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slothquisitor · 4 months

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What Moves in the Dark: Chapter Eleven

A post-campaign Baldur’s Gate 3 eldritch horror AU.

Chapter summary: There is fear and there is longing, and there are realizations that shouldn't amount to anything. *cups your face gently in my hands* Please remember this is a horror AU.

Read from the beginning.

Read on AO3.

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Liv is almost positive that she fucked up.

It had seemed to her an innocuous enough offer: Astarion needed blood, and she could provide that. She just hadn’t anticipated…the rest of it.

The way he had clung to her like a drowning man, the feel of him against her back, and the way he had looked absolutely wrecked when he had released her and stepped away, her blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. His eyes had been round with momentary surprise until his face had shifted into something less kind…and then he had simply left.

Perhaps it had been her hand on his, the casual contact, the way she’d leaned into him. Or perhaps he had been annoyed at her insistence, felt that she had pushed him into biting her in the first place. Perhaps he had realized what she has slowly come to accept, that there’s no real point in denying now: she cares for him. And perhaps, he’d rather she didn’t.

It’s stupid, probably. She’s pretty sure every bit of his flirtatious demeanor is borne of habit instead of actual interest in her, but after they’d left the Caldwell’s and he’d held tightly to her hand, her heart had been filled with wild hope.

It’s been a while since she was with anyone since she had let anyone close enough. But Astarion has surprised her, in more ways than one. She wishes she knew what he was thinking as he left. She wishes she knew exactly what all his overt flirtations were hiding. But mostly, she wishes he had stuck around long enough for them to at least talk about it.

But he hadn’t, so she drinks a potion of restoration to banish her headache and her shaking hands and trudges up the stairs to bed.

She startles awake to a clattering noise from downstairs. Or, at least she thinks she does. Living alone above the shop has been a bit of an adjustment. It’s not uncommon for her to be startled awake by something, sure it is a noise from the shop only for it to be nothing at all. It’s early, or late, judging by the lack of light creeping beneath her curtained window. She pulls her blankets up and takes stock of herself. She still has the remnants of a headache and the faint ache at her neck where Astarion had bitten her. In the darkness, she runs her hands lightly over the wound.

And then there is a loud crashing noise.

Has someone managed to break in? No, that would be next to impossible. The shop has wards and enchantments against that sort of thing. But then, perhaps whoever it is powerful enough to dispel them. Maybe it’s Kharis? But he would have contacted if he was coming back so soon. Her heart begins to pound as her mind filters through possibilities in a blind panic.

Quietly as she can, she creeps downstairs, stepping carefully around every creaking floorboard. The clattering and rattling continue, and Liv thinks she hears the sound of glass shattering too.

Once on the main floor, her first glance is to the front door, but the lock is still steadfastly turned, and no windows are shattered. Which means that whoever it is, they must have come in through the workroom.

Liv peers around the counter, towards the open door that leads to the workroom. There is no light coming from the room, and from her limited vantage point, she cannot see any movement either. She readies a spell, feeling the flame dancing on her fingertips as she steps into the room.

To find it empty.

The back door is still shut and locked, the windows whole and intact, but to her left, she can see the lead-lined safe she’d stored the blood in has toppled over, the door to the safe hangs at an odd angle, and every single vial of blood is smashed to pieces. There is no blood spatter though. If she hadn’t known it, she would have guessed those vials had been empty all along.

Did someone break in here to take the blood? Has the blood somehow called someone here?

She steps nearer to the safe, careful of the shards of broken glass. She’s sure now that there’s no one with her in the small room. There’s nowhere for them to hide now that she’s stepped fully inside. She dismisses the flames from her hands, and instead, calls up globes of light.

Off to her right, she sees some skittering movement. She reaches for her magic again, focusing on the familiar feel of it to calm her nerves. But whatever it is, it’s not moving at her…it just crouches on the ground, stationary.

