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As much as he enjoys listening to the sound of his own voice, Astarion quite likes the silence the night has to offer. The usual bustle of their makeshift campsite goes silent as everyone sleeps and he is alone. Be it the hunt in him keeping him awake past hours of twilight or not, he is glad to finally hear just the drafty breeze and sounds of the Underdark.
But tonight is different.
Far from his tent, where he sits reading a book, is the sound of something. Music, it should be. A pluck of lute strings. Usually quite the enjoyment, now, an annoyance to his nightly ambience. Especially given the fact that it's horridly out of tune.
He grimaces as a note is played in melody. It's so terribly off from the song he knows is trying to be played. He has half a mind to ignore it, but he simply cannot focus on the words in front of him. This book and it's voices would have to wait.
Astarion stands from the box he was sitting on with a grunt and sets the book down before looking in the direction of the source. Who, by all the gods means, would be playing music right now? Playing so awfully, as well?
It was probably Gale, he assumes. That wizard was already weird enough as is. He most likely found some new way to please his goddess "in the weave", as the man has said ad nauseam. Despite his many talents in the ways of magic, there was absolutely no way, in Astarion's mind, he would be musically inclined as well.
He goes to seemingly break the lute from within his hands, but when he pays attention to the off-tune strings once more, they aren't in the direction of the wizard. In fact, it sounds more like it's coming from higher above. Could it have been in the abandoned and ransacked stone ruin above their campsite?
Astarion changes directions and walks towards it, slowly taking in what his eyes can see in the night as he ascends the rickety wooden staircase.
He isn't quite sure what to expect. An enemy? A trick of the night? His fangs are bared regardless just in the event of an ambush, knees bent low in slow approach. Even if it was just awful music, he had to be stealthy. A sneak attack would ensure he gets his night back in order. He needs his beauty sleep, after all.
Closer and closer he comes, the lute becoming louder and louder. And, with it, the sight of someone sat up the stone wall, legs dangling off the side to an endless drop.
Her long dark hair in braided pigtails drape down her back past her horns, the night light shining and bringing life to the verdant streaks weaving amongst the strands. She's in her nightclothes, back to him, and, of course, a lute in her arms.
He shouldn't have been surprised. She was a bard, after all. But it wasn't as if Mint had shared any other bits of herself such as her inability to play a lute. She'd be a fool to. Just because they all shared the same parasite didn't mean she'd have to give up her secrets. Additionally, there was no special allowance to him just because he had bitten her neck and made love to her that one time.
The bite mark can still be seen on the crook of her pale neck. Two small indentations of her trust in him. Objectively idiotic trust, in his eyes, but he appreciates it more than he's willing to admit. It was hard not to hunger. Impossible given the scent and taste of her.
Another pluck rings into the night and it reverberates more than her shatter spells. Horridly off. Heinously out of pitch.
Astarion saunters over, the dirt and broken wood crumbling under his shoes. "And here I thought all bards were supposed to be gifted at the lute," he muses as though alone.
She continues to play, body unmoved. "Just like how all rogues should be good at picking locks? That door you weren't able to open today proved that to be false."
Astarion sighs and rolls his eyes. Mint was the only one in that dastardly group of misfits that had her wits about her. At least, on the level as him. It was enjoyable, for a change, to have someone at the same capacity for sarcasm, but he can tell in some way that tonight she was irritated.
It was different from her usual snark. She was, by all means, a rather intense woman. She valued coin more than most people, had a startling sense of self-protection to rival his own, and could flip tables and enrage friend or foe alike with her simple words of mockery, but it was unlike her to bring that attitude to him .
He didn't quite like it for whatever reason.
What has changed to make her view him as such? The thought made him somehow unnerved. The one ally he knew would defend him from slaughter at this camp. He could do nothing else but layer on the charms he used to get out of so many other situations.
"You know I'm more than capable of using my deft fingers to unlock things, as you've been shown in the past," he replies with a smirk.
Her face slightly heats. Cheeky bastard.
"Still, that doesn't explain to me why you find it so… advantageous to play so horridly at these hours of the night."
He can't see her face but knows she is shooting him a glare. He can just picture her bright green eyes staring daggers akin to the ones he yields. A pity he couldn't see them.
"It was supposed to be when no one else was around," she replies. "I can't control the fact that you chose to skulk about my little Underdark serenade when you would usually be asleep."
