Chapter Text
As his son grew up, King Ulder could not risk visiting him himself, less Mizora figured out where he was hiding him, but he sent letters as often as he could.
He spared no expense for his son in an effort to make up for his absence. Everyone he sent to take care of him sang praises about Wyll— a kind and polite boy who worked hard in his studies. As Wyll began to learn how to read and write, he would start to send letters of his own back to his father, telling him about his day and what he was learning.
He asked, often, why Ulder could not see him and why he could not join him in Baldur’s Gate. Ulder continued to avoid the question.
But Ulder kept every single one of them. It pained him to be away from his son, but he was safer away from the kingdom. Once Ulder knew the curse was gone, Wyll could join him at his side, and they would be reunited once more.
The years passed and Ulder kept in touch. Then, one day, seven years after the birth of his son, he was visited by a devil he had not seen since the celebration.
Ulder tried to cleave her head off her body. He was unsuccessful and Mizora had simply laughed at him for the attempt.
“Oh dear Ulder, are you still bitter?” Mizora tsked. “You changed the curse, didn’t you? Eternal sleep isn’t so bad.”
“Eternal sleep, broken by true love’s kiss.” Ulder corrected. He memorized the conditions years ago.
“Oh, my mistake.” Mizora’s smile didn’t waver. “But do you truly believe that such a fairytale concept will save your son?”
Ulder didn’t answer. Mizora gave him a pitying look and did not hide her amusement from it.
“Enough.” Ulder leveled his blade at her. “You are not welcome here, nor will you ever be again. Leave.”
“Of course.” Mizora said easily. “Perhaps I should visit your son. He lives in such a lovely little house now. Just at the edge of a meadow— have you ever seen it?”
Ulder’s heart stopped at the implications of her words. Mizora’s smile sharpened.
“A clever thought, sending him away. But you should really be more careful of who you trust.” Mizora told him, lowering her voice. “I have eyes everywhere.”
She vanished again, just as quickly as she came. Ulder stood motionless for quite some time.
When he finally shook the dread off, he got to work. Within the week, Ulder had a new home for Wyll to move to, a new set of staff to teach and care for him, and more safety precautions to ensure that Wyll would not be found by Mizora again.
It still didn’t feel like enough.
—
The bed was still solid. The blankets were still warm. The wrapping around his leg had actually gotten a bit darker and would need to be changed.
Astarion safely concludes that the events of yesterday were not a result of a hallucination or strange dream of any sort. Even so, he still has a hazy feeling in his head. He’s snapped out of his trance but Astarion is still exhausted— and hungry. Very hungry.
A soft groan escapes him. Astarion rubs his eyes and tries to think.
A part of him wants to return to trancing but he already was under for an hour or two longer than usual. He was doing that before too, like suddenly all of his exhaustion was deciding to crash on him the second he was running from Cazador. Just his luck, really.
Astarion shakes his head. He needs to focus.
He’s still in someone else’s house— Wyll’s, he remembers. Wyll, the strange human with an insistence to help the first person he saw and with a small army of songbirds at his back. Astarion was still wrapping his head around the latter part— the man had at least a dozen birds living in his house. Freely. Willingly.
Astarion really shouldn’t stay. As soon as night comes, Astarion needs to be on the road, getting further and further away from Baldur’s Gate. From Cazador.
Counting today, Astarion has been free from Cazador’s grasp for five days. It’s strangely dizzying to think about, so Astarion decides he won’t think about it for long. No, not until he was far, far away and somewhere where he could hide out for a while.
Cazador would find him otherwise.
Cazador would always find him. He wouldn’t let him go unless he was dead, and Cazador was— he was damn near unkillable. Others had tried. Astarion would bend to his will with a word. He would suffer for this. Every day away from him could be another year in the tomb— another decade in the tomb—
Astarion’s nails dug into his skin. No, no, he couldn’t— he couldn’t think like that. Focus. He needed to focus.
Deal with Wyll. It likely wasn’t sunset yet and seeing how Astarion needed to make good on his promise for company, he would need to entertain. Wyll had yet to ask for any of his usual type of entertainment, but Astarion would be ready if he did. When he did, likely.