It..is no larger than a cat, but that is where every resemblance to something familiar ends. The thing in front of her is made up of tiny tendrils, growing and reaching and branching and twisting on themselves. The tendrils reach and branch, and then seem to reach the edge of their movement only to be drawn back into the mass. This…thing had to have been the source of the noise. Liv had long wondered what would happen if the blood from the vials that seemed so desperate to reach its other parts, actually met…and now she’s seeing it.

Curiosity or pure stupidity pushes her forward, closer towards this mass. To call it blood at this point seems incorrect. It is far too viscous, too solid for that. She doesn’t dare touch it, but she wants to know if she can coax it into a container…if there is something that could hold it at all. She’s mentally calculating what spells might be useful, but then she rubs at her neck, accidentally bumping the still-fresh bite marks. She hisses as her hand comes away red with her own blood.

It is as if time itself has frozen. The branching and twisting immediately cease. Liv freezes too, stomach bottoming it out.

And then it lunges for her.

She dodges out of the way, just missing the chaos of broken glass behind her. She scrambles to her feet trying to put as much distance between herself and whatever the hells that thing is. It has changed direction and is moving toward her again blindly banging into cupboards and table legs and chairs. The tendrils act like hundreds of legs, and it is moving so much faster than she even knew was possible. She shoots a firebolt at it, but the flames go wide, missing it entirely as she desperately tries to get away.

She leaps for the door to the outside of the shop just as it springs towards her neck. Her foot catches on the rug, and she knows she’s going down, knows that this is bad unless she can do something. Anything .

She instinctively brings her hands up to protect herself and then, in an act of pure unmitigated desperation, a conglomeration of flames explode from her hands.

The thing…or whatever the hells it is burns white hot and then dissolves into light. And it is over. The adrenaline fades as quickly as it had come, and now she can feel the bruising along her side, pain radiating from her leg. She lays there on the floor of the workroom, still caught halfway into the shop proper, and lets the minutes tick by in silence as she struggles to get in a breath that’s not laced with unadulterated panic.

Time passes, she’s not sure how much, and then she’s on her feet, picking up the broom and jumping into cleaning up the mess left behind. The rote, banality of the task allows the panic to finally subside. All of the blood is gone. They have no more samples, no ability to test anything. There is nothing left of whatever attacked her, and without her injuries or the mess in the workroom, it’s hard to believe it happened at all.

Now, she realizes with slow dawning horror, that she knows how the other victims became infected. Moira had complained about a cut on her hand, Alfran had many cuts and scrapes across his skin, complained it had been an occupational hazard. Iona said her symptoms all started after she’d sliced her finger on a metal washboard…Liv touches the wound at her neck and her panic returns.

Could she be infected now too? Did any part of that thing, even a small tendril enter her bloodstream? Fuck.

She tells herself that this is going to be fine, and not only that, but she is going to have confirmation that she’s fine when Astarion drops by the shop tonight. And then she can tell him everything. So she busies herself writing down as many notes as she can, opening the shop for the day, and working on too little sleep.

When night falls, it is a relief. But he doesn’t come.

***

Astarion finds himself at his research tables more out of habit than any real desire to read or research or do anything else this morning. He hasn’t left Ramazith’s Tower since the other night…since his ill-fated choice to drink Liv’s blood. There are a lot of things he should have done last night, the least of which being checking in with Devalla and hoping for a contract, so he can avoid repeating whatever the hells had happened with him and Liv ever again. But he hadn’t felt like dealing with any of it, so he’d stayed here…and whiled away the hours rather uselessly. Now it’s morning, and he couldn’t bear to look at the walls of his room any longer, so he’s here.

He sinks down heavily into one of the chairs and buries his head in his hands. He’s not sure how in the hells he’s managed to mangle his life so badly in the course of a single evening, but he has. He’s not stupid; he’ll have to face Liv eventually, but if he’s lucky, he can put it off until the party at the Caldwells’. It’s two days away, and that ought to give him time to figure out how the hells he should deal with this. Come up with some explanation she might accept.

