#astarion/the dark urge

[astarionbraiinrot]

Last Call

Chapter 6: I Need Some Sleep (Astraea)

(Tarsakh 2, 1493 - 2 Weeks Old)

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I need some sleep

You can't go on like this

I tried countin' sheep

But there's one I always miss

- Eels, I Need Some Sleep

The cats have nestled close to their kittens

The lambs have laid down with the sheep

You are cozy and warm in your bed, my dear

Please, go the fuck to sleep

- Adam Mansbach, Go the Fuck to Sleep

His daughter was crying.

He wishes that this was a new development, but no. No, they’d been at this for… hours? Hours. He’s pretty sure.

Of course, he hasn’t tranced more than one hour in every ten for the last five days, at least, so he wasn’t really sure he could trust his own assessment of how long he’d been walking his screeching daughter in circles through the living room, dining room, kitchen, and back again while she did her level best to melt his eardrums out of his skull.

There was no rhyme or reason to it. She’d been fed. She’d been burped. She’d been changed. She was neither too hot nor too cold. She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t hurt. She wasn’t comforted by her blanket or her little stuffed bat. There were no loud noises keeping her awake, outside of her own crying. He’d rocked her. He’d walked her. Swaddled and unswaddled her. He’d talked, and sang, and begged and pleaded.

But she wouldn’t stop crying.

And he was very sure at this point that if she didn’t stop and go to sleep soon, he was going to start crying.

He didn’t understand! Babies sleep! It’s what they do! They have exactly three activities: Eat! Poop! Sleep! They’re famous for it!

She’s tired! He knows she’s tired! Because he’s tired!

But she

Just.

Won’t.

Sleep.

Five days of this, or maybe six, he doesn’t know because he doesn’t know what day it even is anymore. He’d made a quick run to the market this evening once the sun was down, and returned to find Tav in their bedroom, sat on the floor next to the cradle, face in her hands, weeping as Scratch tried to comfort her and Astraea wailed like the world would end if she stopped.

He hadn’t needed a Speak with Animals potion to understand the “Please make it stop” in the dog’s laid-back ears and pleading whine as he belly-crawled across the floor to Astarion’s feet.

So he’d put Tav to bed, where she’d fallen asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. Then he’d picked up his daughter, brought her downstairs, let Scratch outside, and prepared himself for yet another endless night filled with the sounds of his daughter’s crying and his own bare feet wearing a path in the wood floors.

Pausing in his pacing, he lets out a long sigh and runs a shaking hand through his hair, which he immediately regrets. It’s dirty, the curls falling in stringy clumps, but he can’t remember the last time he even bathed, let alone had the energy to actually do something with it. He’d lost his shirt at some point, having taken it off and tossed it somewhere in the living room when Astraea had spit up on it. He hadn’t bothered to find another; it would just be more laundry to contend with.

Gods, he was a wreck.

“Please, little love, please,” he tries again, rubbing her back, “I know you can’t understand me, but I’m begging you, please go to sleep.”

When that doesn’t persuade her, he tries bargaining.

“I’ll do anything you want. Buy you a pony, topple a government, endure endless circus clown performances. Anything! I’ll promise to give you everything you ever ask for, spoil you rotten and let you turn into a bratty little goblin with no manners or decorum. I’ll let you run wild with Mol’s little gang of thieves, or- or… I’ll give you all my gold and set you loose in a sweetshop. Whatever you could possibly ask for, I’ll do it,” his voice cracks as he presses his face into her hair and whispers, “just please go to sleep.”

His offers fail to entice her, and her wails only grow louder.

“Fine, fine, okay, you don’t even have to sleep!” He tilts his head back, blinking away tears, “Just- just stop crying, please.”

But she doesn’t, and he wonders if this is what insanity feels like.

Looking out the window, he judges it to be somewhere just past midnight, the full moon high in the sky. It’s a lovely night, cloudless, stars shining like diamonds. The trees at the forest’s edge sway gently in the breeze, and just beyond the crying in his ear, his sensitive hearing picks up crickets and nocturnal forest birds calling. It used to be, when he was feeling restless at night, he would walk the game trails for hours in the quiet dark, picking up the occasional snack as he went, until the world didn’t feel like it was pressing in on him so tightly anymore.

He hadn’t done that for a while.

And right now, running out into the forest to hide for a few days or maybe forever was looking more tempting by the second.

He looks down at the girl in his arms. Her tiny hands alternate between clenched fists balled up tight where they press against his chest and uncurling to let surprisingly sharp little nails dig into his skin, leaving angry red marks behind them. Her face is scrunched up, brows furrowed and eyelashes clumped from her tears, chubby peaches-and-cream cheeks gone splotchy red from the force of her wailing her unhappiness for all the world to hear.

Before he even realizes, he’s outside, crying daughter still clutched to his chest, walking up the path from their porch to the street. He’s barefoot, dressed in naught but his sleep pants, and his hair is a mess, and he doesn’t know where he’s even going.

But he walks.

Time passes. Every few minutes, Astraea’s cries start to taper off as if she might settle, and he gets his hopes up that she’ll finally close her eyes and rest. Only for that hope to come crashing down again when, each time, without fail, something sets her off again, and she resumes her crying at full force. He doesn’t even know what’s doing it, at this point. Maybe he stepped wrong on a cobblestone. Maybe a dog barked in the distance. Maybe the light from a tavern window they passed was too bright. Maybe nothing at all. It doesn’t really matter, because the last few days have been ample evidence that she doesn’t really need a reason to be crying anyway.

He walks, fatigue slowly clouding his mind.

And she cries, unwilling or unable to let herself be soothed.

It’s a light in his face and the sharp, sleep-roughened rasp of a familiar voice that snaps the world back into focus, and he finds himself standing on a familiar doorstep, in front of an open door blocked by an even more familiar figure, the lantern in her hand lighting the space between them. Jaheira’s face morphs from tired, to irritated, to concerned as she takes in the exhausted man and screaming child in front of her.

He stands there, bare feet cold on the stone step, the hems of his pantlegs wet and dirty, hair askew, wailing daughter clutched to his chest, unable to speak as he shivers against the night’s early spring chill.

Jaheira reaches for him, a hand placed on his cheek. “What is it, cub?”

After a moment, he manages to choke out a wet, “I don’t know,” before he finally can’t hold the tears in anymore and his sobs join his daughter’s as they fill the night air with their cries.

── ･✩*₊˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖₊*✩･ ──

The next thing he’s aware of is being sat on Jaheira’s couch, a warmed glass of what smells like pig’s blood in his hand, blinking up at Jaheira as she moves around the room with a bouncing sway, talking to the baby in her arms.

“There now, damia,” she coos, “you have been giving your poor Ada and Amme a hard time with all your caterwauling, little gremishka. But it is not so bad as you tell it, I think. Let I’osu hear your troubles, and we shall soon see them set right.”

I’osu. Grandmother. His ears twitch at the word, and there is the briefest flash of memories; warm, weathered hands holding his much smaller ones, kind lavender eyes in a smiling sun-wrinkled face looking down at him, dove-grey hair twisted in an intricate knot, giggles on his tongue and sticky roseapple jam on his cheeks and the smell of freshly baked bread. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but it leaves him with a little knot of warmth in his chest.

He could object to Jaheira’s use of the word. It’s not just any Elvish word for “grandmother,” it’s specifically the Old Elvish term for one’s father’s mother. And she’s not.

But, for some reason, it makes that little knot of warmth burn even brighter.

As if she can hear his thoughts, Jaheira turns and catches his eye for a moment, and when he makes no objections, she continues talking to his daughter. And whatever she’s doing, it’s working, because Astraea’s still awake, but her wailing has quieted to a tired fussing interspersed with little hiccups, and just a few short minutes later her eyes fall closed as she finally, finally, drifts off to sleep.

Jaheira stays where she is for a little longer, swaying in place and softly humming some lullaby, before she whispers that she’ll be back in a moment and carries his daughter upstairs. When she returns empty handed a few minutes later, she pours herself a glass of wine, bringing the bottle with her when she sits down on the couch next to him.

She doesn’t speak, and he’s grateful for that, because after the minor miracle he just witnessed, he might start crying again if she does.

After a while though, she chooses to break the silence with a question. One he hadn’t considered until this very moment.

“Does Tav know where you are?”

“No, she’s asleep, or she was when I left, anyway. I didn’t really plan it, but Astraea just- she just wouldn’t stop, and it’s been days, and so I just… started walking and I-”

Oh.

Oh no.

Shit, fuck, and damn it all to the hells.

He hadn’t left a note or- or anything. Tav was going to wake up to a silent house and her partner and baby missing and absolutely lose her mind, if she hadn’t already!

He drops his head into his hands, the heels of his palms pressing hard into his eyes. “Jaheira, I think I fucked up,” he rasps.

Jaheira laughs and pats his arm. “You did, cub, but considering the circumstances, I think you can be excused this once. And anyway, it is easily corrected.” Standing, she walks over to the desk in the corner, writes something on a piece of paper, and folds it several times. Then, she gives a low whistle, and a rat runs out from her office to where she’s crouched down, taking the folded paper in its mouth when she holds it out. “Take this to Tav in the Outer City. Yellow house, blue door, near the edge of the forest.” Instructions received, the rat scurries out the door, and Jaheira returns to the couch.

She takes another sip of her drink, then begins speaking again. “Now, I think the ‘why’ of what has brought you to my door at such an hour is obvious, so instead I will only tell you that this is normal, and it will pass.”

“NOR-” he starts to yell, but cuts himself off as she shushes him. He waits a moment, but there’s no sounds from upstairs, so he continues. “Normal?!” he hisses, “what do you mean this is normal? Tav was on the edge of a breakdown this afternoon, and the only thing that’s been stopping me from throwing myself into the harbor is the fact that I can’t actually drown! How can this be normal?!”

“I said it is normal, not that it is enjoyable, or easy. Babies pick up on your emotions, and they mimic them. The last few days have been very hard, I am sure. You are tense and overtired, and she can sense that, so she is too.”

“Te-!” He takes a breath and scrubs his hands down his face to keep from exploding, “Jaheira, this has been going on for five, maybe six, days. She’s not even two tenday old! She’s been crying nonstop for almost half her life, I think we’re well past tense!” His voice drops to a growl, “’Tense,’ oh yes, very helpful, thank you so much for the advice!”

Jaheira just clicks her tongue, “Do not take a tone with me, Astarion. I am understanding, but if you wish to bare your fangs, remember that I bite back.”

He bites his tongue in an attempt to stop the scream of frustration that’s building in his chest. When that fails, he grabs a throw pillow from the couch, shoving his face into it as the scream rips from his throat. He stays like that for a while, face pressed tight to the pillow to muffle his voice as he looses every horrible, guilt-inducing thing he’s wanted to yell the last few days.

Jaheira waits until he’s quiet but for the angry breaths he’s heaving into the pillow, then waits a few moments more, before she speaks. “Do you feel better now, cub?”

Her voice is so calm, so unphased as she takes another sip from her drink, and if it weren’t for the fact that she’s apparently some sort of magical baby-whisperer, he’d bite her purely out of spite.

He’s silent for a long minute, and doesn’t bother to lift his head when he finally answers. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Welcome to parenthood. Get used to that feeling, you will be experiencing it far more often than you will like.”

He raises his head after a while, roughly brushing frustrated tears from his eyes. Elbows on his knees, he slumps forward, head hanging as he says, “I just… I didn’t expect it to be easy, I knew it wouldn’t be, but it didn’t expect it to be this hard. Tav and I did everything we could think of, everything, but nothing we did helped, and Astraea just wouldn’t stop, and then I bring her here and you have her asleep in- in minutes. And I love her like I didn’t think I could love anything, I do, but I’ve also had to keep talking myself out of just… sticking her in the coat closet and shutting the door, and what kind of monster does that make me?”

He barks out a little half-mad laugh, “Hells, I’m a vampire, for gods’ sake! And- and I’m a mess! Look at me, a few rough nights and I’ve dragged myself through the city, unwashed and half-naked, because I can’t handle one infant. I’m- I’m irresponsible, emptyheaded, contrary and ill-tempered. Lazy, untrustworthy. The first sign of trouble and I’ve dropped it on someone else, just like I always have.”

“What if…” and he can’t stop the crack in his voice as he finally admits the thing that’s been haunting his thoughts for the last few days, “what if I’m not cut out for this? What if I can’t do it?” He pauses to blink back tears, voice rough from the lump in his throat, “Gods, he was right, wasn’t he? I’m really no good for anything else. No one in their right mind would put me in charge of myself, let alone a child.”

“That is not true, and I will not have Cazador’s falsehoods in your head or in my home,” Jaheira’s voice startles him, sharp as a blade. “The man spoke far too much for someone who never said anything of value, in life or undeath. You have proven him wrong on every count too many times for you to give any import to his words, especially now that you have done the world a service by ridding it of him.”