But if Astarion could slip away before he did, then he wouldn’t have to worry about unpaid debts. Astarion could just take and run and care about little else.
There were no windows in the room, nor a clock, so Astarion couldn’t tell exactly what time it was, nor how long it would take until sundown. Wyll had said it was a guest room and while it indeed had a bed, it was painfully obvious Wyll had been using it for storage until that point. There were a few trunks and chests stuffed with supplies, as well as more of those perches nailed into the wall.
So many damned birds. He kept drifting back to that thought. What kind of person keeps that many birds in their house?
The answer, of course, is rather easy, because Astarion met the man. Wyll, who lives in a house in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but birds and whatever other beasts happen to visit for company. Why he chooses to live like that is beyond Astarion. Some do like the solitary life, but from his few interactions from last night, Astarion doubts Wyll is among them.
He had been so eager to help. Eager to talk to someone. Eager to please.
Astarion entertains the idea of wrapping him around his finger, then dismisses it. Staying would only run the risk of revealing exactly what manner of creature he is. He's looking for an escape, not a stake through the heart. Though, he supposes, both would mean escaping Cazador at the very least.
But he would very much like to stay alive and out of his grasp, thank you.
Slowly, Astarion coaxes himself into silently slipping out of bed. He winces the moment he applies pressure to his bad leg but tests it. It doesn’t hurt as bad as before but it’ll be hell to walk on until he heals properly. Vampiric regeneration unfortunately only truly kicks in once he’s actually had some blood to feed on, something he’ll have to remedy later.
For now, it’s doable. Astarion has beared worse to be certain.
His steps are still much slower than he would like as he pushes himself towards the door. His hand curls around the door knob, then pauses.
He hears… Talking. Very faint, but there. Wyll talking.
“—bring her an apology later. Then maybe she won’t be so on guard around harmless strangers. Yes, harmless, he didn’t exactly have a weapon on him. Oh, that doesn’t count. We don’t even know that for sure— stop looking at me like that, I’ll ask later. At an appropriate time.”
Carefully, Astarion opens the door as silently as he can manage but winces when it makes a creek.
Wyll is at the kitchen counter, head snapping to attention and smiling the second he sees him. Astarion can’t see anyone else but notes how nearly all of the songbirds are surrounding Wyll, a few hovering right next to his ear.
Some of the tension leaves Astarion’s shoulders. “Talking to birds again?” He asks mildly.
Wyll ducks his head, bashful. “They have quite a lot to say if you let them. Ah, are you feeling any better?”
“Enough to be standing.” Astarion tells him. He suppresses a wince but there’s no hiding that he has to limp to sit down at one of the two chairs provided.
Wyll opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops and seems to come to a realization. “Shit— my sincerest apologies, Astarion, but I haven’t gotten my spells back yet.”
Astarion waves him off, then pauses to think what that means. “Don’t spellcasters usually become refreshed after a good night’s rest?”
“That’s where I draw short, I’m afraid.” Wyll admits. “I didn’t quite finish resting last night. I went to bed late and the flock woke me to tell me about you. A— ah— hunter in the woods. Not an everyday occurrence.”
Astarion gets the distinct impression they did not call him a ‘Hunter’ but decides he shouldn’t care what a couple of birds said about him. Though he does spare a dry look in their direction— they’ve taken to shadowing Wyll again. Astarion can’t tell if it’s so Wyll will protect them from him, or the other way around.
“I see. Didn’t get much sleep after you so graciously helped me last night?” Astarion says at last. The flatter is not lost on Wyll and he has to avert his eyes to reply.
“Wasn’t tired enough to sleep— and it was just about dawn so I figured I might as well stay up and get started for the day. I actually—” Wyll starts to say, then hesitates. Before Astarion can prod, one of the birds tweets loudly and pecks at his shoulder. Wyll winces slightly but shoots a look towards the bird in question before sighing. “Astarion, I… Need to ask you something.”
“Oh?” Astarion keeps his voice light, hiding just how wary that question makes him. He attempts to loosen up, propping his head up with his hand. It’s always hard to judge when he has no reflection to base it off of, however.