He scoffs. "Darling, if that was meant to be a serenade to the Underdark, you'd best label it more aptly as a requiem for the Underdark. I couldn't sleep through your badgering at the strings anyways. It sounds quite-
"Ghastly, I'm aware." There's a bit of bite in the way she says it. It almost makes him recoil in his own skin, but it's not in his nature to shy away from any jabs of discomfort in someone else. Mint turns to him and adjusts the strings of the lute. "It's not my main instrument."
"Then I can't imagine why you've decided to take it up as of late." He gets closer to the boat. "If you weren't somehow aware , there is , in fact, a parasite in all our brains imminently turning us into monsters . Rest is important, you know."
"Worried about me?" she asks with a satisfyingly curious smile.
He steps back slightly in his mind, caught off guard by the grin. Mentally, it trips him. These days, her pointed jabs about closeness certainly hit more than expected.
Astarion coughs quietly and continues. "Well of course . We aren't simply going to find a solution for our little mental infestation without you it seems. So go on," he continues, "tell me why."
She sets the lute down in front of her and, just as fast as it had appeared, her smile is gone. A little faded off the corners, but enough for him to notice.
"I need to use an instrument in battle. But I can't keep up with my flute anymore."
"Why? Has the skill left you? You are trained, are you not?"
Mint shakes her head. "Skills don't leave you. It's my body. It…" She trails off for a moment. In her bright green eyes, he sees her thinking through her next statement, almost as though it was a consideration for him. But then she relents. "When you take my blood, sometimes I become dizzy, out of breath the next day. It makes it…difficult."
He had noticed her playing less than before. When they met, she would occasionally play around the fire, sometimes even on their journeys through Faerûn. Though her smile often was wicked amongst foes and companions, alike, when she brought music to the world, it was content and blissful.
Not that he had any business keeping track of the smiles on Mint's face. Not that he paid any attention either. They were in a group, mind you. He was simply… observant. Definitely not for any reasons personal .
Absolutely not.
But he had changed that smile, it seems. Through her gift to him, that small bit of sustenance from her veins, she had become weak. Of course, he could bear to see it as he raised off her bed cot, blood dripping down her neck, but he hadn't thought of the other ways it could affect her.
It was a small bit of happiness brought to the usually cynical woman she was and he had been the one to change that.
Something about it felt wrong. Something about it felt awful . And for the first time in his escape, that shade of self interest that had clouded over any desire to help others broke apart. All that was left in its wake was guilt. Steaming, hot shit , tainted guilt.
He considers for a moment what he is going to say, but she continues before he is able.
"So, I decided to try my hand at the lute. Easy instrument to bash someone over the head with. Weighty enough to do damage."
Her words go on, but he's still stuck on the fact that it's his fault. For some reason it bothers him. Self preservation is first, ensuring his safety and ability to get away from Cazador is first , but there's a pang in his chest seeing her this way.
Her usually cool skin is paler, bags under her eyes that show in the night, even under the light of the Underdark. This wasn't what had happened the first time, and yet she still lets him indulge.
"So if you'd excuse my gods awful playing, I'd appreciate it. Stuff some mushrooms in your ears; it'll help with the sound."
She expects his response. Some half assed retort with full assed sass. It would probably be something playful and strung, along the lines of 'well then, perhaps sound awful somewhere out of ear shot, won’t you?', but he doesn’t react. Instead, he simply looks at her with the most obtuse expression.
Eyebrows woven together slightly, lower lip dropped a twinge. It’s almost as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning of her words. But also as though there was a shock to what she was saying to him. It isn’t like Astarion to be befuddled. Enraged, perhaps, at happenings he didn’t understand, but this rare look of confusion and something else was new to her.
Before she pries further into his face, he comes to inspect hers, taking Mint’s chin in his light hold, finger and thumb, and tilting it upwards towards him. It's a swift movement, but his touch is gentle—a strange thought for a man as violent as him.
Through the light of the illumination around them, he looks into her vibrant green eyes, internally upset that his shadow looming above darkens them.
“You aren't eating," he says in an unexpectedly soft voice—one she had only been accustomed to post-intercourse. But he's being so patient and calm.
Baffled, she shortens her eyes on him. “Pardon?”
Astarion moves her head around slightly, checking all angles. “Don’t act none the wiser. I know exertion when I see it.” His eyes pull down to her neck, the doubled marks exposed. "You're still bruised, it hasn't healed. Does it… hurt you in any way?"
Of course it does. Getting your blood sucked clean out of you isn't the most comforting of things, no matter how much a vampire's bite is coveted in some circles. She'd come to learn first hand. But she wouldn't tell him that. No need to apparently worry him further.