The truth of the matter is that the desire for her hadn’t faded when his hunger had. He had wanted to give her so many pretty lies. He hadn’t wanted to stop touching her, was simultaneously desperate and terrified of what might happen if she touched him back. The last thing he wants is for her to become a regret.

Anything with Liv would be…impossible. She would want something resembling a relationship, and beyond the fact he’s never actually done that, he can’t even go home with someone from a bar to have a good time. He has nothing to offer her beyond more burdens to carry. She already carries so much, how selfish would it be to ask her for more?

But he thinks he might want to try. She’d be kind…patient. She wouldn’t push him…and perhaps it would be alright…at first. But at some point, she’s bound to tire of him and the little he has to offer. So, perhaps it’s better to pretend the other night never happened. Let her believe him unaffected as if touching her and drinking her blood hadn’t left a mark upon his very soul.

He presses the heel of his hands into his eyes and takes a steadying breath. He really ought to do something rather than think about this.

“Astarion?” He glances up to see Lia cresting the far stairs grinning mischievously. “You have a visitor.”

A visitor? Who in the hells would come look for him here? If it’s Percy, he’s going to throw him out the window. “Oh?”

Lia is practically bouncing, her orange eyes bright. “She said her name was Liv.”

“Liv is here?” His excitement is slowly eclipsed by dread.

She beams. “Should I send her up?”

It occurs to him that he does have some choice in the matter, and while he would have preferred a bit more time before seeing her, perhaps this is better, best to get all the unpleasantness out of the way now. And then they can move right along, keep working together, and helping one another. “Yes, of course.”

He waits until Lia has disappeared down the stairs before smoothing his hair into something that feels presentable. He’s dressed rather casually this morning, in his favorite, but rather threadbare shirt. He’s bought others, but he still prefers this one. He adjusts the cream-colored sleeve and wonders why he cares what Liv might think at all. Then he picks up the nearest book, opening it up and hoping that he looks far more productive when Liv appears than he had for Lia.

When Liv ascends the stairs, she looks the same as ever, hair pulled back in some complicated-looking braid, dressed in a soft purple blouse that ties at her waist. She always looks so put together, and this morning is no different, but there is something strained about it. She looks paler than usual.

“Are you al-”

“We need to talk,” she says, words rushed and cutting him off.

And then he knows something really is wrong. His stomach sinks. He’d crossed a line when he drank her blood, clinging to her the way he had…and this is it…this is where she tells him that they’re done. “What’s wrong?”

Liv’s usual unaffected demeanor drops then, and there is real fear in her eyes. “Does my blood smell infected to you?”

“Oh, shit.”

There are tears pooling in her eyes. “Is that a yes?”

He stands up and strides over to her, noticing then that she’s very nearly trembling. He steps near enough to smell her, the beautiful bouquet of her blood. He’d recognize her anywhere now. “No,” he says hastily, “you smell like yourself.”

She nods, blinking away her tears. “Oh good, that’s a relief.”

“Liv, what in the hells happened?”

She bows her head as if the weight hasn’t truly lifted off her yet. “The blood is all gone, Astarion. I…um…I woke up in the middle of the night the other night to noises coming from downstairs…and so I went to investigate and see what it was…and when I got into the workroom…the blood…it had…broken out? It formed together into a thing and it was moving..and I figured out how it infected people…how it…”

With every word, she is becoming more and more difficult to understand. “Slow down. The blood broke out of the vials?”

She nods finally meeting his gaze, eyes still wide with fear. “And then it became a creature of some sort. It wasn’t doing anything, didn’t seem like it was really reacting to anything at all…but then I rubbed at my neck and then I was bleeding and…it…it attacked me. It’s blood…open wounds. That’s how it infects people.”

And she had only had a wound because of him. “I should never have bitten you,” he breathes, filled with dread.

“That is not the point! The point is that I had to kill it…I lit it on fire and it just…disappeared into light. And now, we don’t have any more blood.” He’s not sure he’s ever seen her this upset, and he wants more than anything to offer her some degree or measure of comfort, but he has no idea how to do that. What that would even look like. How does one offer a comforting touch? He’s not sure he’s ever tried.

