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A soft breeze whistled through the camp’s stone exterior, gently carding through Astarion’s hair. The elf would have sat at the fire and appreciated the crisp night with the others, if it weren’t for his current circumstance.
He was stained. Stained with the blood of his master. Stained with the fear of a punishment never to come. Stained with the idea that he had killed his captor, the one who had kept him for so long.
Astarion felt the dried specks of fluid wrinkle on his face as his brow creased, blood caked beneath his carefully manicured nails too. He was still shirtless, stripped of his armor when cast into the ascension ritual. His well defined muscles cast firm lines into his pale torso, he was a perfect creation, made to be a pretty thing; he felt disgusting.
For the first time in two hundred years, he was free. So why did he feel so empty? He thought back a few hours, fleeting images rushing across his memory. The desecrated corpse of a vampire, red eyes staring up at him, unseeing. His companions standing off to the side, wide-eyed, as his body was wracked with each sob, the succeeding cries more akin to wails. The obscene amount of gore flooding the infernal runes carved into the floor.
No one rushed in to help him. He remembers that quite clearly, a hint of disdain seeping into his memories now. Were they afraid of him? Astarion felt the tears he had shed earlier warm his eyes again. He blinked them away, frustrated that once he started crying, he found it doubly hard for him to stop.
Deciding to move from the campfire to the indoors, he dipped into his tent, sitting down on the floor. Astarion curled his knees to his chest. He stared at the bloodstains on the linens that lined the ground, trying (and failing) to push the morbid scene out of his mind. He rocked himself a couple of times, attempting to self-soothe, but eventually stilled and rested his forehead against his knees. He continued letting the pointless tears run down his nose and drip onto his pants, only opening his eyes when he heard a faint rustling outside his closed door.
He half-expected Tav to be the one calling for him, but instead, he was met with the gentle timbre of Gale’s voice.
“Astarion?” The vampire always liked how Gale said his name, paying careful attention to pronounce it properly, delivering the ‘ar’ sound with the lilt of his accent, giving his name the dignity it deserved.
Gale stood cautiously outside the tent, “Could I come in?”
The vampire raised his head, hastily wiping the tears from his face. “Sure,” was the only word he could muster without his voice wavering. He hoped Gale wouldn’t notice that he’d been crying.
Gale swept back the red curtain that served as the door, ducking beneath it before letting it fall closed once more. Wordlessly, Gale sat cross-legged next to Astarion, a bit closer than he would have liked, but it was tolerable. The wizard craned his head to the side, prompting Astarion to turn and look at him. His eyes were strained with the tears he was holding back, and when they met Gale’s own dark, shining eyes, his facade almost dissolved completely.
The wizard always held so much emotion in his eyes. They were often alight with wisdom or wit, but they were filled with care tonight . No one had ever looked at Astarion like that - like they cared for him.
“Stop.” Astarion said, a bit of signature petulance slipping into his voice, “Don’t look at me like you pity me.” He shook his head and re-positioned it atop his legs, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m not pitying you,” Gale replied quickly, “I’m worried about you, Astarion.”
“Well… Stop it?” He almost laughed at his own comment.
Gale only sighed, readjusting himself so that his feet were stretched before him, his upper body reclined with his outstretched arms supporting him. He stole a glance at the carving on Astarion’s back, the raised, pink flesh spelling out a piece of an infernal script. It was clear that the scars were old, but due to their depth, they would not fade more than they already had.
“What are you doing?” Astarion felt himself prickle as he realized Gale was looking at his back. He wasn’t particularly sensitive about it, or at least he didn’t like to think so. Past lovers had asked about it, and he always fabricated some fantastical story of him being kidnapped or mugged.
Astarion would never admit to that it was a a poem written on his skin in a devil’s language. Not that it mattered. No one ever cared much about it beyond pure curiosity, a curiosity that had never bothered him until this very moment.
“Just looking,” Gale hummed, “it’s quite a curious piece.” He squinted at it. “May I?”
Astarion swiveled to look at Gale, a flash of concern passing over each of their faces. Gale quickly retracted the hand that was reaching toward Astarion back into his lap, afraid he had overstepped. There was a long pause before Astarion sighed and got to his feet.