"Not more than I can handle." She tugs her collar to cover the bite. "That's besides the point."
He lets go of her slowly, lowering his hand. "You should have mentioned it regardless."
"Why? It wasn't as if we had any sort of agreement. You needed my blood and I gave. You fight better. You look healthier."
"And what of you ," he replies without a beat, a frustrated expression on his face. " You aren't. You're almost as pale as I am."
"I don't see why you're so hysterical about this. You need it and I'll be fine."
"And what if you aren't?"
He can't help the words that flow. Honestly, he can't tell too much why he's so concerned either. It wasn't as if he'd been this way about any other victim. He didn't give this kind of bedroom care to any, not even the hundreds of lambs he'd led to their slaughter.
But this was her.
Her, her…her.
Mint's eyes soften on him in slight surprise. This was rather…odd of him. These touches, these words. She'd been familiar with them during sex—he was a dedicated lover, after all—but Astarion was showing true concern. Vulnerability.
She debates whether or not it best to be genuine with her feelings or cool off the rising tension with their usual sarcasm. It couldn't have been comfortable for him to say. Even now, he looks shocked that the words came out the way they did, but he's laid his feelings bare.
Mint breathes. "I'll be fine as long as you're fine too." She raises her eyebrows quickly in shock of her own response, coughing in excuse and following up. "A-And everyone else for that matter."
For whatever reason, he looks caught off guard. Was that what he wanted to hear? Was that the wrong thing to say? Stupid idiotic assumption, she thinks. What would he care if she was alright? But Astarion doesn't flinch, doesn't move a muscle.
His face relaxes and he gives a gentle nod.
"Good," she thinks she hears him say softly, but it's lost in the night air.
They enter a moment of silence that seems to span farther than the light around them. They're trying to digest the conversation they both just had. Two cynics, two self-centered manipulators, two souls in the night, speechless. And the only thing weighing in the air between them in care.
He looks away from her. "I won't feed on you for the next few days. Allow you to… recover ."
"Astarion, I-"
"-can take care of myself without you." He inhales dramatically. " Ah ! You just started my sentence for me. And what an intelligent thought, darling."
He's trying to bring the joviality back to their conversation, but she's still struck by the fact of what he said.
Can take care of myself without you.
She didn't like that.
The first time in her life she wants to be wanted by someone, needed by someone, and it's gone. But he continues despite her.
"Eat the rations you so carelessly decide to pick up when raiding bloody dungeons. There is more than enough for you to sustain yourself." He rolls his eyes. "Gods know that Gale eats enough of our artifacts to sate his appetite for a millenia . He doesn't need real food."
"Astarion," she starts, quieting him. "Are you sure you don't want it tonight?"
Want was a word that made it difficult. Of course he wanted it. Rather, he needed it. Animals and animalistic types were scarce in the Underdark. Without her, it was near to nothing. And the scent of her, the urge to sink his teeth into that pretty little neck, did not make the temptation and hunger any easier.
"Even…even knowing you're weak, you offer? I can't tell if you're daft or simply have no regard for your own mortality. The Tadpole can't keep you entirely alive, you know."
"I know. Just tell me the truth." She pulls her hair back from her shoulders and her neck. The indents, bruises coloring, show well in the night. "Do you need it?"
…..
…..
"Yes."
"Alri-"
"But under one condition," he interrupts.
She tilts her head to the side in confusion.
"Wait here."
And just like that, Mint's watching him make his way back to camp without another word. She could get up and try to pry, but honestly, she trusts him to not do anything too stupid.
Perhaps it was from a place of understanding and similarity, but she trusted Astarion. They were both like two sides of the same coin. Though their pasts were not identical, they knew that they'd both gone through hell in search of freedom. Him with Cazador, and her for reasons she hadn't described. It was something he could sense, though. Something he just knew from talking to her and watching her.
She thinks about him, how this meeting of two similar souls came to be due to an illithid attack of all things. There weren't worse things to have happen, but this was a pretty good thing to come out of it. Just one positive from this disaster.
No sooner than she finishes her thought and he's back with a wicker basket. It's hung over his shoulder and on his back, but the moment he reaches her, he sets it on the ground with a thud right in front of her feet.
She feigns a gasp with a playful smile. "A present? For me ?"
"Not quite the bauble you'd want to present a woman with, but yes. Do partake."
Mint kneels down in front of it, expecting something strange. However, upon opening it, she finds it's filled almost to the brim with food: loaves of bread, bottles of wine, and other dry things that sustained in the ruthless environment they were traveling in.