Jaheira’s sigh is weary as she sets her drink on the side table and turns to him, voice softer now. “You are not alone, cub. It will bring you no comfort, I think, to know that everyone who has ever been given charge of a child has felt this way, but it is true. It is no easy thing, to care for someone who is brand new, whose every experience is both their worst and their best because it is their first, who must be taught how to do all the little things we do with no thought at all.” Her fingers tap a rhythm on her knee as she continues, “You will find that there are many stages in a child’s life that will be difficult, maddening, terrifying, and often times all three. This is merely the first. There will be more. You will not know what you are doing, you will second-guess your every decision, you will feel like you are doing everything wrong, and sometimes you will be. You will make mistakes, and you will lose your temper, and you will say and do things you wish you had not.”

He rubs his tired eyes with a scoff, “Is this supposed to be encouraging?”

“In its own way.”

Her touch is gentle as she takes his chin in her hand and turns his face to look at her.

“You will also learn from those mistakes, cub, and you will try again, and you will do better the next time. Life has been cruel to you, I know, and now may not have been the most ideal time for a child, for you or for Tav, but she is here now, so it is the time you have. You will learn together, grow together, and that is no bad thing. This is your first trial of many, and you have all survived to see another day, so you may count it a success. And I promise, one day, when she has grown like the summer thistles and is off on her own adventures, you will look back and this will not seem so terrible, and you will wonder how the time went by so fast without your notice.”

“And what if…” he drops his eyes to look at his hands, before looking back at her, “what if I was very tempted to leave one of us in the forest, and I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was her or me?”

Her laugh surprises him, and she lets go of his chin as she turns and reaches for her drink. “Then I would say you are in good company.” She takes a sip and continues, voice almost wistful, “Rion was only four days old when she came to me. This was long after Khalid had died, so it was just the two of us, rattling around this house. Oh, she was a fitful, angry little thing, no less demanding or opinionated then than she is now. She did not give me more than an hour’s peace at a time for two tenday, and I do not think I got even a half-night’s rest for the first three months.” She laughs a little at the memory. “I must have cried almost as much as she did, and there were many days where I found myself wanting to set her on the porch and go hide in the basement.”

“That desire goes away eventually,” she says with a wink. Then, tossing back the rest of her drink, she shrugs. “Mostly.”

He doesn’t know how long they stay there on the couch, but he must fall into his trance at some point, because the next thing he knows he’s awakened by the weight of a packed backpack being dropped into his lap, courtesy of Jaheira, who’s standing in front of him with a sleeping Astraea in a sling on her chest.

“Carry that,” she commands, nodding at the bag, “dawn is in half an hour, and my rat has not returned, so either it has been eaten or Tav is spoiling it with snacks as we speak.”

It takes him a second to make sense of the words, and by the time he’s on his feet, bag clutched in one hand while the other scrubs the sleep from his eyes, Jaheira is already walking out the door.

His tongue stumbles over too many questions as he catches up to her, following her down the steps and out into the street. “Wait- what- where-” He decides to start with the easiest one, holding up the bag as he jogs to keep up with her brisk pace, “What is this for?”

“To carry my things.” Her tone tells him she thinks that that should be obvious.

“Well, yes, but why am I carrying it?”

“Because my hands are full with your child.” Okay, fair, she has him there

 “But… why do we need it?”

Here she finally turns her head to look at him, “Unlike you and the rest of our former campmates, my days of parading around camp in the nude are long past me, so I will need something to wear during my stay.”

“Your stay? … At our house?”

She huffs out a laugh, amused. “Yes, little vampire, at your house.”

And it’s not that he minds, but, “…Why?”

“Because you and Tav need help, and when you came to me that day in the Elfsong, I promised to help you.” She slows her walking as she turns her head to look him in the eye. “I apologize that I have not done so already. I know what it is like, how difficult the first few tenday are, and I should have made an effort to check on you three rather than waiting for you to come to me.”

He wasn’t expecting an apology, so he doesn’t have a better response than, “It wasn’t your responsibility.”

“Maybe, but I am making it my responsibility now. It is often said that it takes a village to raise a child, and that is certainly not a requirement, but it never hurts to have an extra pair of hands to help. So, I will stay for as long as you need me.”

And just like that, he feels a knot unclench in his stomach and a weight lift off his shoulders. Jaheira knew what she was doing, and she was right, it would be nice to have another person there to help. Someone who could be there with Tav while he went hunting, or be there with him while Tav went on a walk. Someone to keep an eye on Astraea while they got some much needed rest, or help them clear the laundry pile that had been left untended for the last tenday, or just reassure them that they weren’t irrevocably fucking everything up.

Someone who actually knew how to cook and could maybe teach the pair of them, because gods knew that they were both useless in the kitchen and Tav had been living entirely on sandwiches since Astraea was born because it was the only thing either of them could make and the one time they’d tried to use the stove they’d nearly set the house on fire.

Tav was going to be ecstatic.

Dawn is just starting to wash the stars from the sky when they reach his front door, and a question from earlier pops back into his mind as he holds it open for her to walk through and follows her in.

“Jaheira?”

“Yes, cub?”

“Did you actually used to parade around camp in the nude?”

Her answering laugh tells him nothing, but as they make their way up the stairs, he decides they can wait to revisit the subject until after he’s spent the next twelve hours unconscious.

Next Chapter

[yaksinhats]

two pieces in one day? I've actually had this one on the queue for a minute because I've been working on this project for AWHILE and am VERY excited to be finally posting it! Me and my wonderful co-author over on AO3 have been working on a durge/astarion fic which you can read here! Chapter one is up, I'll be posting my illustrations for it on tumblr :)

art ft. lobotomy haircut arthur :) next here

[gale-dekarios]

oh, sorry, excuse me, i just need this right here.

[loola-a]

evil 6’4 35 year old lady…. save me…… evil 6’4 35 year old lady ……… save me evil 6’4 35 year old lady

[kits-quiet-place-78-2]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Astarion/Tav (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Karlach/Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Karlach & Tav (Baldur's Gate), Tav & Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Jaheira & Tav (Baldur's Gate), Halsin & Tav (Baldur's Gate) Characters: The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Jaheira (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate), Halsin (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Jaheira's Children (Baldur's Gate) Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Fear of Death Series: Part 1 of Death and other Urges Summary:

20 years after the defeat of The Absolute, the Dark Urge and Astarion come to grips with mortality and immortality when a friend reaches the end of their life.kit

[enseea]

Blood in the Water, a BG3 Enemies to Lovers Soulmate AU with its focus on the developing relationship between Astarion and the Dark Urge. Angst with a Happy Ending, Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, [eventually] resistant Dark Urge, Slow Burn, Astarion/Fem!Dark Urge.

Set in a pre-canon world in which soulmates can speak to each other telepathically, The Dark Urge is desperate to find her equal, the other half of her soul. Nothing save for death will stop her. [part 2 of the series, “Reign of Akhaten”]

But little does she know that her other half, Astarion, is compelled to remain silent. Haunted by her voice inside his head, he can only spectate as a crazed Bhaalspawn promises to lay the world at his feet. [part 1 of the series, “The Futility of Hope”]

And finally, part of an ongoing work, introducing “Clarion Call”, the culmination of this damned love story. Not your usual soulmate AU, not your usual Durgestarion.

[unseemingowl]

Fandom: Baldur's Gate

Pairing: Astarion/The Dark Urge (Nell)

Chapter: 1/3

Rating: Explicit

Summary:

“Please…” Nell felt her fingers stroke along the tendons in his neck and jolted forward, only realizing what her intension was when she felt herself drag her teeth along his scarred-up marks. Working her warm lips against his cool skin, her lover making a soft noise in his throat at the sensation. “Bite me… Help me.”

The Dark Urge and Astarion in Act 3.

[littlemourningstarr]

Where the Delicate Stops

The House of Healing is a horror unlike what Astarion had expected, and he finds it all too easy to let his nightmares surface in a place that is nothing but death and despair.

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: Transmasc tav, horror, gore, hurt/comfort, fluff, blood kink, blood play, unresolved trauma, vomit

Astarion did not enjoy the look of this House of Healing. The building was cloaked in the land’s cursed shadows, but it felt as if it simply radiated something-

Death.

He fought down a shiver, standing a few paces back as the party determined what they were going to go. The initial plan had been to make their way to the Thorm Family Mausoleum- but that plan had been deterred when Halsin heard the Flaming Fist at Last Light muttering some child’s name.

Astarion hadn’t listened that much- honestly they all said so many things, it just wasn’t worth the time. But now it seemed they needed to wake this man, or the druid was most likely going to erupt into-

Well, something scarier than a bear, he presumed.

Granted, the idea of these frigid shadows leaving was appealing, he could admit. They were a bit much, even for him. And he quite disliked not having the ability to just go look for his dinner. Nothing in the shadows was fit for eating- it all stank of decay.

“We’ll circle around the parameter then.” Astarion focused his attention as he heard Gale speaking. “If you’re quite sure you don’t want us all to crash this little party.”

“No, we can’t draw too much attention. Not yet. The last thing we need is anything getting back to Moonrise- and the cultists swarming Last Light.” Sekh had his arms folded, speaking in a firm but not unkind voice to Gale, the party now divided. Astarion noticed Wyll and Shadowheart flanking Sekh, while Karlach and Lae’zel had already turned to begin heading off into the shadows- both looking quite ready to shed some blood.

Astarion took the few steps to his- well, his…

Well?

Whatever was Sekh now? Astarion didn’t know how to label him, didn’t really know how to do this- how to care about someone. But that didn’t seem to stop his dead heart from hammering at just the sight of him.

He settled on simply his.

“Enough standing around,” the vampire complained, leaning his head on Sekh’s shoulder and looking up at him with rather large eyes, “let’s go hurt something.” Sekh glanced at him, and gave a bemused little smile.

Astarion’s stomach was in knots. He couldn’t remember the last time someone’s smile could send him soaring. He had to lift his head so Skeh could turn, signaling for Shadowheart and Wyll to follow along. “You heard him,” he said, grasping at the large door, “and who am I to deny such a precious thing?”

Another glance back at Astarion with an eye like hellfire and one like the abyss, and Sekh was pulling the door open. Gods, the man was a tease.

Astarion couldn’t forget he had asked for that.

They stepped inside the House of Healing, and Astarion instantly reached up, covered his nose with the back of his hand. The place stank of stale, forgotten blood, bile, gravedirt. So many putrid little nuances that it made him dizzy.

What may once have been a nurse was standing by the door, and she reached a hand out, pausing the party. Her clothing was filthy, stained with the gods only knew what, her skin with a blueish pallor that made Astarion seem sunkissed.

“Ah, more in need of healing. Do wait in line- the doctor will see you soon. He will soothe.”

Her voice was haunting, like a lost echo. For a moment they all paused, taken aback by a single, unarmed person telling them to wait-

But something about this wretched place felt as if they needed permission to enter. A feeling Astarion hadn’t felt since waking up, bathed in sunlight after the Nautiloid.

The party simply gawked, before Astarion sighed, slipping up past Shadowheart and Wyll, then Sekh, to stand in front of the nurse.  He faked a cough, turning into his arm and forcing his lungs to burn with the force, before he dramatically tipped his head back, let himself fall.

Sekh caught him, hands going under his arms and bracing him back against his chest. Astarion had never doubted the drow would catch him.

“Oh dear, are we poorly? Are we very poorly?” Astarion slit open one eye, noted the nurse was staring at him, and gave a sad little groan.

“Quite poorly,” Sekh said, and Astarion could hear the laugh building in his voice. Gods if the man laughed and ruined his perfectly good show-

“Please, hurry now. The doctor will see, the doctor will soothe.” Astarion gave another fake, sickly groan, and made no move to support his own weight. He felt Sekh attempt to shift him, before the drow was hoisting him up, tossing him awkwardly over his shoulder.

Astarion’s eyes shot open, but thankfully Wyll was already between him and the nurse, offering his gentlemanly thanks, as Sekh carried Astarion away from the strange creature parading as help. The drow made it just to the corner, before he was leaning the shoulder not supporting Astarion against the wall.

“Gods you’re heavy,” he managed, as Astarion still made no attempt to move. He was rather enjoying this, actually.

“I am light as a feather, darling,” he drawled, “perhaps you’re just not quite up to the task of handling me?”

Sekh pushed off the wall, and suddenly Astarion was shoved roughly to his feet, back pressed against the wall. Sekh grasped his wrists, pinned them to the surface, the quick action knocking over one of the abandoned medical carts. The metal clanged loudly on the floor, as Astarion felt his breath catching, his dead pulse hammering.