“I’m going to get a bath,” the vampire said, gathering a towel from a nearby pouf, cutting their conversation short, “goodnight, Gale.”
With that staunch goodbye, Astarion exited the tent and headed toward the ‘bath,’ which was really just a copper wash basin in an otherwise unused tower at the corner of the camp.
Astarion peeled his blood-stiffened pants off, discarding them in the corner before wrenching the water pump handle upward. Gale had enchanted it with some sort of fire cantrip when he discovered the water too cold for his liking. It now ran at an enjoyable, steamy temperature and didn’t cool after being poured.
The elf shed his boxers and socks, standing fully naked. A mirror stood in one corner of the room, and he turned to face it. Obviously, there was no reflection, but he still checked every day, just in case. With that, he sighed disappointedly and looked down at himself. He hadn’t seen his own face in at least two centuries and had never been afforded the opportunity to lay eyes on his back since it had happened.
Astarion dipped a toe into the water, testing it. He found it pleasantly warm. The surface, lined with a magically conjured layer of bubbles, broke as he stepped in, quickly sinking into a seated position. He scrubbed himself clean, allotting several minutes to violently scrub the blood from his skin, leaving red marks where the towel abraded his skin.
He experienced vague memories of other instances where he had scrubbed himself raw. When he killed for the first time, he was afraid the blood would never feel truly gone. When he had been touched with wandering hands, worried the feeling of someone touching him would plague him each night he lay down to sleep.
Astarion dipped his head into the water, massaging his scalp with firm fingers, before throwing his head back as he sat up, keeping the hair from sticking to his forehead. He splashed some water onto his face, ensuring he got the blood off, then relaxed against the tub wall. He hummed to himself, letting his mind wander. Of course, it wandered immediately to the sickening image of a mangled corpse, but he blinked it away as he did most of his disturbing thoughts, only letting it nag at the corners of his mind.
The second thing to come to him was what had happened with Gale. He mulled it over in his head. If he could show his scars to Gale, maybe he could draw them, even decode them. It was precisely what Astarion wanted. To know what the ‘poem’ said. He knew it was a devil’s pact, but what did it mean? He allowed himself to stew for a few minutes before stepping out of the tub and drying himself. He wrapped the gray towel around his waist and exited the tower, making his way toward Gale’s tent. He half considered stopping to put clothes on but figured it wouldn’t matter. Gale would be looking at his back anyway.
Astarion stood outside the wizard’s door, a flickering candle indicating he was still awake. Astarion cleared his throat before asking, “Gale?”
There was shuffling inside the tent before Gale emerged, clad in a violet sleeping robe. He gave Astarion a once-over, taking note of his near-nudity, and raised an eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” Gale was confused about why Astarion was standing outside his door, wrapped in only a towel and freshly bathed.
“Oh, come now,” Astarion rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing like that .”
Gale gave an awkward laugh. “No, no, of course not.” The apprehension didn’t fade.
A small voice reverberated in the back of his mind. A whore, that’s all you’ll ever be… You know what he wants from you. Astarion shook the thought away. There were a few beats of silence before Astarion continued. “I would like to offer you a look at my back,” adding quickly, "if you wanted to.”
Gale was surprised by Astarion’s sudden change of heart but attempted to be accommodating. “I would be honored.”
Gale still wasn’t entirely sure if the vampire had other intentions. Nonetheless, he invited Astarion in, sweeping the door aside, a faint whiff of persimmon and burning candles drifting through the stagnant air.
Astarion sat next to Gale’s bedroll and several massive stacks of books. Clearly, the wizard spent more time researching than organizing by the multitudes of papers strewn about. He unconsciously sat with his back facing away from where he supposed Gale would sit, feeling slightly more exposed than he had outside.
Gale took a weathered book off his desk. With it, a worn quill and a piece of parchment. He sat on the carpet, facing Astarion, and placed the materials aside. Astarion stared at him dumbly, attempting to hide something behind his steely eyes.
“Could you, um, turn around?” Gale was cautious to ask.