“Once again, I apologize. I don’t mean to question you when I’ve only known you for so long but it’s rather important. And— I realize it’s a personal question but—”
“Darling.” Astarion says, and Wyll seems to be quite flustered by the nickname. “Why don’t you just ask and we’ll see how personal it is together?”
“…Okay.” Wyll says in the end, and takes a deep breath. “Are you a… Vampire, by chance?”
All at once, Astarion stops pretending to breathe, going perfectly still.
How? Some part of him screams as his throat closes up on him. He forces it out anyways— the fake laugh, the careful lie.
“A vampire? Darling, you’ve read one too many stories. I know I’m pale with red eyes but that hardly makes me a vampire.”
“That’s true.” Wyll says slowly. “But… The bite mark was unusual. You mentioned you burned easily when you had me close the blinds yesterday. And the flock keeps telling me you’re undead— well, it’s closer to ‘He smells like undeath’ but you get the idea.”
Astarion struggles to think of what to say. His head seems to be thrown into overdrive and all he can think about is ‘If I go down, I’m taking at least three of those feathery fucks down with me’.
Five days of freedom before someone realized what he was. It’s rather pathetic. He couldn’t even last a tenday.
He can hope for a quick death. That Wyll will not be so cruel as to draw it out. Perhaps he can convince him he’s more useful alive— to get him to ignore the fangs and instead see that undead or not, he is pretty isn’t he? Perhaps—
“Astarion?” Wyll is frowning at him now. Every muscle in Astarion’s body tightens and Wyll holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m not sure what’s going through your head but I assure you, I mean you no harm, so long as you extend the same courtesy to me.”
Astarion searches his gaze. Wyll seems to mean it, however foolish that makes him. It feels dizzying how lucky Astarion has gotten— first he’s freed of Cazador’s compulsions, then the first person who recognizes he’s a vampire doesn’t want him dead for it.
Astarion will not squander his luck. It never lasts long. He takes a deep breath and tells him, “As soon as the sun goes down, you’ll never see me again, I assure you.”
“What? No, I wasn’t—” Wyll shakes himself. “I’m not kicking you out. I’m not angry or anything. I had hoped to ask this more delicately but— is it true that vampires require feeding blood to heal? I didn’t want to assume you were a vampire without asking but I went hunting just in case.”
Astarion… Pauses. Runs the words over in his head about a dozen times before he speaks. “You went hunting?” Wyll nods. “For me.” Another nod. Astarion pauses for longer, trying and failing to make sense of it before he asks, “Why?”
“You said you were hungry last night.” Wyll says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Based on how the flock was talking about you, it made it seem like you weren’t very successful before you were injured. It can be difficult to hunt without a bow, or any other weapon for that matter, so I figured I’d catch you something.”
“Mmhmm. And, pray tell, how long were your birds stalking me exactly?”
Wyll glances at the birds. They don’t make a sound, causing him to huff and look back at Astarion. “Unclear. I apologize for their behavior, I didn't tell them to do that. They just seem to think they run the whole forest.”
Several of the birds begin squawking at that. Wyll stifles a laugh. “In any case,” he continues, ignoring them, “Are you hungry? I was draining the catch outside but it should just about be done now.”
Astarion’s mouth waters at the thought. Hunger claws like a rat in his stomach that’s desperate to get out. He licks his lips unconsciously and says, “If you’re offering.”
He doesn’t think he cares what he’ll be paying in return, so long as he gets to eat.
Nonetheless, Wyll is quick to slip outside. Only half the birds follow and the other half keep a wary eye on Astarion, as if expecting him to do something. He rolls his eyes and tries to relax but nervous energy stays coiled up in his chest, like a cauldron that’s boiling over. He isn’t sure what to expect— he half expects Wyll to be lying. For it to be some sort of trap.
Cazador loved that sort of thing. Promising something only to snatch it away the second he let his guard down. Or raise the price for getting it. Or twisting it against him in some way, making a reward a punishment instead.
But Wyll returns with a sizable jar of blood that smells so deliciously fresh that Astarion stops thinking about it. He just blindly accepts the jar and drinks, letting everything else cease to matter.
