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The freedom gained from the tadpole has come with its own price it seems. For the first time in two centuries Astarion’s faced with a flood of, frankly, foreign emotion and sensation. So used to doing someone else’s bidding, stuffing down his own feelings and thoughts to placate his master. Confined to the permanent dark, robbed of his life entirely.
Yes, it has been no easy feat traversing through the wilderness with a worm in one’s head. Of course it’s also no help that a certain someone stops to help every snivelling child, hag, or even dog. Yes, Astarion’s companions are truly insufferable. Between the artefact eating walking bomb and a literal devil who’s constantly on fire and seemingly ready to burst, there’s been no shortage of issues that happen even in the confines of camp.
And despite all of these individuals the bane of Astarion’s existence, at the given moment anyway, is her. It’s a mystery how she became the accidental leader of the group, earning everyone’s loyalty seemingly effortlessly. Everyone’s practically tripping over their feet to help her even if they disagree with some of her choices. It’s infuriating.
Yes she’s proven herself to be kind, generous even with the way she lets him take a nibble now and again after the quite accidental discovery of his feeding habits. And she’s as fiercely loyal to her companions as they are to her. That doesn’t mean she can’t still be vexing.
They’ve made camp in the thick of the woods, not far from the now derelict goblin hideout they intend to reach the underdark through tomorrow morning. It’s been a long day, and everyone’s thankful to finally get some rest. The prospect of an answer, a cure, has made everyone a bit more cheerful, it seems.
But cheeriness is a sensation saved for those who don’t have to worry about their past hunting them down. He would never admit it, but he wouldn’t mind becoming an illithid if it meant he could be free, permanently.
The sound of laughter shakes him from his thoughts. He looks up, eyes scanning the camp for the source. He spots her and Gale standing by the fire. Astarion suppresses a scoff. It’s not that he doesn’t like Gale. He doesn’t hold any serious emotion towards any of these strays, really. But Gods, is everyone else at the camp blind? Throw the man a bone he’ll chase it to the ends of the earth.
On one hand he does understand Gale’s infatuation, it’s not like their little leader isn’t easy on the eyes, and she’s delicious too. But, honestly, who even has the time amidst a life threatening worm eating its way through ones brain? It’s not like after all this is over her and Gale are going to walk off into the sunset together. Are they?
He’s much too lost in his split second panic of what-if’s and maybe’s, brows furrowed, and stare downcast at the dirt that he doesn’t hear the familiar soft footfalls of his favourite snack.
“Brooding, are we?” Her voice shakes him out of his trance, she’s squatted down in front of him. He glances at her, the warm light of campfire makes it seem like she’s glowing.
“Yes, well, tonight might as well be our last night alive, considering we’re about to traipse into the heart of a mind controlled cult.”
She waves off his statement with one hand, “I know the journey has been tough, but I doubt we’ll be killed tomorrow. It seems you’re going to be stuck with me for far longer.”
Astarion hums, studying her for a minute. He clears his throat. “Is there anything particular that you needed from me, darling?”
“Can’t I just talk to my favourite travelling companion?”
A scoff passes his lips before he even registers it. “I would assume that netherese jack in a box was your favourite. The way you keep handing off artefacts for him to snack on, I mean, really?”
“Oh Gale’s just. Gale, really. I don’t think you’d be happy with a spontaneous bomb killing us in our sleep because we got too greedy.” The way she says it is so matter of fact. But there’s a slight uptick in the corners of her mouth, a sort of sly smile. Like she’s in on some joke Astarion doesn’t know about. “But anyways, enough about Gale. What’s got your embroidered panties in a bunch?”
“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow, he’s not upset, not really. “Nothing has got my non-embroidered undergarments in a bunch, thank you very kindly.” He’s about to get up and excuse himself before she places a hand on his arm.
“I’m just teasing. You looked… glum. I thought I’d try and brighten your mood.” And there it is. That most vexing part of her, those big eyes just boring into his. Like she’s trying to reach into his soul, like she’s seeing right through him. It makes his undead heart skip. Makes his stomach churn.
She tries to reach for his cheek and he flinches, not one used to a tender touch, or one without ulterior motive. She notices, of course, whispering an apology before she quickly stands up. “If you uh. If you get hungry, I’ll be,” she vaguely points towards her tent, “I’ll be awake. So don’t worry about waking me if you’re, y’know. Parched.”
As her form retreats back to the campfire, Astarion rises to his feet and unravels his tent flaps. Once more submerging himself in darkness. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhaling deeply. He’s tired. There’s a parasite gnawing at his frontal lobe and he’s exhausted, that’s all this is. A means to an end. A ragtag group trying to cure themselves of an affliction. They’re not his friends, they’re not his anything. Merely acquaintances. And she is certainly nothing more than a safe beacon, a snack.