“Want to try that again?” Sekh asked, his smile wicked. Astarion bit at his tongue, arched slightly, pushed himself flush to Sekh. The hands on his wrists tightened. He felt dizzy, hot suddenly under his skin- which was still such a new feeling-

Before he could do anything else, Sekh released him, stepped back. The wicked smile turned kinder, and yes Astarion had been the one to say he needed a bit of time to come to terms with his own body, his needs, his own boundaries-

But suddenly he was desperately wishing the drow would come back and devour him. But oh, it wasn’t the time or the place. And as much as Astarion could want, a large chunk of his very being was terrified of messing this up, of doing something wrong and losing the drow. Or losing himself.

“I don’t want to know,” Shadowheart said, as she and Wyll caught up, the cleric noting the toppled tray, Astarion pressed to the wall, eyes slightly dilated. “Astarion, your acting is atrocious.” Astarion argued that his acting was wonderful as he pushed off the wall, both Sekh and Wyll leaving the two and sneaking back to examine what might have once been a row of patient beds.

It was nothing but dust, bones, and old cotton now.

Shadowheart only waved Astarion off, and the elf frowned, but shut his mouth. He could argue with her later. Now that he was back in the present, and not lost in a sudden moment of need with his… his drow flush to him, the House of Healing was beginning to weigh down on him again. He brushed some dust off his armor as they poked about, noting rusty, blood-dried tools that looked as if they hadn’t moved in a hundred years.

Astarion toed at an old metal bowl, a blackish liquid dried inside. It smelled so bad his stomach rolled, threatening to give up what little blood he had in his body- which wasn’t much, only the light snack he’d gotten from Rolan, the night before.

He turned away from it, noted that Sekh was down on a knee, examining some withered bones collecting dust on a stained bedroll, scattered on the floor. “I don’t think this place has healed anyone in a long time,” the warlock said, quietly, fingers moving over bones. Astarion fought down a shiver- he had to agree.

This place was wretched beyond words.

He turned away, heard a few of the bones clacking together as Sekh moved them, before the drow was up as well. “Whatever that flaming fist found here, I wouldn’t be shocked if it might have made the Shadowfell pale in comparison.”

“I wouldn’t agree there,” Shadowheart advised, but her heart didn’t sound as if it backed up her argument.

“Let’s just be quick.”

Astarion couldn’t disagree. He was happy to leave the abandoned beds behind, moving into the depths of the building, towards a large set of wooden doors. It didn’t need to be said that the party assumed the doctor would be behind these doors.

Honestly, Astarion didn’t think there was a doctor at all. He assumed the wraith of a woman that had greeted them was simply mad. Perhaps the doctor had died long ago, succumbed to these shadows- hells, his bones could have been the ones Sekh was sifting through.

When the doors to what was a medical auditorium, fit for students, were pushed open, Astarion wished he had been right.

A man- gods, was that thing even a man?- was looming over a naked figure, strapped down to a gurney. His hands were monstrous, nothing but long, lithe scalpels that clacked as he spoke, as he gestured. He was surrounded by boney, ghastly figures that resembled the nurse they’d met upon entry.

“The objective of the scalpel, sisters,” he said, his voice this thin, ghostly rasp- it sounded as if his throat had a layer of dry dust coating it, “ is to soothe, for the scalpel, indeed, is an extension of Shar.” He moved his scalpel fingers in the dim light, and Astarion watched Sekh’s hands twitch, caught a shadow coiling around his fingers. The drow was coiled just as tight as he was, at the sight.

Before them, the man took one scalpel finger and eased it into the restrained figure, cutting just below what once was a man’s ribs. The body gave the barest of thrashes, a weak near death rattle leaving its open, bloody mouth.

Whatever this man once was, he was barely alive now, nothing but a toy for this doctor.

“See how the patient reacts when I but stroke the right nerve? Hear its comfort. Hear the very melody of mercy.” The man- was this a man?- tipped his head back, and Astarion watched as he beckoned one of the nurses forward, her own knife cutting into the subject’s stomach. He watched the blade disappear to her knuckles, before the doctor was exclaiming, “Stop! Stay your hand, for it slaps where it should stroke. We can hardly hear the patient’s sighs of solace.”

“Sekh,” Astarion whispered, and the drow glanced at him. They needed to do something- Astarion didn’t want to watch this pathetic show for a moment longer. Next to him, Wyll had his hand on his rapier.

“We need to do something.” the other warlock said, seeming moments away from charging past the drow and into the fray.

“Perhaps it is our unexpected audience that makes you quiver.” Astarion glanced away from Wyll, saw that the room was staring directly at them- heads turned, all unmoving except the doctor.

They didn’t seem real. They looked like something horrid out of a nightmare- something crawling from the depths of a long lost dungeon, locked away in the dark for centuries.

 “Come.” The doctor curled those bladed fingers, inclining his head slightly as he studied the group. “Step forward. You are no sister, but that matters none. Every student is welcome.”

“A…student,” Sekh said, squaring his shoulders, pulling up to his whole height- which wasn’t much, truth be told. Yet even behind him, Astarion knew he had to look imposing. It was just a drow thing, he’d come to realize. “Yes. Do enlighten me.”

“Sekh’met,” Astarion hissed under his breath- gods below, what was he thinking? His muscles were coiled so tight they ached, the vampire ready to burst, to lash forward the moment his companions moved.

The doctor tapped his scalpels on the gurney, the cling of metal making Astarion want to grind his teeth. “Absence,” he finally mused,  “No other word captures the heart of Shar so very perfectly.” Oh Astarion was very sick of that goddess already.  “It is the scalpel led journey that leads from peace,” the man lifted his hand, plunged one of his knived fingers into the eye socket out the man. The subject thrashed, as the doctor pulled free, an already damaged eyeball now skewered on his finger.

Oh, Astarion was going to be sick.

“-To pain,” he concluded, stabbing into the other eye, removing that as well. He flicked his wrist, and the eyeballs slid off, making a wet little squish as they landed on the old wooden floor and rolled a few paces away. The subject pulled feebly at his bindings, mumbling something incoherent.  “If light is the symptom, then darkness is the cure.” 

It sounded like some shit Cazador would say, before locking one of the spawn up. Something he would’ve said to Astarion before all those months-

“He’s just like Cazador,” Astarion growled, baring his fangs, anger rising like a tidal wave in his belly. “Utterly insane.” He took a step closer to Sekh, trembling with the fury that was pulled taut in every muscle of his body. He opened his mouth to beg to kill him- gods he was seeing his damned old master now, instead of this wretched doctor- Cazador standing tall, grinning with those overly long fangs, black eyes pulling Astarion apart piece by piece by bloody piece-

The vampire didn’t even realize the doctor had continued speaking. “Let us soothe. Let us cure you.”  The nurses all took a unified step, and Astarion forced his breathing to calm, his eyes to focus. Cazador wasn’t here, and if he didn’t keep himself together, he’d end up with one of those ungodly dull, rusted blades in his gut.

Sekh inclined his head, and he still looked too calm. Astarion swore he could hear his pulse tho- it was racing. “No wonder their incisions were so imprecise,” Sekh said, “their blades are dull- they need practice before they can show any of us absence.”

“What are you doing?” Wyll whispered, and one of Sekh’s hands fell to his side, slightly behind his back. He spread his fingers, palm out to Wyll and Astarion, a silent wait.

Astarion noticed Wyll relaxed a tick- trust.

“How to steady their hands, I wonder?” The doctor glanced around, and Sekh turned his head slightly- Astarion caught a smile then, charming and calculated.

“They should practice on themselves,” Sekh offered. The doctor seemed to brighten at this, raising those scalpel hands and telling the sisters to acquaint themselves with absence.

Astarion watched in a mingling of horror and elated awe as the nurses turned on each other. They moved in quick, jerking movements- dull blades slicing open skin, stabbing into stained uniforms. No words were spoken, only grunts and little cries. They stabbed and stabbed and stabbed until they were each crumpling to the ground, bleeding out blood so black and acrid it had to be pure rot.

And the doctor simply seemed pleased at his darling pupils. He held his arms outstretched, offering oblivion, sheer absence now, to the party. At least it’d be an easier fight now-

“My magic has blinded me.” Sekh took a step away from the party, towards the doctor. “These false shadows that envelop me, they pale in comparison to those of Shar’s embrace. I see this now.” He continued on, stepped over the body of one of the nurses without even looking. She was still twitching. “Her path is the only true path. Show me how to greet absence, how the worthy embrace the dark lady.”

Sekh stepped up onto the dias, paused less than an arm's length from the doctor. Astarion dug one of his heels against the wood, ready to launch himself forward if that monster so much as twitched in the direction of his drow-

“I beg of you.” Sekh dropped heavily to his knees, looking up at the doctor. It was the stupidest thing Astarion could have imagined him doing- he was at a disadvantage, wouldn’t have the right angle to grab at his sword, and even with his magic-

“Oh but your diligence is exemplary,” the doctor mused, voice a perverted, proud purr. “Very well, your own scalpel you will be. Observe, dear one, then succeed me, into the succour of Shar.”

Then, in a single, fluid motion, the doctor flicked his wrist, and sent one of his knived fingers directly into his own eye socket, so far back that it must have scraped the back of his skull. He collapsed, limp, among the bodies of his pupils, never once touching Sekh in the fall.

The room fell deathly silent, the three just staring at an unmoving Sekh, before Wyll finally said, “I’m terrified of you right now.”

“I think I’m in love with him right now,” Shadowheart mused, voice teasing- but there was a hint of something there- unease as well. Memories, perhaps, of whoever she knew that was just so good at emotional manipulation.

Astarion swore his throat was closing up. Sekh had never once faltered, in playing directly into what the doctor needed to hear. He was persuasive in the perfect, charming, calculating manner.

It occurred to him that he would have been the ideal spawn, in Cazador’s eyes.

The thought sent him reeling. The sheer notion of Cazador even laying eyes on the one thing Astarion had claimed as his, on the one person that saw Astarion as just that-

He was nauseous, thinking on it. The room felt suffocating then, the stench of thick, blackened bile-blood suddenly too much. Astarion tried to swallow, but his throat was too tight.

He turned away from the group, hurrying back out the theater doors. He stumbled a few steps, before he fell down heavily to his knees, hands bracing on the floor as he coughed and wretched. The blood from the previous night was long gone from his belly, and all that he had was sour, acidic bile that burned his throat. He made a pained noise, squeezed his eyes shut, body trembling as he coughed violently again.

He was so engrossed in the tightness in his stomach, the burn in his throat, that he didn’t hear the footsteps coming up to him. When a hand touched his back his eyes shot open, his entire body tensing-

“Astarion, shh, it’s only me.”

Sekh’s voice floated to him, and the vampire relaxed, coughing again, before spitting thick saliva onto the floor. Sekh got down onto a knee, rubbed his hand soothingly along the vampire’s back.  Astarion hung his head, closed his eyes again, tried to breathe through his mouth, afraid if he could so much as smell the corpses from the other room he’d throw up his entire stomach, the whole dead organ.

Taking a very deep breath, Astarion opened his eyes, pushed himself up onto his knees. There was a layer of cold sweat on his spin, sticking to his scalp, that made him feel filthy.

And yet Sekh was there, cradling his face, not seeming to care. “Are you alright?” Astarion managed a nod, as the drow studied his face. “What happened?”

Oh, he’d just imagined possibly one of the worst nightmares of his life, was all. Nothing major.

“It’s nothing,” Astarion managed, his voice weak, raspy. Sekh frowned, and oh he didn’t buy that for a moment, the elf knew. Damn. “Their blood smells so vile that it made me ill. Nothing more.”

Sekh still didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead he stood up, offered both hands to Astarion, and pulled him up to stand. Astarion felt unsteady, and was thankful when the drow kept a firm hold on his arms, as he regained his balance. Once he was steady, he expected Sekh to release him-

But instead the drow pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around him in a tight hug. Astarion went rigid for a moment from shock, before he relaxed, melted into the man, resting his cheek on his shoulder as Sekh rocked a little, from side to side. The embrace was short- but oh, Astarion felt like any embrace that ended with Sekh would be too short- but it still left Astarion feeling calmer, even when the drow released him completely.

And when Sekh gave him a little, reassuring smile, Astarion felt elated and dizzy-

“Astarion, Sekh- come in here!”

And Wyll’s shout forced Astarion back to reality. That smile fell from Sekh’s face, and the drow turned, heading back into the operating theater. Astarion steeled himself before following, refusing to be so precious as to not face the carnage again.

Shouldn’t he be reveling in it? No matter how disgusting the necrotic blood of the cursed was?

Wyll was across the room, having been going through one of the wooden cabinets. He had an old, well loved lute in one of his hands, holding it out as if it was treasure.

Was it supposed to mean something?

