like that.

Astarion does not, however, ask. He’s too proud for that.

"Darling. There is… one thing on my list I’d appreciate.” Astarion lifts his arm, the lace on
his sleeve hardly recognizable. “A needle and thread. As exciting as it would be, I can hardly
go around looking like I've been ravaged in the woods.”

Halsin looks puzzled for a moment. "There are…plenty of clothes in the Grove. I’ll have
some left for you here."

"Please, my tongue may have been tied but I’m not a fool. I know what you druid lot like to
wear. And let's not even talk about those tieflings! It's hardly sophisticated. I’ll wear rags for
now until my own clothes have been washed.”
“Little elf, I may have said it already before the Oak Father. Your voice, I lack the words to
describe it. But I had missed this.” There’s amusement still flickering on Halsin’s lips from
Astarion’s past words, but sincerity too.

“Yes, you have,” Astarion smiles. “Now, a needle and thread. Thank you."

It’s strange to see Halsin leave him. Astarion’s initial fears had revolved around Halsin
abandoning him in the cell, or leaving him bound and helpless.

He’s able now though. To walk after the druid, to leave even.

The rope is still there, strong between them, but Astarion holds onto it especially tight. Just to
be sure it won’t disappear now even when he doesn’t need it.

Well…perhaps he does still need it.

Though when Halsin pauses at a turn to glance back at him, Astarion makes a show of rolling
his eyes and waving him off with his usual flair.

Once he’s alone pulls his layers off one by one, grimacing at the destroyed gold embroidery
he finds on the back of his clothing. Astarion’s fears in that cell…had rubbed the prettiness to
ruin against the stone walls, ripped through the purple suede in places and begun to unravel
the stitching.

His white shirt, though more intact as a whole, is a relief to pull finally off. The lace on his
wrists are like fresh white bindings, stubborn to untangle off his skin.

Astarion unlaces his trousers, and toes out of the worn city shoes. He undresses until he’s
bare among the bushes, walking along a worn dirt path until a small clearing presents itself.
There are footprints belonging to different ages and different races, the tieflings more faded
than the ones the druids had left in the morning.

Now Astarion’s join theirs, as he approaches the spring.

Astarion’s toes break past the calm of water. He steps in fully, feels the cold on his skin
without shivering and wades into the pool until he’s covered waist deep.

He’d last scrubbed his skin clean in a tub of water turned murky from his siblings’ use prior
to his turn. That had been some time ago; now his skin is with a sheen of dried sweat and dirt,
the perfumes that Astarion liked to dab on his neck and on his inner thighs long since gone.

He wades in further, cupping his hands into the water and letting it run over his limp curls.
Sweat and grime have stuck the locks together, tangled them so tight his fingers can’t run
through them and left the oils from his scalp on his fingertips.

It’s quiet as Astarion cleans himself.

Nature keeps water bathed in by many clear, and whilst Astarion’s reflection may not meet
his eyes when he looks down, he sees his toes through the water's distortion and finds a laugh
of relief escaping his throat.
 Astarion pushes further forward, until there’s water sliding off his shoulders as it trickles over
a short rock face into the pool.

Vampirism has blessed him with eternally smooth skin, one that heals quick now Astarion
has been fed. It’s born the brunt of his abuse and when Astarion is done scrubbing away the
layers of filth, he finds no trace of raw pink skin.

He sighs and tips his head back. Water slips past his lips.

And suddenly it feels like sand getting pushed down his throat.

Metal cuts into his cheeks.

He stumbles back, eyes wide and hands flying up to his face. And when he finds nothing
there Astarion reaches behind him, hand seeking out first fur, then trying to find skin, and
whipping around in a panic when he comes up with neither.

The pool is calm around him. And Astarion is alone.

The cold of the water makes him shiver.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and stomps out of the spring, the peace ruined by his own thoughts.

Grass wipes the droplets off his feet and sun quickly gets to work drying his skin as Astarion
smacks his way through the foliage, back to where he had stripped.

There's a pile of simple clothes waiting for him when he rounds the corner; simple cotton
pants and off-white tunic, shoes more fitting for the outdoors than his current pair. They’re
hardly to Astarion’s tastes but they’re clean, and lacking any distinct scent of wet animal he
had feared.

Astarion makes to pull the tunic on until he pauses to inspect the clothing further.

Oh.

"You foolish beast," he whispers, fingers dragging through the ruffled trim around the shirt's
opening and then shifting lower to feel out the subtle white embroidery etched into the
cotton.

Next to the clothes Astarion finds a needle and a spool of white thread.

Just in case.

Chapter End Notes

If you see the planned chapter count for this fic increasing...uhh, no you don't.
I also received my first ever pieces of fanart for this fic. I am beyond grateful for these
pieces, to have others inspired by my fic is such an unreal feeling!

Fanart 1: HERE

Fanart 2: HERE
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