“Oh,” Astarion seemed to have been zoning out, “of course.” He began twisting his upper torso, but before he could fully turn away, he paused, returning to face Gale.
“There’s something I want to show you first. Something you should probably know before you get into all of this.” It came out as almost a whisper. Astarion was looking at the floor nervously as Gale felt his tadpole squirm. “Be warned, it’s… a lot.”
Gale nodded, opening his mind to the intrusion, feeling Astarion’s mind link with his own. With little warning, Gale was thrust into a horrid scene. And, although what he was experiencing wasn’t real per se, not in the sense that it was currently happening, it was still excruciating to watch… or feel? Gale was unsure where he ended and Astarion began.
Astarion was fully naked, being held down by a man straddling his back with his full weight, a hand holding Astarion’s wrists above his head. Not that it was needed. Anything Cazador commanded, Astarion had to obey. His body was not his own.
The vampire let out a blood-curdling scream as he felt the knife that was carving against his back dig deeper. It had to be near touching muscle. He squirmed but could feel his own body resisting. Cazador held him tighter.
“Oh, you do sound so pretty when you scream.” He had a languid tone about him, “Shall we hear it again?” The knife found a spot next to the previous carving, a searing burn spreading across his back as the blade dug in. He kicked his feet futilely, sobbing. He could feel the cool blood rushing down his sides. He felt dizzy from the loss of it. It was pooling beneath his stomach, drying in a dark puddle. He lifted his head slightly to lay it aside, glimpsing the tears mixing with the mess.
“Oh, no, I don’t quite like that one…” Cazador mused to himself.
Astarion huffed as he felt the dagger withdraw from his back, his master instead rubbing healing salve over the wound he had just made. He had to be perfect.
The application numbed the wound before almost instantly closing it, creating a fresh expanse to re-write the mark. Cazador examined the bloodied blade. “Let’s try this again, Little Star-”
Astarion felt himself recoil at the name and tensed again at the bite of the knife. He soon fell limp. This excursion had been going on for what he estimated to be half an hour. The pain had become a constant. He allowed himself to fall unconscious. He would rather be unconscious for whatever horrors would be wreaked upon his body.
Then, another scene. A cozy, candlelit tavern this time, bustling with its nightly crowd. Astarion could be spotted in an alcove, smiling and chatting with a young man who had long, silver hair. Gale immediately recognized this man to be Sebastian.
‘Why are you showing me this?’ Gale felt Astarion receive his thought.
‘Because I need someone to understand.’ Gale felt the vampire respond.
Needing no more encouragement, Gale observed as Astarion and the younger man left the table, retreating to a room upstairs, the latter stumbling up the stairs. A series of vignettes appeared before his eyes: Astarion kissing a wide-eyed virgin, speaking his name in four syllables “Seb-as-ti-an,” giving it a melodic quality. He saw Sebastian pushed back onto the mattress. A flurry of intimate touches ended in the two lying side by side - Astarion staring at the ceiling with a pained expression while Sebastian nuzzled into the crook of his neck.
Then, they were back at Szarr palace, in the same room Astarion was in during the earlier memory. Gale could see it more clearly now, a grand room filled with plush chairs and golden accents, yawning windows drawn closed with great curtains. In the center of what he assumed was Cazador’s personal quarters was a set of elegant Victorian furniture, in the middle, a worn table. Upon closer inspection, the figure appeared to be Sebastian, Cazador leaning over him, drinking from his neck. Astarion was sitting on one of the couches, shaking, forced to watch this macabre spectacle.
“Sebastian!” Astarion attempted to shout through his tears, “Please! Stop!” He continued to cry, unable to do anything else.
Gale watched solemnly as the last bit of life fell from Sebastian’s body. The boy fell limp. Cazador, breaking contact with the neck he was drinking from, spun around and cracked Astarion across his right cheek. He flinched back, curling into the cushions.
“Do not cry in front of me again, boy.” Cazador was inches away from Astarion. He could smell the tang of Sebastian’s blood on his master’s lips, glowing eyes piercing his very soul. “You will bring me a sweet dinner like this each night. If you refrain from crying, you will be rewarded. Maybe I’ll even let you drink from your own prey.”