Astarion filed behind Sekh as the drow reached out, took the lute in his hands. “Look,” Wyll said, guiding Sekh to turn it over. Along the curved bottom was a single engraved word-

Cullagh.

“The flaming fist,” Sekh said, before he broke into a grin. “Wyll, I could kiss you.” The other warlock chuckled, before he glanced a look at Astarion.

“Best not.” Astarion quirked a brow at Wyll, a silent what? That the man utterly ignored. Did he think he would attempt to rip his throat out with his bare fangs over a single show of affection?

Well… maybe not his whole throat…

“We need to get this back to Last Light. Halsin will want to see it.” Sekh passed the lute back to Wyll. “Where’s Shadowheart?”

Wyll gestured back out of the theater. “She wondered that way.” Astarion caught a shift in Sekh then, the smallest flash to his eyes, frown to his lips.

Shadowheart had been oddly quiet during the whole ordeal- considering that her much beloved goddess Shar was being mentioned- all she’d had to say was after. Thinking on it, Astarion would have expected her to step in- while they didn’t know Shar’s dogma, surely she could have recited half the damn goddess’s teachings to soothe the mad doctor.

“I’m going to go find her,” Sekh said, “if you want to finish up in here. I’m ready to be rid of this place.” Wyll’s pained grin was enough to say he agreed, and Astarion wasn’t going to argue. He’d had quite enough healing, thank you very much.

Astarion left the room with Sekh, a step behind the drow, as they glanced around, looking for Shadowheart. She couldn’t have gone far-

Sekh pushed open an old, wooden door, before he paused, blocking the doorway completely despite his lithe frame. Astarion could see the muscles along his neck and shoulders going tense,heard his pulse pick up.

“Sekh-”

“Don’t look.”

Astarion frowned, before he ignored the man, ducking beneath his outstretched arm. Within the room Shadowheart was standing a few feet from patient beds, looking shell shocked, arms limp at her sides. Astarion followed her gaze, before tensing himself.

There was a sick bastardization of a nurse leaning over a body, hands deep inside his opened chest cavity. She was mumbling to herself as she shifted about- gods, looking for what Astarion didn’t know. Gore was caked on her arms, along the front of her uniform-

The poor man was completely opened, sternum to groin.

Sekh moved past Astarion then, saying a shaky whisper, “That’s Arabella’s father.”

The name sounded familiar-

The little idol thief from the Grove.

Astarion felt his stomach drop. That little hellion had been rather sweet, even if he was loathe to admit it. And if that was her father- where was she?

“Shadowheart,” Sekh said softly, trying to coax her back into herself. Her stare was a thousand paces away. When she didn’t move Sekh moved very carefully towards her, trying to be silent. Still, the old wooden boards creaked, and the nurse paused her rummaging, glancing over at her audience.

“Ah, more patients. Please, do sit. The doctor has found oblivion, but no matter. I will carry on.” She turned back to the body, and Astarion watched as she pulled something large and bulbous from the tiefling’s body- gods was that his liver?

He moved quickly to Sekh and Shadowheart. Sekh had leaned in, was speaking softly to her, and Astarion watched as she blinked away her stupor, looked over at them with eyes that screamed. “Come on,” Sekh said, placing a hand on her lower back. “There’s nothing we can do here…”

No, there was no saving this man, or the woman on the bed next to him, already in a worse state. Astarion glanced away, followed as Sekh guided Shadowheart out of the room, and thankfully out of the damned house of healing.

Wyll was waiting outside, still holding the lute, blissfully unaware. He smiled at the group, before the charm left his face and was replaced by concern, at their solemn faces. Before he could ask, Sekh said, “Arabella’s father… her mother too.” He shook his head. “Dead.”

Wyll’s brow creased. Astarion didn’t doubt he remembered every tiefling child from the Grove. He was too good- the sort of man Astarion had dreamed about in his youth to whisk him off his feet. “Arabella?” Wyll asked, and Sekh sighed.

“I don’t know- not there. I never saw her at Last Light.” Sekh glanced back at the house, before a shudder rolled through him. “Take the lute back to Halsin. I’ll stay and look for her- find Karlach, Lae’zel, and Gale. They can help.”

Astarion could tell Wyll wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He trusted Sekh- and Astarion wondered if the drow realized just how hard earned that trust had to be.

Sekh turned back to Shadowheart, and Astarion watched as the drow took her face in his hands softly. The touch was so gentle, and Astarion could feel it himself. “Shadowheart,” he said, very softly, “go back with Wyll, okay?”

Astarion wasn’t sure what had happened to the cleric, but it wasn’t good, that was for sure. He also knew the cleric held a rather special place in Sekh’s heart. Yet he only felt a momentary spark of jealousy, before it was quickly smothered.

Shadowheart nodded slowly, and Sekh gave Wyll a silent look, before he turned to Astarion. “I promise I won’t be long.”

Wait- “You expect me to go too?” Sekh opened his mouth to respond, and Astarion stepped closer, didn’t give him the chance. “I’m not leaving you again.”

And he meant it. Damn the drow for terrifying him back at Moonrise- he’d be damned twice over before he let the man out of his sight again.

Astarion’s mouth was set in a firm frown. Sekh sighed, but relented, didn’t argue, and simply gave Wyll and Shadowheart a nod, before turning away. Astarion walked with him around the hulking House of Healing, towards the decrepit cemetery that seemed to have sprouted from its fetid corpse. The grounds were eerily silent, except for the whistle of a haunting wind that made Astarion want to shiver.

He was cold, colder than usual. His body was running on empty, his hunger gnawing at him more and more with each passing minute. And while he was quite used to ignoring it, he had gotten used to satiating it as of late. He found it was harder to keep from focusing on it.

They were deep into the graveyard when Sekh started calling for their companions. Astarion kept a few paces back, eyes dancing over the shadows- waiting for one to spring to life. He felt like he was being watched in this wretched darkness, and he hated it. He much preferred to be the terror lurking in the dark.

“Will you check up that way?” Sekh asked, gesturing towards a stretch of the cemetery. “I can go this way, towards the ground fissure. I want to find them sooner rather than later.”

Unspoken, he wanted to find Arabella sooner rather than later.

Astarion sucked at his tongue, before he nodded. “Don’t get yourself killed darling,” he tried to tease, but it came out deathly serious. Sekh’s eyes softened and he reached out, got his hands on Astarion’s waist, tugging him a step closer.

“I promise I won’t die without you.”

Astarion hummed, focusing on the feeling of the drow’s hands on his waist and not the clawing ache in his belly. “You’d better not.” Sekh inclined his head slightly, and Astarion saw the desire for a kiss, written all over his face. “I don’t think you want to kiss me now, my sweet.”

Sekh chuckled, leaned in anyway, placed a soft kiss to Astarion’s lips. “I don’t care,” he mumbled, “I’d kiss you no matter what. So long as you want me to.”

Astarion felt his chest constricting. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t trust himself to do so. Gods damn he had never felt so undone in his life, as he did around this man.

When Sekh released him he stepped back, sparing one final, long look at the drow, before he turned, making his way further into the cemetery. He tried to focus on the quiet around him, for signs of movement, voices, a pulse. It took a while, but he eventually heard Gale’s voice.

He paused next to a Mausoleum, peered around and saw Gale was chatting away with Lae’zel, who looked… less than amused. Her sword was very noticeably unbloodied, which meant they must have not found anything interested in the dark.

He walked over, pausing only when Gale caught sight of him and jumped. “Gods you are silent, Astarion!”

Did he need to remind everyone he was a vampire?

“And a welcome sight,” Lae’zel said, yet there was no venom in her voice. Gale might be annoying her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like him- even if she wouldn’t admit it. Their good spirits diminished when Astarion didn’t bother to mask the discontent on his face.

He didn’t relish providing them a clipped version of what had transpired within the House of Healing, but he did it anyway as they walked, heading back towards where Astarion had left Sekh. He didn’t get beyond the wretched doctor though, before he found Sekh. He was crouched down by a skeleton, pushing the bones aside, a small, well worn book left open next to it. Sekh glanced up before Astarion could get close enough to see and stood up, walking over quickly.

“Where’s Karlach?” he asked, concern lacing his voice. Gale recounted what he’d told Astarion as they’d walked- that they’d found Arabella out in the shadows and Karlach had escorted her back to Last Light. They wanted to look for her parents, and Gale was about to implore that they set off immediately to do just that-

“They’re dead,” Sekh said, his voice grave. Gale pinched his lips shut, and Lae’zel’s frown deepened. Sekh sighed, reached up to rake a hand into his hair, loosening some of it from his knot. “Gods dammit,” he said, before he turned, kicked a stray bone. It flew a few paces away, smacked into an older cracked gravestone.

Astarion swore he could smell the anger on the man. It had been growing, ever since the Creche- he’d seen it nearly take hold when they’d first found Last Light. It could be beautiful, if it was directed at something that deserved to die-

But seeing Sekh swallowed by it, unable to truly release himself from the rage? It made Astarion’s stomach sick. Sicker than it already was.

“We need to get back to camp,” Gale said. “We’ll… find a way to tell her.” Sekh took a calming breath.

“I’ll do it,” he said, and the sadness in his eyes made Astarion want to grind his teeth, rip apart the very air around them. And then, in barely a whisper, something caught and lost in the wind, Sekh repeated, “I’ll do it.”

*

Once back at Last Light, Sekh made quickly for camp, intent on not keeping Arabella in the dark. Astarion wanted to follow, but the look on the drow’s face told him it was best he didn’t.

Instead, he let himself into the inn, giving a nod to the tiefling children running around, who all actively stopped to wave at him.

When had that started?

He headed for the bar in the back, found Rolan sitting there, a book open on the bar, reading silently. His siblings were nowhere in sight- which meant it was rather quiet. Without a word Astarion settled on one of the stools, rested his chin on his palm, and just watched the tiefling.

“I know you’re there,” Rolan said, flipping the page in his book. He glanced over, and oh, those fiery eyes were just something. Rolan flicked his eyes back to his book, a bit of color rising on his cheeks. He blushed so easily, from just a glance, a moment of attention.

It was cute.

“Did you need something?” he finally asked, and Astarion shrugged a shoulder. Honestly? No. But he found he didn’t want to be alone, while he waited for Sekh.

And he admitted just that- before he could even stop himself. It just happened. Admitting weakness, especially something as precious as not wanting to be alone, had never been something he had the luxury for.

Rolan pushed his book over then, pointing to a place in the page. “Read with me.” Astarion glanced at the page, as he heard the sound of little feet landing on the bar. The resident cat- His Majesty, Astarion at learned- made his way to Astarion and bumped his head against his bicep.

Without much thought, Astarion pet the cat. “What is this?”

“A tome on fire magic,” Rolan admitted, “I’ve been studying it the whole journey. I want to have it memorized before I reach Baldur’s Gate. Perhaps...” he paused, cleared his throat, “I can explain it to you. Just to prove that I know the topic well, of course.”

And not, at all, because the tiefling perhaps was nervous that he didn’t. Perish the thought.

Astarion took the cat into his arms, as it continued to paw at him until he did so, and gave a toothy smile. If Gale had offered to do the same, he would have bemoaned the torture for hours. But Rolan?

It seemed alright, with him.

*

They hadn’t gotten very far into the book, when they were interrupted. Karlach popped up, lacking her usual bounce, looking almost too serious for Astarion’s liking.

“Astarion,” she said, as Rolan was mid sentence on how best to annunciate for a specific incantation. The wizard paused, and Astarion turned his head, looked at her. “I think Sekh needs you.” Astarion was up before Karlach could take another breath, setting the cat back on the bar- much to His Majesty’s chagrin. Rolan waved him off before he could speak, a few lines forming in his forehead as well, concern that the drow needed something.

Karlach took Astarion by the arm, her latest upgrade meaning she touched everyone at every chance she got- and began walking him through the inn. “You think?” Astarion asked, as they moved.

Karlach nodded. “He’d didn’t… per say tell me that. But he looked…” she paused, “Honestly? Fucking awful after talking to Arabella. And she didn’t take it well- poor thing, wouldn’t expect her to.”

Astarion nodded, as they paused by Dammon’s forge. He could just see Sekh, out by the borders of the light, sitting on the sand by the water’s edge. “He’s been there a while,” Karlach admitted. “I just thought… he might need you.”

She squeezed his shoulder, before turning to leave. Astarion made his way down the rickety old stairs, onto the sand and silt, leaving ghosts of footprints as he made his way over to Sekh.

The drow didn’t look up, when Astarion paused next to him, sat down carefully. He was just staring out into the water, this endless black. Unsure what to say- and was there something to say?- Astarion simply sat with him, staring out into the dark as well. The sight might have been beautiful once- he could almost imagine the lake sparkling in midday, the sky vibrant and clear.