And yet, every time he thinks of her there’s something within him that stirs, and it’s not purely sexual, it’s not even hunger. And it infuriates him. She’s unknowingly dug her way into parts of him that died when he clawed his way out of that six foot hole and she’s made herself a home there, and she’s none the wiser.
What bothers him most is that he cannot even bring himself to tell her any of this. He hasn’t experienced a true bond with someone in centuries. Where does one even begin to unpack that? Emotions that have been stored away for so long, now practically bursting out of his chest. This sort of vulnerability wouldn’t do anybody any good.
He’s fed up. He’s decided he’s going to confront her, and this mess she’s made of him. His feet carry him lightly, the campfire has dimmed down, everyone around has seemingly retreated back to their own tents. Good. He slaps the flaps of her tent out of his way, entering with a huff.
She’s laid down in her bedroll, leisurely reading some book she no doubt stole from one of the many abandoned places they’ve raided. She looks up from the book, gaze slightly confused but not unwelcoming. She places the book page down gently.
“Are you alright?” She speaks softly, as if any small word could frighten him away.
Astarion’s brows knit together, “Of course I’m not alright!” he gestures wildly. “You’ve. You’ve made a complete mess of things!” His tone is accusatory. As if between now and their conversation at his tent she’s went and committed a terrible felony. Slaughtered a village, perhaps.
But she only nods, urging him to continue. Gaze soft, and supporting. He feels his heart clench, his hands feel clammy, and his breath hitches.
“It’s too much.” He sighs, dejected a bit. “It’s all just… too much, I’m afraid.”
“How so?” She stands up, slowly making her way towards him, eyes never leaving his, her head tilted slightly to the left.
Astarion’s at a cross roads now. He could spill his guts and face possible rejection, or he could make something up, and things would return to normal. Well, relatively normal. Because the truth is, he’s absolutely terrified. He is terrified that she’ll spurn him, that to her he is just a means to an end. A warm body to keep her company before she settles on something much better, safer.
He doesn’t notice the tears brimming, he doesn’t even feel the small sting of it. Barely registers her touch on his cheeks before she’s angling his face towards her. Eyes looking into his. Through the haze of tears they’re blurry, but the love, if he would be so lucky, behind them burns into his heart.
“It’s alright if you’re tired, Astarion.” She whispers, gently bumping her forehead with his. “I’m sorry that I’ve made a mess of things.”
Her fingers stroke his cheekbones gently, reassuring him. He wants so desperately to reciprocate her touch. To hold and be held, to feel the warmth of somebody else without feeling like there’s a catch behind it. He can’t bring himself to do that. How could he? All he’s known is hunt, and chase. Bring your master a feast, and hope you won’t be whipped for his enjoyment.
He releases a shuddering breath at the memory of Cazador. “It’s me, actually. I’m the one who’s made a mess, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.” He whispers, voice hoarse from biting back tears.
“Is this about…” She trails off, not wanting to mention the name that has brought Astarion so much grief, pain, and ruin. Hands cradling his face gently. “Because if it is, and it’s about the hunters he hired, you needn’t worry. We handled one, we’ll handle all of them. I won’t let them take you.”
It’s such a simple word, yet it makes Astarion’s eyes widen slightly. Won’t. She spoke it so firmly, so determinedly, as if he actually is worth protecting. Worth holding onto past a fleeting night of passion. She doesn’t press him for an answer, just continues stroking his cheekbones with her thumbs.
“You’d do that?” He whispers. “Beat down every person that tried to take me away?” He knows he’s fishing for an indication of her feelings, knows this is the most absurd way to go about it. And without even knowing it, her answer brings him a relief he didn’t know he could feel.
“Of course I would. I.. I care about you, deeply. You are so dear to my heart and I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you on my watch.” There’s a complete seriousness in her tone. As if it’s so out of the realm of possibility for her to let anyone lay a hand on him, that he’s ridiculous for even asking.
His hands move of their own accord, one hand on her waist, the other cradling her cheek. “I. I couldn’t bear if something happened to you either. I’m sorry for my outburst earlier, it seems these pests have made quick work of chewing my brain after all.” It’s a deflection, a mirthless laugh to distract from this moment.
He knows she’s not dumb, and he knows this deflection, this avoidance of confronting his true feelings will lead him nowhere. That eventually, and probably sooner, rather than later he’s going to have to outright confess. But in this moment, when she moves to wrap her arms around his waist and burrows her head into his neck as his hands cradle her waist and her neck, he feels his body sag in relief. And when he angles his head slightly, nose catching whiff of her hair, the smell of the forest and the campfire embedded into her locks, he feels safer and freer than he’s ever felt.