Chapter Text
The flames of the campfire dance gently in front of you. They flick and fizzle and twitch with every breeze.
It’s warm, you note. Because you need to note things like these. Sensations and observations. Evidence of your reality. You note the way your fingernails dig into your skin, the way your muscles tense, the way you are so present in this moment that you wish you weren’t.
Your dinner is kept warm by the fire. It shouldn’t be. The bowl should be empty; soon, someone else will notice this too. You should eat because someone will see, and then they will ask, and then you must find a reasonable answer to why you haven’t eaten Gale’s impeccable cooking. But you don’t have an answer to that. Not one that makes sense, anyway.
So, you should eat it now.
You should eat it.
The others sit around the fire with you. You can hear them talk and joke and laugh. They’ve only known each other for a short while, yet they act like old friends. They’re your friends too, you remind yourself. It’s why you’ve spoken with them tonight. It’s why you’ve participated.
And you’ve done so well. You smiled and joked and laughed and moved the conversation away from yourself. You’ve done it so masterfully that no one has noticed yet that you haven’t produced a single meaningful addition in hours. That you’ve stopped speaking all together.
It is that limbo you find yourself in now. Still enough to be the statue in their background but not invisible enough to leave.
It’s not that you don’t enjoy their company. They are all very good people who are fun to be around.
But good people worry about others and ask questions.
And you still haven’t eaten.
“Did you hear me?”
A hand touches your shoulder, and the sudden sensation of it jolts through you. You almost fall off the log as your leg kicks out and knocks over your bowl. Soup spills and seeps into the dirt, leaving bits of vegetables scattered about.
“Oh dear!” It’s Gale’s voice next to you now, and isn’t that great? “Apologies for startling you. Let me get you a new bowl-“
“Oh, it’s fine!” Your body moves jerkily like your strings have been twisted. “I’ll be right back!” And your voice. It’s too loud. Too much.
You finally look at him, and the expression on his face makes your heart beat faster. Concern.
So, you grab your bowl and leave. You’re sure he notices that you’re walking too fast.
You’re not sure where you can go. You can’t go back, that you know. But you also can’t go straight to your tent. It’s far too early to sleep, and hiding in your tent might invite someone to check in on you.
Then you see Astarion, sitting outside his tent on the edge of the camp with a book.
Your legs take you to him despite you having nothing for him. No reason to talk to him. He’ll ask questions, but you might have answers for him. He always asks the right questions.
When you reach him, he doesn’t look up from his book when he says, “Tell the wizard that the gesture is sweet, but no amount of seasoning will change the fact that I cannot consume whatever he’s made.”
“Huh? Oh.” You glance down at the bowl in your hands. “This isn’t for you.”
Then, he places a bookmark in its place and closes the book. “Do you need something, darling?”
“No.”
He tilts his head up to look at you, brow raised.
“Well, yes. But, no. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Your fingers clench the bowl. “May I sit with you?”
“I’d be a fool not to enjoy the company of someone as lovely as yourself,” he answers with a smirk and a flick of his wrist to the space next to him.
The performance is clear, and usually, the game is fun. But you don’t have the energy to humor him tonight.
“Thank you.”
You pick a pillow and sit down, not too close, but not too far to be odd. He watches you from the corner of his eye, feigning disinterest. He expects something of you. You know that. Why shouldn’t he? You were the one to bother him for no reason.
“Go on, then,” he finally says. “Spill your heart out, or whatever it is that heroes do.”
His words are always too playful, too perfect. Too much.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your evening. I’ll be quiet if you’d like to continue your book.”
“No, no. You clearly have something on your mind. Out with it.” The illusion of his concern is almost a comfort.
You’ve known people like him before. Liars, swindlers, manipulators.
His mask is well-crafted; you’ll give him that. But you’ve been around enough silver tongues to recognize the shine of his.
He doesn’t care for you; you suppose that’s where the comfort comes from.
You bring your knees to your chest and rest your chin on your arms. “I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”
“Then why are you here?”
The truth gives people like him ammunition, something to use. You should lie; the thought often comes to you. But your mouth is always faster than your brain.
“Because I need to be alone.”
He gives a thoughtful hum, red eyes piercing you. The action is both real and not. He is thinking but not of how to help you. No, he is calculating. Taking in the information you give him and comparing it to two hundred years of data.
“And yet you’ve come to me.”
The others still laugh around the distant fire. “Sometimes I need to be alone, and that’s never been an issue before. But suddenly, there are people who worry when I’m alone. So, I’m here because you’re the only one who won’t worry.”
“Honestly, darling. If you want to call me heartless, you need only say it.” His chuckle might be genuine amusement.
You throw him a stern glance. “That’s not what I meant.”
His lips quirk up into a smirk. “And I thought you didn’t want to play tonight.”
You grin, but it doesn’t stay for long. “Your charms are quite effective at times. You make it easy to forget.”
“And what in particular are you trying to forget tonight?”
“You could at least try to be more subtle when digging for information.”
He clutches his shirt just over his undead heart. “You wound me! Can’t a man show some support for a friend?”
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you say with a smile. “I don’t mind that you’re looking for weaknesses. Something to use against me should the need arise. It’s alright.”
“And isn’t that fascinating?”
“What is?”
“That you would put yourself at a disadvantage for seemingly no good reason,” he muses.
Your smile fades to indifference. “It won’t matter in the end. Regardless of what cards you play, I’ll likely give you whatever you’re angling for. The flirting and scheming really is a waste of your time. It’s all rather unnecessary.”
He scoffs, unamused. “And you’d just give me whatever I want for nothing in return?”
You know how you must sound to him. What you say makes no sense. You both play the same game, but he is trying to survive, and you’ve already accepted your fate. What sane person would admit defeat so quickly?
You drop your face into your arms. “I know you plan to use me, and it’s so stupid, but I don’t even mind. Hells, all you need to do is be nice to me, and I’d do anything for you!” Distantly, you realize that your face is wet. “It’s just so nice to know you mean harm instead of waiting for the others to suddenly change their mind. I don’t have to worry whether you’re going to betray me. I know that you will, under the right circumstances.”
You throw your head back to look at the darkening sky. “How pathetic am I? Sitting here, begging for kindness, no matter how artificial.” Tears fall freely now. “My only means of defending myself are asking people nicely to not manipulate me!”
You look at him now. What does he think of you? A weak and vulnerable creature. Something not worth his pity. “I must be the perfect target, aren’t I?”
His expression is something you can’t place. All he does is watch you silently. He should say something. Anything. You can’t bear to look at him.
“Please,” you sob into your hands. “Please use me kindly.”
You know better than this. You know what he is, the kind of person he is. You know better, yet you fold over nothing.
“Please, make sure I’ll be okay after you’re done with me.”
Hands guide you in, unsure and unsteady. Unpracticed. He has no warmth to give or heart to beat with, but his arms are around you, and they are real .
So, you bury your face into his shirt and stain it with your tears. “Do whatever you want with me. Just don’t hurt me,” you plead while choking on a sob.
Fingers card through your hair, massaging your scalp. His other hand rests on your back.
“Alright,” he whispers, tone flat but lined with something you cannot name. “I accept your terms.”
Perhaps this gesture was made as part of your new agreement. You’ve given him a part to play, and he is nothing but a performer. It may be unfamiliar, but he’ll surely learn.
And he is a quick learner. With the way his hands clutch you, pressing you close together, you can almost pretend he means this. That he will be kind.