This land must have thrived, once.

Without a word, Sekh leaned over, placed his head on Astarion’s shoulder. The vampire tipped his head to the side, rested it against Sekh’s, and he heard the drow give a little sigh.

“I feel awful,” he whispered, “Arabella…” he swallowed, closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was broken, pained, “Gods she just lost everything.”

“There was nothing you could do,” Astarion offered. It was the truth, her parents were long dead by the time they arrived.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sekh mumbled, shifting slightly. Astarion lifted his head so the drow could sit up properly. “It’s never going to matter to her- or at least, not for a long time.” He added, even softer, “I know too well.”

Astarion shifted a bit, turning more to face Sekh, and the drow mimicked him. His eyes looked so tired. There was so much more here, than just Arabella. It was painfully obvious. And Astarion found he was desperate to know what.

“Care to talk?” he asked, unsure if he had ever actually cared enough about someone else to ask. At least, in his current memory.

Sekh bit his lip, pulled his knees up and folded his arms over them. “You don’t need to hear it.”

Astarion frowned. “I can judge that for myself.” The drow closed his eyes, and then quietly, he spoke.

He spoke of his own parents- the parents Astarion knew so very little of. Sekh had spoken of his father once, but that was it. Astarion had filed it away, despite the drow having wished he would forget. Sekh in the thick throws of just waking had been something Astarion kept locked in his ribs.

Sekh’s own family, Astarion learned very quickly, were long dead. He’d been older than Arabella when it happened, but not by enough to be anything but a child. Slaughtered, in their own home, by one of the daughters of the house his mother served as a hired sword-

A house who employed his father as well, to tend to their most intimate needs. Hell, the whole town, small as it was, had been set ablaze, nothing but ash and burnt flesh and boiling blood.

“I’d be dead too,” Sekh admitted, “if not for Syl.” As if in response, Astarion saw those shadows on his face shifting. He knew they did that, even when his patron wasn’t present- but a part of him found comfort in perhaps her responding to just Sekh speaking her name. “I screamed her name until I swore my throat would bleed… and she came. She slaughtered everyone in my house. She said…” he paused, closed his eyes. “Life for life. She had been waiting years to repay the life I gave her as a child.”

It made sense, in that moment, the protectiveness Sekh had always demonstrated over his patron. How he was quick to bristle if anyone compared his pact to Wyll and Mizora’s.

Sekh pressed his forehead to his arms, looking as if he wanted to hide from the world. “This is pathetic,” he muttered, “I just don’t want to see Arabella going through this. I don’t want to see anyone go through it.”

Astarion lifted his hand, but hesitated. He wasn’t exactly sure how to comfort- he couldn’t remember a time before Sekh that anyone had comforted him. It felt like a lost skill.

So he simply did what he would want Sekh to do.

He reached out, ran his fingers along the drow’s hair. Sekh carefully lifted his head, and Astarion moved closer, got an arm around him, pulled the drow to his chest. “Astarion,” he whispered, as Astarion’s other arm wrapped around him, held him tight.

The vampire hushed him, and he felt Sekh tremble, before his face was pressed tight to Astarion’s chest. His breaths were uneven, shaking-

And Astarion realized Sekh was crying. The realization felt like it opened a gaping maw, in his chest. He ached around the sudden empty cavity, found he was holding the drow tighter, desperately. Sekh clutched at him, gave a little whine, and Astarion squeezed his own eyes shut.

They burned, knowing there wasn’t anything to be done, about the past. He couldn’t undo the death of Sekh’s family, just as the drow couldn’t undo two centuries of torture.

“I have you,” Astarion whispered, rocking slightly. Sekh didn’t answer, just held tight to Astarion. The vampire rubbed his back, let the minutes drag on endlessly, until the drow’s breathing had calmed down. When Sekh finally pulled back slightly, lifted his head, his eyes were slightly red, wet streaks on his cheeks.

The maw in Astarion opened wider.

“I’m being pathetic,” Sekh whispered, repeating what he’d said only minutes ago, “I just… I don’t want to see Arabella going through this. I don’t want to see anyone go through this.”  Astarion reached up, thumb rubbing along one tear streak, and Sekh turned, pressed a kiss to his palm. “I never mourned them. Not for more than a few moments, in the night. I just… kept going.”

Astarion pressed his forehead to Sekh’s. He understood that feeling, too deep in his very soul. He’d never mourned who he was, all he lost- all that Cazador ripped from him.

He’d never felt like he needed to. But sitting here, with his drow falling apart in his arms- he realized perhaps he did.

“Someday,” Astarion offered, “when this is done. You can mourn.” He paused, closed his eyes, and silently added-

And I will too.

Sekh nodded, before he reached up, covered one of Astarion’s hands. And, echoing the vampire’s own words, whispered, “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Astarion had to smile, and when Sekh kissed him, he fell into it eagerly. Reassuring, soft movements of his mouth that made Astarion dizzy, his body vibrating with a level of affection he didn’t know he could harbor. He swore he could experience every emotion within the span of a breath, with this man.

Astarion tipped his head, tried to kiss Sekh deeper, wanted to crawl inside his bones, inhabit every empty space inside him. If there were no empty spaces, perhaps he’d forgot his losses, for even a moment.

Astarion pulled at Sekh, let himself fall backwards. The drow followed him, covered his body as Astarion laid out in the damp sand, getting his hands into Sekh’s hair, wanting to free it completely. The kisses still held an almost innocence to them, even as Sekh teased Astarion’s lower lip with his teeth, as the vampire pushed his tongue into his mouth.

It felt so good, to simply kiss, be kissed, with no expectations.

Sekh pulled back slightly, and Astarion tried to chase him, didn’t want him to stop. But the drow chuckled, offered him the sweetest smile. “You’re very good at making me feel better,” he admitted. “Thank you.”

No one had ever told Astarion that he’d made them feel better- let alone thanked him, for how he made them feel. It was strange, to try to fix the pain someone was feeling, instead of being the cause.

Unsure what to say, if there even was anything to say, Astarion was happy to accept another kiss from the drow. He was falling back into it, grasped at Sekh’s now free hair, at his back, thinking he’d like the man to kiss him until his lips were numb-

But then that clawing hunger in his belly raked its talons along his insides. Astarion winced, felt his belly seizing up on itself, and Sekh broke the kiss, looking down at him with concern. Astarion damned himself then- because he hadn’t been done being thoroughly, fully, irrevocably kissed by this man.

“It’s nothing,” Astarion whispered, even as his stomach grumbled like that of a child’s. Gods, it hadn’t done that since he’d first gotten used to the hunger, to starving.

It seemed that now that he knew what it was like to be satiated, his body was determined to make his hunger everyone’s problem.

Sekh sat up, and Astarion begrudgingly followed. “You need to feed,” Sekh said, pushed his sleeve up, ready to bare his wrist. And as tempting as the man’s blood always was, Astarion couldn’t imagine taking from him, just then.

Besides, he was so hungry, he feared his control. And the last thing he wanted to do on this gods forsaken plane was hurt the drow.

He refused to dwell on that thought.

He shook his head, pushing Sekh’s wrist away. “No,” he said, as the drow raised his brows in confusion. Hating to admit it, Astarion added quietly, “I need more than that.”

Sekh nodded in understanding, before he suddenly grinned, nearly jumping to his feet. The sudden switch felt like whiplash- but oh, the drow did seem quick to change emotions. He reached for Astarion, and the elf let him pull him to his feet. “Leave it to me,” he said, and Astarion gave him a questioning look. Sekh just kissed his cheek affectionately. “Can you wait a bit longer?”

Astarion nodded. He’d starved for near two centuries- what was one more night?

*

Astarion waited back at camp, happy to recline by his tent, flipping through a book. Shadowheart had pillaged a few from one of the abandoned homes they found, before making it into the shadow cursed lands, and had insisted Astarion read this one.

It was filthy, and rather hilarious at how poorly it was written.

He hadn’t seen her, since their return from the House of Healing- and he considered perhaps seeking her out. She had been in a bad way, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, all of this band of little freaks meant something to him, now.

He hadn’t even closed the book, however, when Karlach popped into his space, positively grinning. She had some blood on her armor, sweat on her brow- but she was in better spirits than when she had gathered Astarion up from the inn.

“..Yes?” he asked. He could feel the energy rolling off her.

“Come with me,” she said, “your man has something for you.”

Astarion scoffed- but would have flushed, had he had the blood in his system. He closed the book, setting it aside and standing, following Karlach through the camp, around Last Light. They made their way down the side of the building, and then under, to a cellar door. Karlach paused, as Astarion reached for the door. He looked back at her, and her grin only grew. It had to hurt her cheeks.

“Pretty sure this party is invitation only,” she said, “but enjoy.” She winked, before turning on her heel, leaving Astarion alone.

He pushed the door open, let himself into the large basement, far too curious for caution- not that it seemed warranted. He was a few paces in when he could hear heavy breathing, pained and frustrated little grunts.

He paused, glanced into one of the open rooms, and felt his blood suddenly running hot.

Sekh was standing in the center of the room, lit by torches, his foot on the back of a half orc, keeping him pinned to the ground. In one hand he held a rope, pulled taut, bound around the man’s wrists, against his back as well.

His hair was completely free, and he looked almost terrifying in the flickering light, a wicked smile on those sinful lips, his eyes dancing. But Astarion was anything but afraid.

“What have you done?” Astarion asked, not moving into the room. His voice danced with amusement, and Sekh’s smile only grew.

“Consider it an offering.” He dug his foot harder into the man’s back, and the half orc cursed. “I’ll never let you starve, Starshine.” Astarion felt a familiar giddiness, in his belly. He took a few steps closer, eyes taking in every twitch of Sekh’s body, every flicker of his eyes. The shortsword at his side was still bloodied, and Astarion could hear his pulse, slightly elevated- smell the sweat on his skin.

He was salivating, his fangs aching into his gums- at the prospect of blood, yes- but also from the power that Sekh seemed to radiate, in that moment. He was ethereal.

The half orc spouted more curses, thrashing. He cursed Sekh, had a few colorful words to share about his drow blood- and Sekh just clicked his tongue, moved his boot to the man’s neck and pressed, cutting off his air for a moment.

“I thought about delivering him dead so you wouldn’t have to hear him- but I thought this might be preferred.” Astarion dropped down to his knees, and Sekh moved his foot off the half orc, kicked him so he rolled over. The man’s cultist robes were torn, dirtied. Astarion cast a glance up at Sekh, feeling as if this wasn’t real.

There had to be a trick, someone pulling strings, ready to take away the promise of freedom from the hunger. But Sekh just looked at him affectionately, and whispered, “feed, my love.”

Astarion pushed at the half orc’s head, bared his throat, and opened his mouth so wide it ached. He sank his fangs into the man’s warm skin, felt him thrash. As he did Sekh pulled on the ropes binding him, and said almost soothingly, “hush, it’ll be over soon.”

Astarion felt his pulse spike, his body shake over that. He bit harder, before he pulled his fangs back, the man’s pulse flooding his mouth with blood. He drank eagerly, swallowing mouthfuls as the cultiusts’s thrashing calmed, the life draining from his quickly.

Astarion bit a second time, opening his neck further, felt blood trickling down his chin. He grasped at the man desperately, his body humming with delight over being fed. He felt heat beginning to radiate under his own skin, his mind clearing.

He heard Sekh drop down next to him, felt the drow’s hand rubbing along his back. Astarion shoved at the man’s body, rolling him onto his back properly, and climbed over him, pinning him down as he went for his throat, tearing in for a third bite. The cultist barely gave a noise, his pulse quickly fading. He’d be dead very soon.

The hand on his back moved to his hair, and Astarion writhed in sheer ecstasy, body thrumming with a fiery energy. Sekh’s fingers tangled in his curls, as Astarion heard the half orc’s final, pathetic death rattle.

It didn’t matter- he would still bleed.

The vampire lifted his head, gasping for an unneeded breath. He glanced at Sekh, who was simply watching him, eyes utterly enraptured.

It made Astarion feel beautiful, even in the most grotesque moment.

He pushed himself up on his knees, leaving the deadman to lie for a moment, and reached for Sekh, gripped his chin, his hair, and pulled him close. The drow’s breathing was quick, and Astarion felt it against his wet lips for a moment, before he kissed him. Sekh didn’t shy away from the blood on Astarion’s lips, tongue- he groaned, hands reaching for his waist, holding tight as Astarion pushed his tongue into his mouth, forced the drow to taste the offering he’d given him.

He felt Sekh tremble, and Astarion pulled him closer, until his lover was flush to him. The desire to simply crawl into Sekh’s bones was burning hotter than ever- and Astarion couldn’t explain it-

Except, in that moment, he felt safe.