It’s fresh. And there’s so damn much of it. Mouthful after mouthful are swallowed but there’s more still. Astarion almost feels mournful when it’s over but the delightful feeling of being full is even more overpowering. Of being sated. Happy.
“Was that alright?” Wyll asks, so damn genuine. Astarion bursts into giggles— was plentiful, fresh, delicious blood alright? Does he hear himself?
“It was fucking wonderful.” Astarion tells him giddily. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest thing? What do you want? Name it and it’s yours.”
“Your company is enough.” Wyll tells him. He said that before. He looks like he means it. Maybe he doesn’t know what he could have. Wouldn’t that be nice?
“Such a gentleman.” Astarion feels like he could trance again. Trancing has been so odd lately, like his body isn’t ready to wake up after the usual four hours. He shouldn’t need more than that, but perhaps two hundred years of hell are finally taking their toll on him. He shouldn’t be surprised.
He shakes himself, blinking the weariness out of his eyes and gives Wyll another once over. “Now when you say company, how exactly do you mean?”
Wyll blinks. Doesn’t answer immediately. Astarion raises an eyebrow and he confesses, “I didn’t quite think about that. I was mostly concerning myself with our respective breakfasts.” He gestures at where half a loaf of baked bread is. “So I’m not quite sure where to start.”
Astarion hums. It isn’t terribly hard to believe that a man such as Wyll truly only wants company the more he speaks. He doesn’t seem to know what else to expect. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself then, hm?”
Wyll laughs at that. “I’m not sure there’s much I can say?”
“You live alone in the woods, surely there’s an interesting story behind why?” He prods, half curious. He half expects Wyll to start lamenting about the wonder of nature or peace of solitude but he hesitates instead. For longer than Astarion expects.
“It’s rather complicated.” Wyll confesses. “It’s, ah… Safer. For me.” He settles on. He takes a seat across from Astarion, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t always live alone but I do now. Have for a couple years now.”
“Must’ve been lonely.” Astarion muses, more to watch his reaction than anything. Wyll laughs softly but he doesn't look like he disagrees.
“Not entirely, but there is something nice about having another person to talk to.” Wyll finally looks at him, a smile on his face but there’s some other emotion behind it that Astarion can’t quite identify. “Needless to say, you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like but I understand if you’d like to get on the road as soon as possible.”
Astarion waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. It hardly matters when the sun is out.” A thought comes to him and he asks, “Am I really so obviously a vampire?”
“You do rather fit the part.” Wyll admits, almost apologetic in the way he says it. “It might help if you cover up your bite mark a little?” He gestures to the side of his neck. Astarion pulls his shirt collar up a little more. “If it’s any consolation, I do read a lot of books on the subject of monsters and other such. And the flock seemed insistent that you were undead.”
Astarion groans. “Yes, a great deal of animals tend not to like me for that reason. I haven’t the slightest idea how they can tell— I wear perfume! Or… Did.” Astarion wrinkles his nose. It’s probably worn off by now. Does he smell like death still or has the musk of the outdoors help to cover it up? It wasn’t exactly his first priority.
“Never mind that, we’re meant to be talking about you, darling.” Astarion props his head up again. Wyll is quick to protest.
“It doesn’t have to be about me— I just enjoy the company! We don’t have to talk at all if you wish to be left alone.”
“Nonsense, I owe you one. Tell me, Wyll, how in the Hells does one come to own so many birds?”
Wyll bursts out laughing like Astarion has told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. Astarion thinks that might actually be a possibility. Some buried part of him whispers just how easy it would be to lure him back to Cazador, and the rest of him tells this part to shut up. He’s done with that. Not while he’s free. Not while he still has a choice in the matter.
“Own is a strong word!” Wyll says at last the second he regains the ability to speak. “In truth, I often keep the windows open just a crack and they come and go as they please. There are more who visit but the ones you see now are those that stay and have taken up building nests here instead. But believe me, the house is much more crowded in the winter.”
Astarion can picture it— dozens upon dozens of birds cozied up because Wyll just allows a bunch of them to live in his home. Considering he also allows a vampire spawn into his home, Astarion thinks there’s a possibility he’s just that desperate for company. And, perhaps, that he’s lost it completely.