He settles for words instead, voice low and steady. “We can get more blood. I’m more concerned about you.”

She shakes her head. “The party at the Caldwells’ is in two days. Our entire plan hinged on using the blood to guide us around-”

“We can get more blood,” he repeats firmly.

She stares at him in disbelief, but her expression loses some of its frantic concern. He keeps his own gaze fixed on her as if he could will her to be alright through a glance alone. The moment stretches, and he wonders if this is where he should reach for her, place a hand on her arm or shoulder, tell her that it’s alright. But then, she glances away from him, and the moment evaporates into smoke as if it was never there at all.

“You’re being awfully calm about this.”

He shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t the one attacked by a blood monster.”

That gets a breathy, exasperated chuckle out of her as she collapses rather heavily into the nearest chair. She runs a hand down her face. “I haven’t slept since it happened.”

He doesn’t like seeing this version of her, scared, exhausted, and anxious. Liv, who is always calm, always so meticulously put together. It occurs to him that her even allowing him to see this is likely a sign of trust, and he’s sure he doesn’t deserve it. Especially when she had to march all the way up here to quell her fears about being infected, all because he had been too much of a coward to face her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s not sure for what.

He watches her bury it, the fear and anxiety. Watches her slip right back into her usual unflappable self. Her calmness is just as much a mask as his overt flirtations. That he sees it at all is a testament to how tired she must be.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” he says because he knows where her thoughts have gone, how she must be blaming herself for something completely unforeseeable.

She nods, but she doesn’t look like she believes him. She stands quickly, glancing toward the stairs. “Sorry to barge in on you uninvited.”

That polite distance is back; it annoys him. “It’s fine, really. I did tell you that Rolan said you were welcome here. There are plenty of books that might interest you.”

She perks up a bit at that, and it’s a relief.

“I’ve pulled everything about Netheril I could find,” he says, gesturing to the side of the table piled with books and scrolls.

She looks at the table, the books and scrolls, the interest clear before glancing back at him. “I wasn’t planning on opening the shop this morning. If you wanted, we could try a few spells in the daylight, and see if any of the theories work.”

Something about the offer doesn’t sit right with him. Perhaps it is because she had come here in such a state, or because of the tremulous hope in her eyes as she makes it. But he is a selfish man, and he worries that if he says no, she will leave. And suppose her spell does work, and he could walk in the sun again? It’s too much to pass up.

He really should let her go. “I’d like that.”

***

Ramazith’s Tower is rife with magic. It hangs in the air, thick as cobwebs, twice as cloying. The columns and banisters are warm, twisting gold, and bookshelves surround the space. She hardly trusts her own eyes in a place this thick with magic, and exhausted on top of that? The whole damn place sets her teeth on edge.

But there are so many books, so it might be worth putting up with.

Besides, she’s not interested in going back to the shop right now, still rattled as she is. There’s a relief in Astarion confirming that she’s not infected, but that doesn’t banish all her fears, the memory of being attacked in her own space. She’s sure it will just take time, but she’s not sure how long she can keep going like this.

But she hadn’t wanted to leave Astarion just yet. She’s not sure she’s allowed to say that, allowed to feel that way. So she offered him magic because what else does she have except the only thing he has ever asked of her? Perhaps if she gives him a means of walking in the sun, he’ll still stick around. And then she’ll know it’s because he wants to and not because she dangled out her help to him as a condition. Perhaps then she’ll know what it means when he looks at her and tells her he’s sorry, as if the apology is covering a multitude of sins never perpetrated against her.

He is limned in golden light, his curls white in the sun. When she comments on it, he explains that Rolan and Gale (of Waterdeep, it’s still odd to hear him mention these names so casually) had enchanted most of the windows in the tower so that he can move about the space without worry or concern. It also means they have to climb a few floors to find a balcony window that isn’t enchanted.

She glances outside, at the city spread out below them, the morning fog burning off in the bright sunlight. She can see the river and the harbor, the High Hall. The city still wears some scars from up here. How long will it take to banish them completely through the city’s pure stubbornness?