Sekh finally pulled back, gasping for breath, eyes dilated, his lips smeared red. Astarion knew the half orc’s blood was all over his own mouth, chin- hell, he could feel a rivet had made its way down his neck.

The drow licked his own lips, and Astarion groaned, didn’t even try to muffle the noise. “Darling, wicked man,” he breathed, and Sekh gave him a smile to match. Astarion reached up then, pushed at his upper lip with his thumb, saw the confusion flash on Sekh’s face. “Just looking for your hidden fangs,” he mused, “I’d swear you have a taste for blood just as strong as my own.”

Sekh flicked his tongue against Astarion’s thumb, and Astarion felt heat coiling in his belly, his groin. He pulled his hand back, glanced down at the man still beneath him. There was still so much blood in him.

Sekh’s hands squeezed at his waist, signaling him to move. Astarion crawled off the man, watched as rolled the man enough to free his wrists from the rope bindings. Sekh shoved the arm of the man’s robe up, exposing his arm. He pulled out a small knife, before he sat back on the ground, an inviting space between his legs, against his chest opening.

Astarion crawled over him, didn’t need to be asked. He settled with his back to Sekh’s chest, was enveloped in his heat, the scent of his skin, the hum of his pulse. Sekh offered the half orc’s arm, which Astarion took, as Sekh sliced the tip of his knife into his skin, opening a new wound. Blood welled to the surface, and Astarion pulled it to his mouth, greedily drinking it in.

Sekh kissed his curls as he drank, an arm curling around him, holding him. Astarion relaxed back against him, closed his eyes as he reveled in the feeling of being full, satiated- and yet still drinking. He was almost dizzy with the feeling.

Sekh’s hand splayed on his belly, rubbed gently, and Astarion knew that hand could easily slide lower, settle between his legs, bring a second ecstasy to this sordid moment. He almost wanted it, badly-

But Sekh’s hand stayed firm. “More?” Sekh asked, as Astarion pulled from the man’s arm, mouth open, bloodied fangs glistening. The deadman’s blood flow had slowed considerably.

Astarion wasn’t sure if he could fit more blood in him- and yet he wanted it. He wanted to drink until his stomach ached. He had never been allowed to do that- and on the blood of a thinking creature…

Astarion dropped his head back against Sekh’s shoulder, wordlessly. Sekh got his other arm around him, fingers continuing to dance along his belly.

The hunger was startlingly, beautifully silent.

“I don’t think I can,” Astarion admitted, after long, silent minutes passed. How had Cazador ever indulged on all of those victims? Astarion didn’t think he could ever fully drain a single person.

Even thinking his old master’s name flooded Astarion with the dreadful feeling, again, that Sekh would have been the perfect spawn. That Cazador would have unhinged his jaw and devoured this man like a fucking serpent, would have reveled in his bloodlust, his charm.

Would have broken him in the most ugly of ways.

Astarion closed his eyes, forced the thoughts away. He didn’t want to tarnish this moment, the sheer sliver of utter perfection that shouldn’t have existed. But he must have tensed, because Sekh was slowly guiding him to sit up, so that Astarion could twist in his lap, open his eyes, meet the drow’s stare.

The silent question of what he was thinking, what thoughts were running rampant in the vampire’s head.

Astarion ran his tongue along his fangs, thought to simply sit in silence. Sekh’s silence was proof enough that the man wasn’t going to ask, even if he was curious as to what was going on inside Astarion’s head.

And yet- “You would have been the perfect spawn.” He said it slowly, quietly, as if the words were knives, were slicing open his cheeks, his gums with each annunciation. “He would have loved you, loathed you, ruined you.”

Astarion didn’t need to say who, and he was thankful for that. Uttering Cazador’s name felt like blasphemy, in that moment.

Sekh hummed, before he tipped Astarion’s chin up. “Astarion,” he said, carefully, “he won’t have me.”

Of course the drow would know the nameless, aching fear that swarmed in Astarion like wasps. Of course the vampire wouldn’t need to say the words, to speak the terror into existence like a hex- Sekh simply knew.

He knew Astarion far more than the vampire felt anyone ever had, in such a short time.

Sekh pressed a soft kiss to Astarin’s forehead. “And he’ll never have you again.”

It felt like it should be an empty promise. It felt like Astarion should laugh bitterly, sob, because no one could promise that.

Yet, he found himself relaxing, found himself seeking out Sekh’s mouth for a slow, languid kiss. Found the fear quieting.

Found he believed the drow.

The silence in the room settled over Astarion, broken only by the sweet, wet sounds of Sekh’s kisses. The man drank down the war of two centuries, replaced it with something far sweeter, that Astarion swore he was drifting into a new realm, somewhere timeless, ageless, endless.

When Sekh finally pulled back, Astarion swore his lips were nearly numb, tingling slightly.

The man studied Astarion, before he smiled, reached up and traced Astarion’s lips with a single finger. Astarion opened his mouth without hesitation, just enough for Sekh’s fingertip to slip past his lips. The drow pressed the pad of his finger to one fang, and Astarion felt the suddenly bloom of a few droplets on his tongue.

He groaned, couldn’t stop himself, and Sekh’s eyelids were heavy as he whispered, “I want my blood to always be the last you taste.”

Astarion would never argue that. The subtle sweetness, heavy and decadent, coated his tongue- and even just a few drops felt like a feast.

*

Sekh had sent Astarion back to camp alone- told him he would take care of the remains of his meal. He’d wiped his face on his own robes, teased him about being a messy eater, and Astarion may have stolen a few more kisses- as many as the drow would give him, before he was chased off.

Camp was fairly quiet- most of his companions having turned in for some rest. He spotted Karlach still up, stretched out, studying the blackened sky above- she lifted her head when she heard his footsteps, and just gave him a knowing little smile.

He made his way to Sekh’s tent, not his own, and settled outside it, sighing softly. His belly ached slightly, but not unpleasantly so. He was feeling drowsy now, as if he could fall into his trance at a moment’s notice- asif he could almost find sleep without the help of an angel’s kiss.

He closed his eyes, wasn’t sure how long he sat there, drifting in nothing- but he came back to himself when he heard hushed speaking. He cracked his eyes open, stood up slowly, moving around Sekh’s tent-

And found the drow sitting on the ground with Arabella, the young tiefling looking at the short sword that Sekh had placed in her lap. “This was my mother’s,” he said, as Arabella carefully touched the edges, just soft enough not to cut. “She died with it in hand- it’s the only thing I have of her.”

Astarion watched as Arabella reached up, rubbed at one of her eyes. Her cheeks were tear stained still. “I don’t have anything of mom and pops…”

Sekh stood up then, whispered something to her, and left the sword in her hands. When he turned towards his tent, he saw Astarion, and flashed him a small smile, walking over. He didn’t say a word, just brushed a hand along his arm, before he ducked into his tent, returning a moment later and heading back for Arabella.

He crouched down and held out a small chain, a locket dangling from it. Astarion didn’t recognize it, but Arabella’s eyes lit up and the sword fell from her lap as she took it, clutched it in her hands.

“You do now,” Sekh said, “I think your mother gave us that just to keep it safe for you, one day.” He reached out, smoothed Arabella’s hair back. “It’s going to hurt for a long time, but I promise- someday, it’ll get better.”

Arabella nodded, and Sekh wrapped her in a tight hug, held her quietly. Astarion turned then, afraid of intruding, and let himself into the drow’s tent, sitting on his bedroll. He didn’t have to wait long before Sekh let himself in. He sat down next to Astarion, and said, maybe more to himself than to the vampire, “She’ll be alright.”

Astarion leaned against Sekh’s shoulder. “So,” he said, “you have mommy’s sword?”

Sekh chuckled, dug his elbow into Astarion at the little tease. The vampire smiled. “Yes, I do. And I’m terrible with it compared to her. She’d have my head.” Sekh shifted, before he added, “Thank you, by the way. For earlier.”

Astarion glanced up at him, but Sekh was just staring forward.

“I’d like to mourn, someday,” he finally said, and quietly added, “with you. I think I feel safe enough to finally acknowledge everything, if you’re there.”

Sekh reached over, took one of Astarion’s hands, tangled their fingers together. The vampire squeezed his hand, and whispered in near silence, I’d like that.

He felt safe enough to mourn the loss of his first life too, with Sekh. Felt like he could perhaps feel the grief and not let it overcome him.

They sat there in silence, for another few minutes, fingers locked together, before Sekh let go, reached into his robes. When he pulled his hand out it was closed, quite obviously having something nestled into his palm.

“I thought this was a good idea earlier,” Sekh said, before he cleared his throat, “but now I feel a bit like an idiot.” He opened his hand, and Astarion saw a set of rings, sitting there. Aged gold, a stone that resembled cool, placid water. “I found them,” Sekh added, glancing away, “earlier. In the House of Healing and the cemetery. Separate but so close.” He turned to face Astarion, let one drop to his lap as he held the other, lifting Astarion’s hand.

The vampire watched, his heart hammering, hammering, and then stopping, as Sekh slid it up over his middle finger. It fit too well.

“Whoever they were,” Sekh offered, “they were so close to each other’s embrace. Maybe they knew that even apart, even dying, they were still together.”

He let go of Astarion’s hand, and the vampire lifted it, studying the old ring, as Sekh picked up the other, placed it on his own middle finger. This had been what the warlock had found, when he’d been sifting through those bones.

It should have been ridiculous, it should have been too much- but Astarion felt his eyes burning, realized he wanted to sob.

“I just want you to know,” Sekh said, as he took Astarion’s hand again, kissed his knuckles, “that you’re safe now. That I’m here. And…” Sekh took a slow, steadying breath. “I’m going to take care of you, no matter what happens.”

Astarion surged forward then, wrapped his arms around the drow’s neck, kissed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, told himself over and over and over that he wouldn’t break-

But a single tear slipped past his silver lashes, and he prayed to every god that had never listened that Sekh wouldn’t notice. That he wouldn’t see just how desperately Astarion needed him- because it was terrifying, to suddenly have something so precious that could be ripped away.

And Astarion wanted to believe Sekh, down in the depths of his soul- but something inside Astarion gnawed at him, whispered cruelly that this man was too good, and there was no way this could last.

[angelumcaedis]

durge/astarion drabble: so, that exboyfriend.

(She/her drow dark urge, named Dahmira. Mild fantasies of violence. Past Durgetash. Mostly cuddling.)

“I didn’t like how he looked at me. Through me. Like he knew me, intimately.”

“Like an old lover?”

She gripped the pillow to her chest harder, dusky purple cheeks taking a deeper hue.

Astarion grinned teasingly at her. “It was hard not to notice, darling. He wasn’t exactly hiding it.”

“I don’t… know him. Not as who I am now,” she started. “But there’s a sense of recognition, almost…” she trailed off, cheeks flushing even more.

Gods, she was adorable when she was flustered, Astarion thought to himself.

“Almost what, darling?” He spoke softly, as though to a frightened animal, even as he leaned in closer, narrowing the gap between them. His grin widened just enough for his fangs to be on display. Dahmira instinctively leaned back, gaze still downcast and distant.

Voice low, almost a whisper, she replied. “Like my body knows him. Remembers him.”

Astarion took her face gently in his hand, thumb caressing her cheek. She met his gaze with wide eyes, breath caught in her throat.

“Would you like me to help you forget?”

“I… erm…” If possible, Dahmira was flushing even more purple than before.

“Seems I won’t have to try too hard if you’ve already forgotten the basics of speech.”

Astarion aptly dodged what was to be a face full of pillow as Dahmira swung at him. “You are an absolute menace, you know that, right?”

The vampire giggled, grabbing the pillow and yanking hard, pulling the unsuspecting drow on top of him as he sat back onto his veritable nest of cushions.

“Darling, I am nothing if not genuine in this offer,” he settled his hands on her hips as she came to rest in his lap. “Believe me when I say I would thoroughly enjoy making you forget every syllable of the so-called archduke’s name.”

The drow curled her hands around his wrists, hesitating. They still hadn’t crossed - well, re-crossed - certain boundaries since their commitment to trying ‘something real’. She searched his face, nose scrunched as she tried to read his expression.

Astarion gave her hips a reassuring squeeze. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was offering was something he was ready for, but he didn’t like seeing her so rattled. He wanted to reassure her that he didn’t judge her for what she did before they met. Gods, when he thought about it, if she hadn’t been that evil bastard, he would still be under Cazador’s thumb.

“We don’t have to do anything. I’m happy just to be here with you,” she said.

That something in Astarion’s chest warmed. She was always so concerned about him.

“I know. But,” he said, dropping the flirty demeanor for a deeper tone, “I didn’t appreciate how he looked at you either, darling,” he growled. “That privilege is mine alone.”

“Astarion…” Dahmira sighed, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “If I don’t kill you first, you might just be the death of me.”

