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Firelight and Chill
Setting: camp.
Camp today is the splintered ruin of a temple, lost amidst mountains. An empty pedestal fronts the shattered remnants of a fallen statue: apparently a goddess, though even Shadowheart cannot tell which one. Not much else survives, apart from one marble pew that looks as though it has been hacked about with axes, currently draped with your wet outer clothes and one sleeping bag that has taken the brunt of the rain coming through the gash in the roof.
It's been a frustrating day. Nothing much got done – you’re not even sure you understand what you were trying to accomplish, out there in the wilds, soaked to the skin and lashed by bitter wind and minute arrows of ice. Gale made the most sensible decision of all and stayed behind this morning. You don’t think he’s stirred from his books and his cushions all day, snugly curtained in his cosy spot. Halsin, on the other hand, is out there, probably prowling in wildshape, revelling in all that nature has to offer. Nature. You’ve had enough of it.
Three bedrolls remain, around a fire that seems to give out no heat, so cold is the draught whistling through the empty halls. You wrap one of the blankets round you and wander into the sacristy to see if Withers is okay. His old bones must be feeling the chill.
At first you think no-one is there, but then you become conscious that a sarcophagus in the far corner (strangely untouched by vandalism or the ruins of time) has a slightly crooked lid. It seems Withers has found himself a spot out of the weather. Sensible. You lay your fingers on the lid and speak quietly, “Are you all right in there?”
“Destiny unfolds as it should.” The faint whisper emerges from the dark interior, saying the only thing he always says when you approach him. Today it almost sounds sarcastic. Sly old bugger: you know perfectly well he chats to the others whenever they all think you’re asleep, around the fire late at night. He never quite reveals exactly who he is, or how he came to be, but you know that he’s led a life. He seems to have a genuinely educated opinion on everything, even Gale’s most esoteric magical minutiae. You pat the lid in a friendly manner, ignoring the dust-dry hint of a disapproving hiss that comes from the interior, and turn away. At least one of you is out of the wind tonight.
Back in the temple proper, under a domed roof that has long since given way to creeping vines and the roots of a tree that somehow seeded in the choir loft before it succumbed to woodrot and turned to dust, you look round at your companions one by one. Shadowheart and Karlach are snuggled up together, the one wrapped in layers of woven cloth, the other glowing gently as her heart keeps both warm. They glance up together, then look away. Girls’ talk. You never understood it, growing up – the look that tells you wordlessly to keep your distance. That’s okay. Shadow likes Karlach, though it seems an attraction of opposites, and you’re glad to see them getting on.
Astarion is standing right out in the open, exposed to the full force of the draught cutting through the nave, in shirtsleeves as usual, reading that damned book. You walk up to him and wait to catch his attention.
“Yes?”
“It’s cold tonight.” What a stupid thing to say. If there’s one thing this companion has no time for, it’s meaningless small talk, yet you can’t think of anything sensible to say. “I don’t think we should sleep by the fire tonight. There’s no real shelter there, although it does keep the worst of the rain off.” You pause. This is proving a difficult thing to ask. “Could I come in and sleep with you?”
That could hardly have sounded worse. You’re mortified.
“With me?” He makes it sound as if it would be a terrible imposition. “I don’t think so. Remember, darling, I’m cold myself. I wouldn’t want to give you a chill.”
His voice is chilly, indeed, but the rest is an outright lie (it’s a lie, darling). Happy Astarion runs hot, almost as hot as Karlach, though in him it’s carefully banked and controlled. Standing only a couple of feet away, you can barely feel a glimmer of it, but it’s your blood that’s fueling that fire. You’d feel it through a stone wall.
Marching to the campfire you grab two of the sleeping bags, and take them back to his lodge. “I’m not asking for entry to your inner sanctum,” you start to say, when Astarion splutters in amusement.
“I should think not.”
Cheek. At least you’ve got his attention. He absently puts the book into a chest behind him and reaches out to touch your face. “Darling, you are cold.” Grabbing the sleeping bags he makes a fuss of opening them both out and wrapping you up in layers. By this time you’re down on the mat in front of his chamber. You glimpse a bare woven stretcher, an old sack… and are those rags hanging up on the wall? He raises his hackles like a cat and reaches behind himself to drop the curtain in front of his private space, and you respect it by lowering your eyes and pulling the covers more closely around yourself.