“But to answer your question,” Wyll goes on, “It was sort of an accident? I came across a blue jay with a broken wing and nursed it back to health. Other birds began to visit and I got in the habit of keeping out a bowl of things for them to eat and tending to the injured. I grew curious and picked up a book on spells relating to nature and learned to cast so I could speak and communicate with them properly. After I could, they were rather taken with me.” He laughs a little. “I guess they were curious to talk to me too. They’ve been around ever since.”
Wyll looks deep in his eyes next, curious. “What about you? Do you travel much?”
“Oh, no.” Astarion laughs. “I was—…” He cuts himself off when he realizes his usual lie of ‘I’m a magistrate’ might not work considering Wyll now knows he’s a vampire. The only other thing he ever told people was that he was a courtesan, and he doesn’t exactly want to say that now. People always get ideas after he does and he’d rather not ruin whatever this is that he has with Wyll, however short it will be.
He racks his mind for a different answer. “A, uh. Tailor.” He says in the end. It’s the best thing he has, and not technically an outright lie. He traded patching up his sibling’s clothes in exchange for favors, or simply so they would leave him alone. It’s one of the few skills he has left to cling to that doesn't involve sex.
Sewing, and lock picking, but what is he supposed to say, he’s a locksmith? Thief isn’t exactly an answer he can give, no matter how true it is.
“Tailor?” Wyll somehow sounds interested in the idea. Astarion thinks he really has lost his mind a bit, only speaking with birds.
But he’ll indulge him. Shelter and food in exchange for conversation? It’s a steal and Astarion is not about to give it up. It seems someone likes the sound of his voice after all, and for more than just hearing him scream.
So he talks and he talks and finds he has a lot more to say than he thought. Two hundred years of being able to say so little without consequences or punishment likely has something to do with it.
But Wyll listens in rapt attention, so Astarion keeps talking.
—
Just as it’s getting dark, Wyll admits he’s exhausted and ends up turning in early. He directs Astarion to where certain things are should he need something from him and says to wake him if need be before finally retreating to his room.
Some of his little songbirds still watch Astarion as if they’re expecting trouble. Astarion just huffs and waits for the sun to vanish from the sky completely. It’s only then that he slips out as soundlessly as he can.
His leg barely hurts now but his steps are slower. Wyll’s cabin becomes slowly obscured by the foliage of the forest until it’s gone completely. Astarion walks and walks and walks, thinking about nothing at all. His mind is perfectly blank, as if it’s only some outside force that’s compelling him.
A force that steadily runs out. He doesn’t know what it is but as Astarion stumbles across a pond, he stops. Stares down into the water and his lack of a reflection. Another reminder of things he has long since lost.
Astarion stares for one minute, then two, then he sits down and draws his legs to his chest.
Astarion thinks there may be something wrong with him. Two hundred years of being a slave to a cruel master, and only now does he have his freedom. He could do anything in the world within reason— he may not be able to see the sun but he can still travel. He could go somewhere with terrible weather that blocks out the sun, or travel to the Underdark, or take on some sort of job that only takes place at night. Surely there are options, even for a pathetic, vampire spawn like him.
Two hundred years. He gets a taste of freedom for the first time in two hundred years, and now suddenly he wants to go back to the first person he meets— because why? Because he fed him? What, is Astarion some sort of stray dog now? A weak, feral thing who needs someone else to take care of him?
Astarion should go. It doesn’t matter where, he just needs to get somewhere safe.
But… That’s the problem, isn’t it? He needs to find it. Astarion doesn’t know where it is. It could be hundreds of miles away, or maybe it doesn’t even exist at all. This is Cazador he’s talking about. He’s likely looking for him already, sending out others to find him.
On the road, he could be caught. Astarion might’ve gotten a head start but he’s on foot. Bounty Hunters are known to have horses and other mounts at their disposal. They can catch up to him and Astarion is quick but he can only run for so long. As soon as the sun comes back up, he’d be trapped. Limited in where he could hide. They’d find him.
They’d bring him back to Cazador.
He could hide somewhere. Somewhere they wouldn’t expect to find him— or find anyone. Somewhere secluded. Comfortable. Warm.