“Only little deaths, we hope.”

“Astarion.”

“You are far too fun to tease, darling.”

The drow sighed in exasperation at her beloved. “I’m glad you’re having fun.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Astarion purred as he slid his hands up from her hips to her waist, rucking up her shirt on his way. His hands were cool against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her hands caught his, moving them back to settle at her hips. “I… I don’t know… not right now,” she said. “Could you maybe just… just hold me.”

If his heart had been beating, it might have skipped. “My sweet, there is nothing I would like more.”

Astarion held her tight as she drifted off into her usual fitful trance. As his own mind wandered, he imagined how it might feel to peel Enver Gortash’s smirk right off his face.

The thought warmed him to his cold, undead core.

[tsuraiwrites]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Astarion/The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Nonbinary Tav, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added Characters: Original Characters, The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Lae'zel (Baldur's Gate), Shadowheart (Baldur's Gate), Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Isekai, oc-insert, Self-Insert, (for tagging purposes), Canon-Typical Violence, The Dark Urge spoilers, descriptions of animal butchery, Abuse of 5e Spells, Cannibalism, Polyamory, Explicit Sexual Content, Tags May Change, Modern Character in Baldur's Gate, Tav Uses He/They Pronouns, POV Multiple, Hive Mind Series: Part 1 of BG3 Fics Summary:

Dirge would like to make it clear that of all the planes of existence to get isekai’d to, one of the most popular fantasy murder worlds would not have made their chosen top ten.

[astarionbraiinrot]

Last Call

Chapter 1: Astarion

Sequel to One for the Road

Next Chapter

Read on AO3

It’s a few hours after dawn, and Astarion sits in the rocking chair near the bedroom window, just out of reach of the morning sun, contemplating the child in his arms. A tiny thing. Pudgy cheeks turned rosy after a successful first feed, courtesy of its mother. Pointed ears just slightly too big for its head. A mop of curly white hair in wild disarray. Pale green eyes squinting back at him with the slightly-disgruntled turnip-esque look inherent to newborns. A perfectly healthy baby boy, weighing in at just over seven pounds, and born at roughly 7-ish that morning, the first cries of this brand-new life coinciding with the dawning sun’s feeble attempts at projecting warmth into the midwinter chill of the frosty Nightal morning.

Looking back, the number seven had played a not-insignificant role in many of the major events of Astarion’s life. According to the records he and Tav had managed to dig up, he had been born near the end of Flamerule, the seventh month of the year, and he had died in that same month just a tenday shy of his fortieth birthday. He had been one of seven spawn, then one of seven thousand and seven. When he’d been kidnapped and tadpoled by Mindflayers, he’d quickly found himself part of a group of seven strangers traveling together to find a cure for the ticking timebombs in their brains. Then, almost as quickly, that group of strangers had become a party of seven friends-turned-adventurers on a quest to save the world. He’d stabbed Cazador fourteen times the night he'd taken back his life and regained his freedom, seven to kill him and seven more just because he deserved it. Their journey to defeat the Netherbrain and the Dead Three’s Chosen, from nautiloid to giant brain sinking into the Chionthar, took seven harrowing months. And he’d found out he was going to be a father for the first time just seven days before helping to crash that giant brain into the river. Now here he sat, making some rather embarrassing cooing noises he’d never admit to and gently rocking his seventh child.

Gods, his seventh child. He’d had months to wrap his head around the concept, and still, here he was, absolutely baffled as to how they’d gotten here. Even he could admit, privately, in his own mind, that seven was maybe a slightly unreasonable number of children to have. Especially for two Elves. Hells, most Elven couples barely managed two or three children over as many centuries, yet somehow, he and Tav had exceeded half a dozen in less than two decades. And while Elven children were uncommon, Dhampir were rarer still, with all sources firmly insisting that only True Vampires could sire them and that spawn were entirely sterile.

Shows what they know.

Even now, seven(!) children and almost twenty years later, they still truly had no idea why they were the exception to either rule. With their eldest, they had assumed it was a fluke of the tadpole (once he’d stopped hyperventilating long enough to have a conversation anyway). That, along with allowing him to walk in the sun, touch running water, and enter homes uninvited, it had temporarily knocked some part of his biology back close enough to “living” and whoops now they’re going to be parents. A once-in-an-unlifetime opportunity that had subsequently disappeared again along with all the tadpole’s other gifts.

It was a very sound theory too, if he did say so himself. Or at least it had been, right up until the moment Tav had informed him they’d managed the supposedly-impossible a second time. Or, more accurately, a second and third time, because clearly they were incapable of doing anything by halves. That time had coincided with some magical experimentation he’d undergone courtesy of Gale which, while not fully having the desired results, had given him an entire glorious month of being near-mortal enough to eat real food and walk in the sun. And so, once again, they’d made the (very reasonable in his opinion) decision to attribute this one to magic and unusual circumstances affecting biology in strange ways, blamed Gale this time, and got on with their lives as a happy family of five, confident in the knowledge that there was no chance of this happening again.

Of course, just over a year later when it did in fact very much happen again, they were forced to consider alternative causes to what was rapidly looking like the beginnings of a small army of children. Their friends’ theories had ranged from “killing Cazador could have made Astarion a True Vampire on a technicality,” to “the large number of lives lost in the Mindflayer invasion might have created a surplus of Elven souls waiting to reincarnate,” to the much more pragmatic “you are incapable of keeping your hands off one another and this is the expected result of such lack of willpower,” which to Lae’zel’s credit, was at the very least a contributing factor.

When the fifth one had happened a couple years later, followed rather quickly by the sixth not long after, he and Tav had decided that maybe it was time they sought out help with preventative measures. They’d paid Shadowheart a visit as soon as Tav was well enough to travel, hoping that her Clerical training and knowledge of medicine and potions would be up to the task. It was, and that had worked quite well for the next ten years, which turned out to be just long enough for them to get complacent, and now here they were again.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t wanted children, per se, moreso that they just hadn’t considered it could be an option since it wasn’t supposed to be possible, so they’d never really thought about whether they wanted to be preventing it or not until they’d already had four toddlers running around. But, unplanned as they were (and he never was good at plans anyway), he’d been relieved to find that loving them was not the arduous task he’d feared it might be. Quite the opposite, actually. He had not been prepared for just how much he could love them, these amazing little creatures that were somehow, miraculously, part him. But he did, with all the deepest parts of the heart he’d been sure he didn’t possess. Each one was a gift he’d never expected to receive, or even known he’d wanted, but gods was he so glad that they were here.

Even now, when he finds himself more and more wondering where the time has gone, one child just barely grown and most of the rest nearly there, all navigating life with grace and confidence and a drive for independence he knows they are ready for but he isn’t, happiness is the emotion he encounters the most these days. And, oh, wasn’t that just a kick to the chest? No one had told him that all the parts you prepare for, the crying, sleepless nights, toilet training, homework, sibling rivalries, puberty, broken hearts, dating, sleepless nights again, all the parts you expect to be hard, that those were actually the easy parts. No one had warned him that the hard part was having to put down the reins, letting them grow and navigate the world, seeing them try and fail and try again, fall and shake off the bruises and get back up. Spending the first half of their childhood hyper focused on keeping them safe, only for them to spend the second half excitedly forging a path out of that safety and into adventure as quickly as they can. He hadn’t known that watching his children experience life would feel like breaking his soul into pieces and setting them loose to run around outside his body discovering who they’ll be. Hadn’t prepared for an existence spent with his heart in his throat as he can only watch from the sidelines while they begin the journey of creating their own lives separate from him.

He absolutely does not get misty-eyed at that thought, and he’s only wiping his eyes because they itch, actually, and probably he’s suddenly developed a dust allergy just now because he definitely hasn’t shed even one tear over the idea of how quiet the house will be once they’re all grown and gone and he’s no longer spending his evenings pretending he can't hear the whispered giggles and gossip from their bedrooms as they utterly fail to hide the fact that they’re awake far too late for people who have school in the morning.

Gods, it must be terribly dusty in here.

Sitting here, holding his son and thinking about this family he’s built, it feels… strangely peaceful. A peace he knows will be shattered the moment the child in his arms turns his attention from scowling at his father to demanding another meal, but peaceful nonetheless. There wasn’t anything else that needed his attention at the moment. The midwife had attended to the cleanup before departing, making sure that the soiled bed linens were disposed of and replaced while he’d helped Tav to the bath and set about preparing her some breakfast. He’d sent a message to the neighbors asking them to inform the girls that their mother and new sibling were doing well and they could meet the baby when they got home from school and yes you still have to go to school today, yes really, yes I know I’m awful and mean and cruel and entirely unreasonable I love you anyway now go to school. Then he’d used their Sending Stone to ask Gale to please inform his eldest of the news and that he’d be sending funds for a teleportation circle to bring her home in a few days once her classes at Blackstaff were over for winter break, after which they’d had a brief discussion to adjust their holiday plans so that Gale’s family would now be coming to them for this year’s Winter Solstice Simril festival instead.

And so, with his to-do list cleared, he’d turned his mind to the task he’d been given by his darling wife, who was currently taking a well-earned rest in the bed nearby.

After both Tav and the baby had received a thorough bathing and a hearty meal, she’d placed their swaddled son in Astarion’s arms with instructions that their child needed a name, and since he was the one who’d insisted that they did not need to prepare a boy’s name, that meant he could do the work of coming up with one now while she would be taking a nap. And, if she awoke to find their son still nameless, she’d make the executive decision to name him after Gale. A very motivating threat, considering the man had already managed to lure away one of Astarion’s children into academia and wizardry of all things, a fact that he was not at all still minorly irritated over thank you very much, and he’d be damned if he’d let the wizard’s ego get any bigger by giving him a namesake on top of it. Absolutely not.

Thus, he’d spent the better part of the last hour considering this tiny new life and what moniker might fit him. A daunting task, really. Despite neither he nor Tav really being ones for tradition or holding to any particular religion, they knew that, for Elves, the choosing of a name was not something to be taken lightly, especially a child’s name. When they’d discovered they were expecting their eldest, finding out that they’d somehow accidentally done the supposedly-impossible and made an entire person at quite frankly the worst possible time had left them understandably quite anxious and a little terrified, so they had turned to Halsin for advice. In an effort to soothe their nerves, the druid had told them that, in Elven communities, a child’s birth was a momentous occasion, often drawing the entire neighborhood to gather and wait with eager anticipation for word of the new arrival. Once born, the child would be brought out by the new parents and presented to an elder relative, who would officially welcome them to the community by announcing the name chosen for them to those gathered. The name would usually reflect something unique about the child, or maybe convey what their presence meant to their parents, or might simply be a heartfelt wish for the child’s future. With rare exception, Elves would retain faint memories of these moments throughout their lives, even as other memories of childhood faded.

While hearing that had actually helped Tav to calm a little, it had done the exact opposite for Astarion, mostly just adding a layer of sadness to the fear coloring his already racing thoughts. The feeling that, by mere virtue of having no known family, they’d be denying their child what was apparently a core memory and treasured experience for their people, had broken some tiny little thing inside him, like a sliver off the edge of a pane of glass that leaves a weak point capable of shattering the rest. The whole thing just sounded so… nice. The thought of so many people eagerly awaiting your arrival, purely because your mere existence was a gift. The idea of being so wanted, so loved, before any of those gathered had even met you yet. He had wondered, briefly, if anyone had done that for him? Gathering around and celebrating simply because he was him and he was here. He had no memories of his mortal life, no family history to pass down or stories from his own youth that he could share with this child. Hells, he still had his childhood name, had died before he’d had the chance to even begin putting any thought into what name he might choose for himself when he came of age, what would represent who he had wanted to be.

Jaheira had told him at some point that his name meant “little star.” He’d had no idea. Had had no cause or opportunity to know it, and no one to ask even if he had. Was that how his parents had thought of him, a shining point of light, all bright and dazzling? He’d wanted to believe that there had been thought put into it. That someone had cared enough about his existence that they’d taken the time to find just the right name, one that would convey what they’d felt, hoped, dreamed for him. Though, whatever the intentions behind his name were, he was confident that he hadn’t lived up to them. He certainly hoped that none of what had occurred in the last two hundred years of his life and been on their wish list, anyway.

But, he’d thought, if he couldn’t provide this child with the ancestral welcome they deserved, then maybe the weird little family they’d somehow built out of a disparate group of traumatized worm-filled strangers could be enough. Maybe he could do for his own child what he’d decided to believe had been done for him and give them a name that was built on something good, something warm and positive, even if he was scared shitless at this whole situation.

And so, with that in mind, each of their children’s names had been chosen with the utmost care and reverence for the little life they’d made, with the hope that they would grow up feeling a connection and sense of belonging that neither he nor Tav had known, something to provide a root in the soil of the extended family they’d defied gods to build. A desperate wish that their children would always feel, no matter what, that they were loved, wholly and unconditionally, and know that home was always waiting for them.