He drops to his knees beside you and touches your face again. “Poor baby,” he croons, in a mockery of genuine concern. “Why don’t you go in with Gale. I’m sure he’d be happy to keep you warm.”
All day yesterday Gale kept up a running commentary of remarks about how wonderful you are, how easily you’d taken to his magic lessons, how much he appreciates being part of your team. You know it’s a part of his peculiar brand of anxiety that he talks all the time – like a bloody walking dictionary, says Astarion – but this is starting to feel different. As if he’s working himself up to something.
Astarion’s still prickly as an affronted cat over the fact that he attempted to seduce you the other night and you turned him down. You tried to be as gentle as you could. He’s amazing. Not only a high-value member of your team, but also a companion who makes you smile and laugh as often as he saves you from an unexpected gnoll or bugbear attack with his sneaking skills and, if he gets the chance, his bite. He’s become a friend. You know he trusts no-one. You know he wants to seduce you because he believes it will give him control, and that will ease his crippling uncertainty. And you want to help him. But you’re not ready yet. You don’t know when you will be.
He’s pathologically jealous of the attention shown you by Gale. It’s starting to affect the whole party, and you’re not sure what to do about it. But the one thing you’re not going to do, no matter how seductive the magic, is to sleep with Gale. Still, that’s none of the vampire spawn’s business, frankly. You’re not partners. Not lovers. The only bond between you is the bite, and that (you tell yourself) is because he is so much more effective in all his skills when he’s recently fed, and your blood seems to be particularly valuable to him.
You’re not even convincing yourself. It’s no wonder Astarion doesn’t believe you.
Wyll comes in, stamping his boots and shaking rain off his oiled cloak. He drapes it over the end of the pew and picks up the remaining dry bedroll, looking around at the others in their various sheltered spots. You feel as much as see Astarion signal him with his eyes and a lift of that chin, a glance that observant Wyll spots and responds to instantly. He saunters over to join you, dropping to the mat and patting your arm with the hand that isn’t holding the sleeping bag.
“They’re cold,” he says to Astarion.
“Well, I know that.” The vampire looks down his nose, haughty and distant. “I’m attempting to solve that little problem.”
“Hmm.” Wyll unbuckles his sword belt and hands it to Astarion who, startled to be tasked by the warrior, takes it and places it carefully on top of the chest that holds the book of the Necromancer. “I’d take you in with me – this is no night to lie out by the fire – but that big gust of wind sent in a gout of water and all my stuff’s soaked.” He’s stripping to pants, getting rid of all his wet layers, and the vampire… gods, Astarion is hanging it up, like any good valet. Wyll wriggles in between your layers and you feel the warmth of his skin against yours.
“Much too cold,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. It’s not enough – your muscles are tight and you can’t stop shivering – but it helps. You snuggle in, trying not to let your teeth chatter. No matter what he needs, you don’t think you’ll be giving Astarion the chance to feed tonight. You wonder if there’s more wrong with you than just cold and exhaustion, but you don’t have the energy to think about it.
It’s Astarion’s turn to hiss, a sound perhaps of annoyance, but it turns within a breath to concern as he sees how poorly you are. Even the arrogant, “of course I’m not jealous of your wizard boyfriend, okay not your boyfriend, but you’re very friendly with him all the same,” vampire can’t keep up his pretence of not caring. With a gesture he extinguishes the lamp, instantly creating a small, dark space lit only by the flickers of the distant fire. Then he puts down the one remaining blanket and lies on top of it.
Slowly, hardly daring to breath, you edge closer, feeling the irresistible heat of your own heart blood flowing in his veins. He huffs, as if reluctantly accepting something you haven’t even discussed, and scooches over, wrapping you up in those long arms as if you are his long lost lover. The heat is delicious. You warm all over, in an instant, and as you relax into sleep you feel Wyll roll closer behind you, and all of a sudden you feel cared for, loved. Whatever befalls, you’re lucky to have such friends. And if Wyll takes the chance to tousle Astarion’s hair, brushing those sensitive ears as he goes, and if Astarion grunts in pleasure and draws in closer, pulling you both into his embrace? Well. That’s all to the good.