The dark-haired elf withdrew his presence, striding out of the room and slamming the door behind him. Astarion scrambled off the chair and to Sebastian’s side, pulling him into a sitting position and checking for a pulse. Judging by the way Astarion’s shoulders sagged, he felt nothing beneath his fingers. He gently leaned Sebastian’s limp body into an embrace, wailing.
The scene faded. And, at long last, Gale was looking at Astarion face-to-face once more. Gale tried to formulate a sentence, stuttering over his thoughts. All that he managed to get out was a breathless ‘oh.’
Astarion nodded, his eyes glistening. He wordlessly turned around to expose his back to Gale. The scars seemed to have more meaning now, more weight. Gale was more concerned than curious and decided that breaking the heavy silence would do them some good.
“I’m so sorry, Astarion.” Gale heaved. There was too much to say and not enough room to say it.
Instead of his usual quips about not needing pity, Astarion remained silent. Gale was unsure if he was crying but decided to leave it lay. He returned to the task at hand, drawing Astarion’s scars. He had Astarion turn around again, both visibly shaken by the memories.
He began at the top, dipping his quill and drawing a tall ‘U’ shape. He moved clockwise, only getting to the third character before struggling to accurately depict them. Gale sighed and scribbled out what he had drawn, flipping the paper over.
“Can I use my finger to trace them? It’s quite hard to draw them,” Gale asked in earnest.
Astarion froze. He sniffed and looked straight ahead at the wall, his faint heartbeat strengthening. He parted his lips to speak, but the words died in his throat. Instead, Astarion simply nodded. But Gale wouldn’t take that for an answer.
“I need verbal confirmation.” Gale was trying to be considerate, but Astarion felt like he was being mocked.
“Fine, yes.” He grumbled indignantly, readjusting the towel around his waist and sitting straight.
Gale hummed an ‘okay,’ placing his index finger against the base of Astarion’s neck. Gale felt him flinch under his touch and paused, awaiting an indication that he could continue. Astarion said nothing, so Gale resumed carefully inking the infernal circle. Astarion tensed with each movement of Gale’s finger, slowly tracing the ridges on his back.
They settled into a peaceful rhythm. Gale would delicately run the pad of his finger over Astarion’s back, sometimes several times, before scratching it down and moving to the next. It grew late by the time Gale was finished, Astarion fighting to keep his eyes focused.
He startled when Gale tapped him on the shoulder, signaling he was finished. Astarion whipped himself around, threatening to lose the towel completely.
Gale was holding the paper behind his back, ready to present it. “Ta-da!” he said, handing the paper to Astarion, who hungrily grabbed onto it. He looked it over, then again, and clutched it to his chest like a lost lover. After all this time, he could finally see with his eyes what he had only been able to feel with his hands. Gale had drawn it rather beautifully, with calligraphy lines and long flowing strokes. Astarion guessed it wasn’t nearly as pretty printed on his person.
“This is quite the masterpiece, Gale.” Astarion said in place of a ‘thank you.’
“I appreciate the sentiment.” Gale smiled, their eyes meeting. “I’ll translate it some other time when it’s not so late. Speaking of, would you like to stay here for the night?”
Astarion thought for a moment. “Where would I sleep?”
Gale turned a bit red, “I was thinking we could share my bedroll. It’s big enough for two.” The wizard paused, “but you don’t have to.”
Astarion knew what Gale wanted. Who was he to deny a man who had obviously been waiting to touch him all night? A man who had done this for him?
“Of course, I’ll stay, darling.” Astarion slipped into his signature sensual composure. A defense mechanism - something familiar, to protect him.
Gale picked up on Astarion’s change of demeanor and chose to ignore it. Instead, he made himself comfortable by untying his robe and hanging it up. This left him in his boxers, his chest marking on full display beneath a peppering of body hair, stomach spilling slightly over the elastic band. The orb’s tendrils trailed across his body, up to the base of his eye and down to his navel. Gale untied his half-up hair and went over to sit with Astarion. The elf sitting back on his elbows, watching with a half-lidded expression.
