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Astarion would later admit to himself that the moment he first truly considered the possibility he was in love with Prunella was when he watched her snatch an infernal grenade out of the air with her enchanted gloves and hurl it back at the orthon who had first thrown it. She was incredible. The gnome was a force of nature, braver than some of the fiercest warriors and with the cunning to back it up.
Astarion had never encountered anyone quite like her.
The moment he knew he was in love with her was when he had to carry her dead body out of the Temple of Shar not even an hour later.
Raphael’s enemy had been tougher than they were prepared for, and with a combat arena that spanned two floors, Prunella and Astarion had been left with little cover when aiming arrows at an overhead enemy. It had all happened so quickly; Astarion had dropped to one knee, the blast from a well timed bomb catching him off guard, and Prunella had been beside him instantly, readying a healing spell when it happened. There was a thunk, a sharp whiz of metal through air, and then she went slack. A crossbow bolt from a merregon had been the culprit, placed neatly between her shoulder blades, likely slipping just to the side of her spine to puncture her heart. Astarion had seen the moment it happened, had been looking into her face when her eyes widened in shock and fear and then…nothing.
(Is this what his victims had looked like in their last moments…? Had they looked surprised when Cazador sank his teeth into their throats…?)
He had smelled Pru’s blood before, of course. Astarion was fortunate enough that she allowed him to indulge in it each night when their companions had already gone to sleep, but this? The sickly sweetness of her blood was too much—there was too much everywhere, on the floor, on her clothes, on his hands. He had shouted something, he thought, though he could not remember what. Whatever is was, it had gotten the attention of their companions, and when the fight was finally over and the last enemy felled, Karlach and Shadowheart rushed to joined him.
They were lucky Shadowheart was as level-headed as she was even after facing down a demon from hell, reminding them both that Gale had a scroll of revivify back in camp (of course the bloody wizard had it) and that they would need to remove the bolt before they could use it (“I thought you were supposed to leave them in?” “Listen—I-I think we’re a little past that point.”).
Astarion didn’t remember if he volunteered to carry her back or if he did it automatically (she was so small, so light in his arms). He also didn’t know why he had hurried her out. As Shadowheart had said, she wasn’t getting any dead-er, but something about the thought of taking their time while her body grew cold in his arms made him nauseous .
Gale had tried to greet them upon returning to camp (“ah the mighty warriors retu—oh gods above, Prunella…”), and though well aware of the affections the wizard harbored for their selfless leader, Astarion felt no hesitation in handing her over to him, laying her out on the bedroll in front Gale’s tent as the magic user swiftly moved to find the scroll amongst his many books and bobbles he always insisted on hauling from camp to camp.
The vampire probably should have backed away, let Gale work the Weave to breathe life back into the woman who had so freely given him her trust, her blood, her body. Gods, was this his fault? Would she have agreed to Raphael’s terms if not for her relationship with him? Would she have stayed by his side to cover him during the fight, leaving her vulnerable? If he hadn’t drank from her the night before, would she have been alert enough, swift enough, to move out of the arrow’s way?
Astarion had spent two centuries luring helpless victims to their deaths for his own survival with his charms and seduction, and this was supposed to be no different. He was supposed to woo her, have her under his spell of honeyed words and touches beneath starlight in order to ensure his own protection, but…but this was Prunella .
She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be used for his own vile purposes then tossed away once they had figured out a way to remove the parasites from the backside of their eyeballs. She deserved something real, someone real. She deserved someone like Gale or Karlach or Wyll or Halsin, not a broken spawn who didn’t even know if he was capable of love anymore—or ever for that matter. If she were to give her heart away, did she not deserve more than an unbeating one in return?
The gentle golden glow sparking across her skin had snapped him from his reverie as Gale began the incantation. He couldn’t face her, not right now. Not when he had looked into her pale blue eyes and watched the life leave them but a moment ago. Instead, he stood, turned away from the scene, and wordlessly made his way to the edge of the camp.
He had thinking to do.
-
How long had it been, he wondered, since he had sat down here? A glassy black lake expanded ever forward, the thick fog of the curse making it seem to stretch forward forever. It was difficult to tell time in the shadow-cursed lands. There was no sun or moon with which to track the hours, so when the sound of footsteps probed his weary senses, he was surprised to look up and find Prunella standing behind him.
She looked…small. Smaller than usual, at least. Or perhaps it was just the fact that she had wrapped a tattered old blanket around herself that seemed to engulf her upper half. She was in her night clothes, her hair loose around her shoulders, a rare sight to see considering she usually kept it up in a severe tail upon her head. She looked…softer. Tired. Astarion supposed coming back from the dead probably did that to a person.