"I won't feast unless you do, lest I suck your blood and you drop dead in front of me again."
They don't talk about the first time.
Perhaps Astarion had been too indulgent then. A scroll of revival was a wonderful way to start the morning.
"It wasn't in front of you. It was underneath you."
Astarion nods with a smug smile. "True, and I do so love you underneath me, but that's for another time perhaps. For now, you eat."
He settles down comfortably on the ground and waits for her to take her pick. The stone is ice on his ass, but it didn't matter. He ran cold anyways. Just the small perks of Cazador's "gift" to him.
She takes the loaf of bread in front of her and, instead of ripping a piece off, goes to bite the whole end with her mouth, sharp teeth grinding against its staleness. It quite baffles him to see, despite that being the opinion of one who dines on whatever moves and bleeds.
"Forgot how to rip and tear, my dear?"
With it still in-between her teeth, eyes focused on her immovable prey, she responds, "Nwver. I jrst lwke the crwst."
He wonders where she could have gotten these… habits from. These bad manners. When he thinks about it, he doesn't know much of her. Somehow, she'd gotten him to spill his guts not only about his secret of being a vampire, but also about Cazador and the poem left on his back. Just who was she?
As she further gnaws on the object in hand, he leans on his raised knee with his arm, getting more comfortable. What a spectacle to behold.
"Not quite one for table manners, hm?"
She looks up at him with a stink eye and takes it out of her mouth. "We're sitting in the dark of night in a monster infested area and you're worried about table manners ? That's a lot coming from the man who walks around camp with my blood dripping off his lips."
"It's so I can savor it later when I'm done feeding on that decadent taste or you. But it doesn't matter. Tell me where one develops such… uncouth eating habits."
Mint quirks an eyebrow at him. Was he asking about her past? She supposes she owes him this much candor. He had spilled his guts and his past for her, as much as he hated to do so. It wasn't fair—especially given she actually would feel comfortable telling him.
"If you must know, I'm not a nobility or anything. I didn't live in high Baldur's Gate. I grew up in a tavern in the slums." She finally tried to dig her nails into the bread, breaking it slightly with a crack. "I was adopted by the shit owners when my family died. Used me to bring in a crowd with my music."
"A famous bard then."
"Infamous. Someone doesn't just have the name Mint on purpose. I'm not that childish."
It was quite a weird name, but he never prodded.
"I didn't quite… enjoy my life. I wasn't enslaved, not like you, but I was beaten by them. Made to make music until my breath left me. My piss poor attitude rubbed off in the performances. Crowds used to hate it. Called me Mint because of my hair, told others to avoid insulting me lest I beat them with my flute."
Astarion peers into her eyes in search of something. Emptiness? Something akin to his own need to rid the world of Cazador? But what's there is a dull fire brewing like a lamplight in constant low flame. She was bitter towards the experience. Needing revenge, but less aggressive than him.
"And you couldn't leave."
"No. They were all I had. Even if I tried to, they'd find me, find a way to keep me. But right before we were captured, I finally made a plan. Earn enough money and run far past Baldur's Gate." She scoffs. "Funny how a stupid little tadpole can ruin so much. I saved up for seven years all for nothing."
He shakes his head. "Not for nothing. This tadpole may make monsters of us, tear us limb from flesh, but it gives you a way out. You aren't there anymore. They can't hurt you."
Astarion is saying these words to her, but in a way, also to himself. Cazador can't find him. Cazador can't take him if he keeps running. And the second he meets that man again, he'll beat him into submission until his body drains red with the pool of blood he's stolen by the thousands.
"Anything can hurt me, Astarion. Things still do. The only difference is I push them away before they can."
There's a pang in his lifeless chest, a beat where there was once silence. It was a pull that dragged his heart deeper into the pits of his stomach, consuming it like he was falling from the sky. She wasn't his victim, but she still was one. It hurt to see. It enraged him to see.
She was quite confident. Strong. Independent. In charge. But within her was just another scared soul wishing to escape the invisible chains. She knew how it felt. She knew how it still feels.
And in that moment, he feels the need to reach out and say, "They will never hurt you. Not while I'm by your side and you, mine."
Had his red eyes always been so gentle?
Mint's face drops a second, almost losing itself—that bravado that made her seem so confident. This is the first time she's felt safe in years. Not in his arms, but in his words. She didn't need to be held to know he would protect her. Didn't need to be touched to know that she cared for him.