“Come here,” Astarion said reflexively, partially unfurling his waist-covering as he crawled towards the wizard.
This did not get the reaction he expected, Gale’s face morphing into amused confusion. Astarion faltered, “What?” He sat back on his haunches.
“Astarion,” Gale sounded like he was chiding an animal, “what in the hells are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” Astarion’s head followed Gale as he took his side of the bed.
“Trying to get some sleep?”
“Oh.”
“Now please lay down, ‘Star.” Gale wiggled under the blanket, throwing it over Astarion, whose back immediately turned to the brunet. Gale could neither see the devastated expression on Astarion’s face when Gale called him that nickname, nor how his face clenched when an arm wrapped around his torso.
“You’re cold,” Gale commented, nose pressed into the wisps at the base of the other’s neck.
“I’m a vampire.” Astarion was rigid.
“What’s the matter?” Gale could tell that there was something wrong by the way Astarion laid like a board in his arms.
“Nothing,” was the only response he got.
Internally, however, Astarion’s entire body was screaming. Gale was trying to get him to lower his guard . Those rough hands resting innocently against his sternum would begin to wander. They would pick him apart, touch him, lay him bare. He would’ve been asking for it anyway, walking up to someone’s door wearing what he was. Fear seized his heart, but he kept it contained, just as he did everything else.
Then, just as he anticipated, Gale’s hands moved from their resting place. He steeled himself for them to slip beneath his waistband, but they didn’t. That’s okay. Maybe Gale was taking his time. That had happened before. Open palms trailed down his sides, and fingers danced nimbly up his spine. Gale stroked over Astarion’s back again, this time allowing the bumps to disrupt his fingers, flowing with the texture of the marred skin.
Astarion rolled his shoulders each time Gale changed his movements, seeming almost afraid of the touch.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Gale asked intermittently.
“Yes.” Astarion’s response was reflexive.
After a small chunk of time, however, Astarion grew tired of whatever game Gale played. He interrupted their sustained silence. “Do you want me to initiate this?” He said blatantly.
Gale blinked, ceasing his ministrations. “What?”
“I said-” Astarion was cut off.
“Yes, I heard what you said,” Gale spoke in a relatively firm tone, “I’m just a wee bit… confused?” His voice raised in pitch with the last word.
Astarion rolled over to look at Gale and partially sat up.
Astarion lost his patience. His sentences formed with little breath between words. “This is how it works, isn’t it? I come to your tent wearing nothing but a towel, you do something nice for me, then we have sex so we’re even, and I leave. Then, maybe if you enjoy it, I come back another night. Am I missing something?”
Gale looked at him with the same look he would give an injured puppy. “Oh, ‘Star-”
“And stop calling me that! Stop pretending you care about me!” His indignance was loud enough to be heard by the other camp members. Gale shrunk back.
Gale gave enough pause to let Astarion calm down before speaking. “I do care about you.” He cleared his throat, putting some confidence into his voice. “Do you think someone who wanted to only use you for- for sex would spend time drawing your back? Would they care about how you felt when they touched you? Would they even ask to touch something as simple as your back?” Gale was practically pleading for Astarion to see the truth.
“I care for you, Astarion.” Gale grabbed the other man’s hand. “Now let me.”
“Okay, can you please just,” Astarion took a moment to eke out what he wanted to say, “keep your hands still?”
Gale nodded, a proud grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Of course,” he said. And that was that.
Astarion’s brows were knitted like he was about to cry, although he didn’t, from what Gale could tell. Instead, he laid back down, allowing Gale to spoon him.
Ever so slowly, Gale’s hand crept back around to hold him, unmoving. This time he melted into the touch. This was… different . He wasn’t used to it, but he could warm up to the idea.
He let his muscles relax as he was touched gently for the first time. He enjoyed the sensation of Gale’s body heat, warming him, and the feeling of fingers making predictable, innocent movements.
Astarion trusted Gale enough to let his eyes close, letting sleep cloud his brain. He drifted off into an elven trance, happy. Tonight, he was loved. Tonight, he was held.