“Hey, you,” she said with a soft smile, moving to sit next to him on the sandy beach shore. “The others said you left. I was worried when you didn’t come back.” Astarion risked a glance over at her. She had drawn her legs up to her chest, her freckled cheek resting against the top of one of her kneecaps, all wrapped up in frayed fabric. She had tilted her head so that she faced him, her cool blue eyes flicking over his face thoughtfully.
The color of the sky, he realized suddenly. The vampire had only just had the opportunity to see the daylight sky thanks to the parasite’s powers, the first time in two centuries, and now here it was again, the cerulean hues peering out at him even in the darkest of places.
“Apologies, my dear,” he covered quickly, turning his gaze from her lest he be caught staring. “I went hunting.”
Prunella made a soft noise of acceptance before looking out at the misty horizon as well. “Find anything?”
He shook his head. It was a lie that he had even tried, knowing damn well nothing living could ever survive in such a place of death and rot. Prunella knew too, he was sure, but it seemed she would not call him out on it. “You’ll need to feed then,” she said softly, and Astarion looked to the side to see her slide the blanket down to her elbows, her pale throat exposed, two shiny round scars standing out against her milky flesh.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, perhaps too harshly. “You need rest, not an overgrown leech attached to your neck.”
“Hm. It’s a very handsome leech, if it makes a difference.” She smiled at him warmly, hoping to lighten the mood, though when it got no reaction from the elf, her face fell. “Astarion, you need to eat. You’re going to run yourself ragged if you don’t.”
Astarion let out a soft grunt in response and she sighed.
It was silent for the next few moments, aside from the soft sound of her shifting positions, and Astarion had assumed she had chosen to drop the subject. What he did not see until it was too late, was her swiftly slicing into the meat of her own palm with the dagger he’d seen her keep in her boot.
“Oops.”
“ Prunella—! “ he started through grit teeth, angry at her recklessness, her stubbornness, as the familiar scent of her blood flooded his senses.
“Looks like I cut myself on accident. Would be a shame to let this blood just go to waste. You may as well drink it.”
She was lying, obviously, and that little stunt she pulled should have earned her more of an upbraiding, but Astarion’s empty stomach clenched painfully at the crimson pool forming in the palm of her hand. “Damn you, woman,” he cursed, taking her proffered hand in his own, cradling it gently and bringing it up to his lips. Her blood was so warm in his mouth, and he could feel her pulse’s rhythm flutter when he dipped his tongue into the crevice between each of her fingers, careful not to let a single drop escape.
He glanced upwards just briefly, catching her eyes for just a moment. Her pupils were already dilated, turning her irises into slim rings of periwinkle, and she trembled in thinly concealed pleasure as he sealed his lips around the parted flesh of the self-inflicted wound. She trusted him. He could have killed her at any time, plucked the veins from her pretty little wrist, drank her dry until she was as cold and still as she had been but a few hours ago. But he hadn’t.
Not yet, at least.
Prunella had mentioned on several occasions that she was from Baldur’s Gate. What would have happened, he wondered, if they had crossed paths then, before the Nautiloid? She wasn’t Cazador’s usual preference, but it would have been so easy to lure her, poor naive little Pru, to be but another of his master’s gruesome meals.
And he would have done it, because it was all he knew.
Hell, he was still doing it. Still manipulating her for his own benefit. Had he not kissed her, fucked her, selfishly, all for his own protection? Shit, even without Cazador and the threat of punishment looming over him, he was still no better than the monster he had created—still nothing more than a pretty lie.
No— no . He could be more than that, was more than that.
Carefully, he unlatched his mouth from her palm, pleased to find it had ceased bleeding, and gave it one final swipe with the flat of his tongue to ensure there was nothing left behind. “There. Happy?”
“Mmhm. You already look better, even if you do insist on brooding.” She let out a soft chuckle, raising up onto her knees to lean close enough to plant a kiss against his temple, chaste and affectionate: two things Astarion still wasn’t used to.
“Another requirement of vampirism, I’m afraid.” He was trying to tease, as he usually did, to distract her from the effect she was having on him, but unfortunately for him, the sight of her soft smile so close and so warm made every word come out breathless. “Blood and brooding…”
Prunella giggled and did not push further, instead moving to stand and extending her uninjured hand in his direction.
“Well I think you’ve had enough of both for the night. Come back to camp with me?” Her head tilted, as if to view him at a different angle, and a stray lock of hair slipped out of place and over one eye—such a small imperfection that Astarion could not resist the urge to reach out and tuck it back behind her pointed ear. “Please?”
“…Alright…” he whispered softly.
He took her hand.
He would tell her soon enough, and he prayed to the gods he did not believe in that she would forgive him.