The baby lets out a soft grunt and shifts in his blanket, at some point having chosen sleep over continuing to stare at his father while he’d been lost in thought. As Astarion takes in this tiny brand-new being, not even a half-day old, a surprise but welcome epilogue to a story they’d thought finished years ago, he tries to focus his tired mind on this important task laid at his feet. But it’s been over a day since he last tranced. The adrenaline of this whole event had kept him going for a while, but that had worn off hours ago, and while he’d pushed through the exhaustion to make sure that Tav and the baby were taken care of, he can feel himself losing the battle now that things have settled down. His eyes close without his permission. He leans back in the chair, cradling his son securely to his chest as muscle memory from the countless times he’s done this before slides over him like a well-worn glove. He inhales deeply, taking in that new baby smell he loves so much, and promises to himself that he’ll just rest his eyes for ten minutes.

Fifteen at most.

Definitely no more than twenty.

As he slips into Reverie, his mind drifts back to every time he’d been in this position over the years, and all the events that had led up to those moments, searching for inspiration. The initial fear that had reared its head less and less each time. The cautious excitement every time he first heard the faint double-time beat of a tiny heart. The wonder of feeling first kicks from a little creature so eager to make its presence known. The anxiety and thrill when there had been two. The pain and grief and terror when it had once gone so wrong. The adrenaline and panic and relief when it had once gone too right. The bone-deep exhaustion and elation and happy tears and pure joy that always came at the end when hearing that first cry. Each time, a small bundle gently placed in his arms. For each one, renewed awe that he could ever get to have something this unequivocally good. Always, a whispered introduction.

Hello, darling. It’s so nice to finally meet you.

Next Chapter

[loveyou-x3000]

𝕽𝖊𝖉: 𝕬𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓

When he leans low, you tilt your head to the side automatically, accustomed to the ritual of a vampire at your neck. His tongue runs rough and hot against your skin as he cleans away the blood and seals the wound shut. He doesn’t wipe his mouth when he rises, wearing your stain on his lips like a medal. When he kisses you, it tastes strange. The camp calms, though not all seem happy. Neither of you care what they think. “Forever, then,” he says. His hand is on the back of your neck, gripping. “You wretch.” You can’t disagree. With him, you are wretched.

Rated: Mature Words: 2,661 Pairing: Astarion/Tav (The Dark Urge)

[gale-dekarios]

...? what are you staring at? 🤨

⁽ʳᵃᵍⁿᵃʳ ᶦˢ ⁿᵒⁿ⁻ᵇᶦⁿᵃʳʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵘˢᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ/ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵖʳᵒⁿᵒᵘⁿˢ⁾

[jynrso]

i'll guide you through

this short oneshot was created because i was surprised that none of the other characters reacted during the dark urge "try and kill your love interest" scene in act 2. they all seemed to know about it in the morning, though, which made me think that they probably heard something. and then i figured that, the closer you get to act 3 and baldur's gate, the stronger the urge becomes. basically i think that the night in act 2 might be repeated more than once! thus: this fic was born this isn't connected to my other bg3 series – merely a standalone fic with a different protagonist! the player character in this fic uses they/them pronouns and remains unnamed to make this fic a little more ambiguous. read it on ao3!

This isn’t Tav’s first . . . episode –– and Shadowheart doubts it’ll be the last. 

As soon as their party crossed the boundary into Baldur’s Gate, their leader’s urges had become more frequent and insistent. On more than one occasion, she’s watched them begin speaking and then trail off, staring off into nowhere as their face grows whiter and whiter as the Urge whispers atrocities into their ear. While their little group all has varying degrees of success in snapping them out of their head, surprisingly enough, it’s Astarion who can really get through to them. 

But on nights like this one, where their screams and rabid howling pierce through the quiet, there’s often nothing that can be done except to wait it out. 

At the sound of pained growling, Shadowheart’s mind stalls on the line of the prayer she’d been reciting. She presses her lips together tightly, waiting a few seconds for the sound to die out, then restarts . . . only to once again get interrupted a few seconds later. 

Rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand, she looks wearily through the gap in her tent to the camp around her. Though all of them had turned in a few hours ago, she doubts any of her companions are actually asleep. The atmosphere is tense, on edge, and thick with worry; they’re all waiting for the episode to end or if they’re needed, just in case. 

Waiting to see if Astarion can’t handle them on his own. 

The vampire has managed fine so far but they all hear the vitriol spat clearly in his direction when the Urge takes control. As he’s told everyone time and time again, Astarion claims he's good with rope (she has no intention of finding out whether that’s true), but even the strongest of restraints break eventually. And if they were to get loose in this state. . .the damage they could do, not only to their companions but to themself.

Sighting, Shadowheart shifts away from the tent’s opening, officially giving up on her attempt at prayer. Instead, she turns to the unfinished healing potion she’d abandoned earlier, herbs scattered in one corner of her space. It’s a mindless enough task and a useful one, too; after what they’d been through in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, their supplies could use restocking. 

“Knock, knock!” Astarion’s voice startles her; as soon as she hears it, she tenses up, arm moving for her weapon before she realizes just who it is. “I’m coming in, regardless of what ––  or who –– you’re doing in there.” 

Underneath his mask of false cheerfulness, when Astarion enters the tent, Shadowheart can see the exhaustion hanging off of him. His usual dark circles appear puffier and more prominent underneath his eyes. His shoulders slump forward, his body tight with anxiety even though he tries to hide it, puffing himself up with an overly exaggerated and obviously false sense that nothing is wrong. She doesn’t know why he needs to hold up appearances when everyone in camp knows the situation but she doesn’t question it; if this is what he needs to do to cope, then it’s not her place to say otherwise. 

His presence, however, is unexpected, leaving dozens of possibilities running through her mind, ranging from bad to worse. Surely he wouldn’t have left their side if things were bad? Surely he wouldn’t be pretending like this and cracking half-hearted jokes if something were truly wrong?

Doing her best to stay calm, she asks evenly, “Is everything all right?” 

“Everything is fine ,” he stresses. When she levels him with a stare, he holds up his hands and adds, “Well, fine considering the, ah, current situation . They’re resting. Or –– trying to.” 

“A sleep potion might help,” she muses to herself, mind whirring through possibilities. She feels. . .well, if she can’t be there with them, then maybe her knowledge of magic can help. “Or Gale could try ––” 

“They’ve tried that already,” Astarion snaps. The frustration that he’d been trying hide begins to slip into his voice –– it’s not at her, she suspects, but at the situation. All of them feel powerless but Astarion likely more than anyone else. “The godsdamned Urge is stronger than that. Nothing fucking works!” 

Shadowheart crosses her arms over her chest, saying nothing and waiting. 

After a few seconds, he sighs, shoulders slumping. One hand runs through his uncharacteristically mussed hair. “I . . . didn’t come here to yell at you.” 

“You haven’t scared me away yet,” she says mildly. 

“I shouldn’t linger too long but. . .” he glances over his shoulder in the direction of his tent. The camp remains silent for now but she doubts it’ll be this way for long. “Look, do you have any extra healing potions or –– or something? The rope is rubbing their wrists raw and bloody, so I thought . . . ” 

Shadowheart softens, understanding why he’s come to her specifically. “Lucky for you, I just finished crafting one.” 

She hands him the vial. He clutches it tightly in his hand, holding it protectively close to his chest. But when he opens his mouth again, presumably to offer her another attempt at a light-hearted quip, she raises a hand and cuts him off before that. 

“Do you need anything?” she asks pointedly. 

Astarion frowns, drawing himself up. Confusion etches itself across his expression. “Not that I’m not flattered you ask but why ––” 

Best to lay it out plainly. She’s not offering anything but if he asks. . . “I can’t imagine it’s easy being around their blood all night.” 

A beat. And then––

“How dare you,” Astarion seethes, eyes flashing. He takes a step forward but she doesn’t back away, chin raising in the face of his anger. “How dare you suggest that I can’t control myself or –– or that I would ever hurt them!” 

Shadowheart clenches her jaw, meeting his steely words with some of her own. “Excuse me for worrying about them when they’re already vulnerable.” 

“They have nothing to worry about, not with me,” he hisses. “The rest of you? Who’s to fucking say! But not with me. ” 

Her instinct is to throw a rebuttal, to retort and say he’s the only one who had hurt them so far with how frequently he takes their blood, but the words don’t come. Instead, she bites her tongue and takes a second to study him. 

She’s never trusted him, not fully, but right now, she sees nothing but devotion in his eyes. Devotion to them. He really believes what he’s saying to be true, she realizes. The blaze of anger he feels toward her is not on his behalf, but on theirs. 

“Besides,” he mutters, almost to himself. “It’s not like they can’t take care of themself, even when they’re like this.” 

Though he’s the only one who’s directly faced the Urge at its peak, they’d all seen what had happened to the bard who’d stayed at their camp near Emerald Grove. Nobody wants that to happen again. But if it does . . . it’s Astarion who’s on the front line. He’ll do whatever he can to subdue them, even at the cost of himself. 

(Later, once the Urge has fled the next morning and they’ve all gotten the chance to properly rest, Shadowheart realizes that this is the first time she’s seen Astarion be selfless, to worry about someone else more than he worries about himself. It’s an unfamiliar, almost jolting change in his personality –– but not necessarily an unwelcome one, especially when it’s directed toward them.) 

“All right,” she acquiesces finally. “You should get back to them. Before anything happens.” 

He nods stiffly, turning to go. 

There’s a slight pang of guilt in her chest for questioning him but she pushes it away. He’s not the only one in their camp who cares for the leader, even if he sometimes forgets. So just before he leaves, she offers up in an attempt at an olive branch, “If you need a break, everyone is up. Just . . . let one of us know.” 

Eyebrows narrowing, his mouth opens in preparation to snap at her again. His fangs flash in the low light of her tent, every inch a predator, but then he pauses, lips pressing together, head cocking to the side. 

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of hearing my darling tell me all the ways they want to murder me in graphic detail?” A half-smile tugs up at the corner of his lips but then he softens. “It’s not up to me but . . . I’ll ask them. When I can.” 

Shadowheart lingers in the entrance of the tent for a few seconds, watching as Astarion ducks down and enters his own. His presence seems to have reawakened the Urge; moments later, the angry muttering begins again, steadily growing in heat and volume. 

Astarion has it handled, for now. Still, she wishes there was more that she could do for them. They’d been with her every step of the way, especially in the aftermath of confronting the Nightsong. 

And yet there’s nothing she can do for them when they need it. 

With an ache in her chest, Shadowheart turns back to where she’d been grinding up herbs for the next batch of potions. This she can do. When they need healing for physical wounds, either tomorrow morning or further in the future, she’ll have her magic and potions ready. 

Moon maiden, keep them safe . . .

[theskeletoninthegarden]

“Was that a pun?” Quinntav’s composure cracked. They fell forward, covering their face with their hands, that damned tail whipping behind them. They were giggling. “I’m so, so sorry!” The shirt had risen upward, giving the most wonderful view of their ass, but-. “Are you commending my holiness with word play?” They turned their head up enough he could spy their grin as they replied: “Is that not also a kink?” Astarion smothered his eyes with the meat of his palms, groaning in agony. “Why did I think seducing a clown would yield any other result?”

[enseea]

Clarion Call, Ch. 5: Astarion’s Interlude: Act 1.

Chapter Summary: Astarion's nice, simple plan, and all the ways in which it went wrong from the very beginning.

Story Summary: After receiving Bhaal's retribution in the form of Orin's dagger through her skull, The Dark Urge remembers nothing of her past.

But Astarion does. Faced with the prospect of finally coming face to face with the woman who promised to bring him a bloodbath to feast on, he struggles between his fear of her and the fated nature of their bond.

Akhaten and Astarion. Two mice stuck on the same never-ending wheel, this is the story of how they find their freedom from their masters, and from each other.

Series: blood in the water (part 3)

Relationship: Astarion/The Dark Urge

Tags: Soulmate AU, Enemies to Lovers, [eventual] Redemption!Dark Urge. Not your usual soulmate AU, not your usual Durgestarion. Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort.

Warning for Astarion’s trauma and Durge being Durge.

Read a snippet of chapter 5 below!

“What had he done?

It was the only question that ran through his mind, over and over and over again, as he nearly ran back to camp. He’d left her there, lost in whatever vision someone like her was wont to have, had been incapable of doing anything but running.

He kept throwing glances over his shoulder. Was she following him? Was she hunting him?

Did she, he wondered with a drop of ice in his stomach, did she know who he was?

The thought was nearly too much to bear. His throat was tightening, just like the metaphorical chains around his wrists.

She was here. She was here. She was here.”