There’s no seating near the window, so Liv situates herself on the ground, tailor fashion, and pulls out her notes. Astarion joins her, sitting near enough to the shaft of sunlight thrown onto the blood-red carpet. His presence is more distracting than she remembers. She keeps finding herself sneaking glances at him.

He looks like a disheveled hero out of a romance novel. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing his forearms in a way that should be innocuous but feels almost obscene. His shirt is unlaced down his chest, and for the first time, she gets a good look at the bite marks along his neck, she looks away from them quickly only to realize she’s now staring at his bare chest peeking out of his shirt, and somehow that’s worse.

“It will probably take some trial and error,” she reminds him as she opens her spellbook and looks back over a spell she already has memorized.

Astarion’s mouth twists up in amusement. “Yes, you’ve said. Trust me, I do not have overblown expectations.”

“If the protection doesn’t work, it will hurt.”

He looks nonplussed. “I’ve had worse.”

With one more glance at her notes, she looks back at him. “I’ll need to touch you to cast the spell.”

He’s sitting close enough that it would be easy to reach out and touch any part of him, but she doesn’t, worried that somehow it might give her away. They both seem determined to not mention what happened the other night and perhaps it’s better this way. He slowly extends his hand to her, palm out and open. His gaze seems to burn into her, and she barely hears his words over the way her heart speeds up.

“Alright?” he raises an eyebrow, and she realizes she’s been staring at his open palm for too long. She immediately takes it, avoiding the intimacy of threading their hands together, and instead trying to hold his hand as clinically as possible. There’s still a sort of buzzing electricity when she touches him, and she’s far too aware of the cool smoothness of his hands.

She banishes all thoughts of hands and touching and casts the spell. Her magic answers in a deafening roar, and she can feel the power of this spell, the way it twists through the Weave. This isn’t the first time she’s cast the spell, but it is the first time she’s cast it on anyone but herself. She can see the magical barrier form around him, before shimmering down on his form. She releases his hand the moment she’s done casting.

His gaze lifts from his empty hand to meet hers, a complicated look in his eyes. “Well, I suppose I should give this a go?”

“The spell lasts for eight hours or until I dismiss it, so you have all the time in the world.”

He glares at her and then thrusts his hand into the bright sunlight. She picks up her notebook and readies herself to take note of what happens, and for a moment…nothing does.

“Well, that’s very odd.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Like…nothing,” Astarion says, voice far away. “I can’t feel the heat of it or anything.”

She writes that down. “No temperature differential change at all?”

He slides his hand out of the sunlight and back in, testing it. “None.”

And for a bright, shining moment, she thinks she might have cracked this on the first try. “Well, that’s good, right?”

Astarion looks at her, a genuine smile on his face. “You brilliant wizard, you.”

The words are said with such sincerity, such wonder she can’t help but beam back. But then his smile fades as he hisses, pulling his hand back and holding it to his chest. “Oh, well, it was nice while it lasted.”

His skin is bright and cracked and blistered. He sees her staring at it. “Don’t worry, it’s already healing.”

Well, she’d rather like to see that. She leans in a bit. “May I?"

He extends his hand, and she reaches up to gingerly take his fingers, watching as his skin weaves itself together. The longer she watches, the more the marks fade until she is looking down at perfect, unblemished skin. She has the ridiculous urge to press a kiss against his knuckles.

She doesn’t.

“Well, that is rather fascinating,” she says, releasing his hand. “And that was informative. Let me make a few adjustments.”

He is blinking at her owlishly, and she’s not sure if it’s the magic of this tower or something else entirely, but everything between them seems stretched taut as if something is pulling at them both. She pushes it aside, buries it deep, and tells herself it’s better that way.

#astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #what moves in the dark #astarion x liv #slothquisitorwrites #listen besties #i posted this on ao3 at 8 am like a chaos gremlin #and only just got time between end of term grading to post it here #so i'm sorry for that #but also #eh.#lol

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