She sets down the food in her hand and turns to him fully. "We'll stop Cazador. I promise. Not until his blood is on our hands and there's nothing left but flesh and entrails under our fingernails."
His eyebrows raise at her graphic description, and in-between their pause, he starts to laugh, sharp teeth peeking out near the corners of his lips. "Quite the violent little thing, aren't you!"
"Tell me you weren't thinking about it as well," she follows, a smile forming on her own lips.
"But of course!" His laugh quiets and he becomes more stern. "I will take his throat by my own hand. I'll take your abuser's, as well. After all," he says, putting both arms up, "that's why I have two hands."
"Then what are my hands for?"
"I can think of quite a few many things."
She slaps his hands away with an exhaustive scoff at his innuendo, grabbing the loaf off the ground and biting into it with full force. It breaks the barrier of the crust and goes straight in with a crack. Perhaps her way of eating wasn't so wrong.
As she finally gets through eating most of the loaf, he sees her body become a bit more alert. Less sluggish, more awake. Some of the color returns to her and he's glad to see it, and not just because he needs to feed.
"Feeling better?"
Mint stretches her arms with a grunt and twists her head in a stretch. "Much better. Though I didn't need to be force fed."
"Oh, don't be rash. It's not as though I stuffed it in between your lips and said swallow ." He reaches into the basket and takes out a bottle of wine, removing the cork by sticking one of his fangs into it and pulling it out. "Drink."
She grabs the bottle by the head from him a nod and chugs, trying her best to lubricate the dryness that came from the bread. Maybe she has done so a bit fast because a small bit of it seeps down the side of her lip and onto her neck.
And just like that, his eyes are glued to it, the line of red falling from the corners of her smile to the bruise on her neck. It just mingles further in the air for him to smell, intoxicating as it was. A mix of blood and wine is a fine thing.
When she catches him staring, she releases the top of the bottle from her lips with an exhale. She pulls back her hair and exposes her neck. "I feel better now."
"A-And you're sure?" he stutters, uncharacteristic of him, but it puts him in somewhat of a trance. He's still concerned about her, but she seems fine—welcome to it even, almost as if something had changed.
Mint lays back on the ground and closes her eyes. "Bite me."
In no more than a second he's straddled atop her, forearms laid around her body, caging her in. He hovers over the spot that calls to him so deeply and whispers, "Tell me when you've had enough. Don't hesitate."
" Bite ," she insists and he goes in just as fast.
It's always a quick stab, a prick. It's cold as ice, like two icicles burrowing in her skin, but his hot breath upon her neck warms it up just as fast.
She tries to get comfortable, staying absolutely still, but something about this is turning her on more than usual. He's taking his time, sucking slow and gentle so as not to hurt the already damaged skin, but she wants something deeper. She wants him to ravage.
Mint's legs tighten and she subconsciously lays her cheek on top of his head, white curls scratching against her face, as she stifled a moan. Her toes curl and her hands claw, long nails scratching against the stone.
"A-Astarion-"
He grunts and pulls away quickly, breath heavy. "Too much?" he asks, a brush of crimson around his lips.
"M…More," she replies.
More is what he can take. More blood , but he misinterprets it. Doesn't understand what she means. But Mint asked for more. Mint wanted more, so he would give her more.
Astarion wipes the blood off his lips in one single swipe of his forearm and comes down to her with a kiss like a fallen star—colliding with her, exploding in constellations and lights. Synapses pulse, breath escapes from lungs, and their tastes mingle together by her blood on their tongues.
His nose rubs against her face, a twinkle in her chest as every touch by him is like a spark. This isn't what she wanted, but it's what she needed .
She reaches up to weave his hair between her fingers, bring him closer, but as she does, he pulls back. In an exhale that makes him feel like all the soul leaves his body, he breathes. Chest rising and falling, looks down at her for the most split of seconds and then coughs and gets off the ground.
"I…"
"Astarion?"
His lip purses as he looks at her, glow of the night radiating off her skin. Her green eyes look at him confused. It makes pulling away much harder.
"I've had my fill." He straightens his shirt. "You…look tired. Get some rest."
As he turns to leave, she tries to stand, but feels a bit dizzy. Still, she tries to reach out to him. "What about-"
"We'll talk tomorrow," he says softly. "and thank you."
And just like that, the night is quiet again. It leaves her stunned, unable to speak.
Why had he just left? Why now? What had changed?
Mint takes the lute that's still besides her and throws it down into the pit below.