He’s thinking about Wyll’s cabin again. Astarion groans and rubs his eyes. He can’t seriously be considering this.
What does he even know about him? He lives in the middle of nowhere with birds he talks to. He paints sometimes. Bakes. Hunted for Astarion without him having to ask. He’s painfully earnest. Lonely. Knows a little magic. He’s got birds who are protective over him and blatantly don’t trust Astarion.
He knows Astarion is a vampire and doesn’t seem to mind.
He said he was living secludedly because it was safer for him. Didn’t say why or what that meant.
Is that enough? Is any of that enough to trust a man Astarion has known for all of a day?
Is Astarion in a place to be picky when the alternative is Cazador?
Astarion rubs his face and thinks about that for a good long while. Considers all his options and tries to determine which one gives him the best chance.
He spends half the night doing that but eventually comes to a conclusion. Because Wyll had said ‘Stay as long as you like.’ And that was an offer, not a commitment. Astarion, theoretically, could still leave whenever. He could just stay another day, or maybe a tenday, or a month, but it didn’t have to be forever.
Cazador was forever.
And Astarion was tired. He thinks he’s been tired for a long time but he could only rest so much before. Maybe he just needs a little time to get back on his feet. Build up his strength and actually plan something for once in his life. Decide where he’s gonna go maybe— if there’s some way he can stay out of Cazador’s grasp indefinitely.
A part of him is terrified of the idea of staying with someone. It screams that he needs to be free— that any commitment is too close to being a slave. Removing any choice is bad because he’ll just end up under someone else’s thumb. Trading one master for another.
Another part of him feels the need to cling onto the first scrap of kindness he’s been offered. To stay close to someone who fed him in hopes that maybe if they like him enough, they’ll give him more. They’ll protect him, give him everything he needs, and maybe, just once, he can be more than just a street whore, but someone who’s adored.
Astarion appeases both of these parts. He’ll stick around Wyll a little longer, but not forever. He’ll feel it out. See if he’s really all he seems to be and dip at the first sign of trouble.
It’s enough to settle himself. Astarion pushes himself to his feet and turns around, going back the way he came.
—
Astarion hits a snag he didn’t consider before.
Before Wyll had helped and invited him into his home so Astarion didn’t have to worry about the usual rules. However, because he left, Astarion can no longer get back in.
Wyll is asleep. Astarion has opened the door but physically cannot step into the house.
Fuck. Astarion buries his head in his hands. It wasn’t supposed to matter before— he wasn’t supposed to come back. What is he supposed to say? Maybe ‘I just went for a stroll to clear my head’ but how the hell does he wake Wyll up without making him want to immediately throw him out?
Humans sleep for hours. What if the sun comes up before then? What’s he supposed to do?
Some of the birds have noticed him wallowing just outside the doorway and are now staring him down. Astarion groans and turns away from their beady, judgemental eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He groans. “Whatever you want to say, believe me, I know.”
Astarion thunks his head against the door, shutting his eyes. He considered a lot of possibilities in coming back. This was not one of them. He’s not sure how he managed to forget about it.
He stays there for a while but it surprises him that not five minutes later, he hears a door creak open. He snaps to attention and spots Wyll in the entrance to his room, blinking sleepily and with exactly three birds perched somewhere on his body.
“You can come in.” Wyll tells him, his voice slurring together but the permission is there all the same. Relief and embarrassment alike floods him as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.
Astarion clears his throat. “Ah. Thank you, darling. Apologies, I was just—”
Wyll waves him off. “It’s okay.” He tells him. “It’s not a big deal. Just don’t be afraid to ask next time.”
Astarion nods, swallowing thickly. “How did you know?”
“Hm? Oh.” Wyll yawns and shakes himself. “The flock woke me up and told me. They would give it themselves but you can’t understand them, so.” Wyll gestures vaguely in the air. “I’m gonna go back to sleep. Unless you need anything else?”
“No, that’s quite alright. Goodnight, Wyll.”
Wyll mumbles back the same and stumbles back into his room. Astarion glances at the birds that are still staring at him again.
Huh. He thinks to himself. I suppose they have their uses.