Chapter Text
On the year 1468 DR in the Kingdom of Baldur’s Gate, King Ulder Ravengard’s late wife bore a healthy baby boy, then passed less than an hour later, peacefully in her sleep.
Out of respect for his wife, King Ulder called for a month of mourning before he finally held the celebration for his son’s birth. Wyllyam Ravengard would be a new breath of life for the kingdom and the heir to his legacy. Many traveled from far away in order to join the celebration of his birth.
King Ulder made few restrictions to the guest list. Among them, a certain devil was not welcome within the palace.
She was not pleased with this. She attended anyway, making her grand entrance with a flurry of fire, and a hush fell over the crowd at the sight of her.
King Ulder’s jaw tightened. His father told him once that he had made a deal with the devil once and now she would not leave their kingdom alone— not until she had taken something precious from it, something of equal value to what she had given. Ulder, however, was not his father. He would not make the same mistakes, and while Mizora felt as though she held a place in his court, Ulder refused to give her the time of day.
All threats Mizora made were thinly veiled and with a smile. She strode forward, the crowd scrambling to part the way for her, until the devil stood in front of Ulder and the cradle that held his son.
“What a sweet boy.” Mizora had cooed, eyes gleaming with malicious intent. Ulder’s jaw set firmly.
“You are not welcome here.” Ulder told her. “Leave. Now.”
“Yes, I am rather offended I didn't get an invitation.” Mizora laid a hand over her heart, feigning hurt. “Ulder, come now, you know me. I’m a friend to the family.”
“You were never a friend. You have no sway over me— I learned from my father’s mistakes.” His hand curled around his son’s cradle protectively. “Leave.” He told her again.
“Well, I shouldn’t stay when I’m not wanted.” Mizora said. “But before I go, I have a gift for the young prince. That’s what guests always bring to these sorts of things, right? A gift?”
“I want no gift of yours.” Ulder spat. He signaled for the guards but Mizora snapped her fingers, creating a ring of fire that protected her from their approach.
“But you still receive it generously.” Mizora no longer held back the wicked grin that now formed on her face. Her wings flared out and as she spoke, magic rang through her very words. “Such a fine, healthy, baby boy, but it will not be that way forever. Much like his mother, his rule will be cut short. On the same year he turns twenty-one, your son will prick himself on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die.” Her eyes flashed. “And his soul will be mine forevermore. Only then will I leave your kingdom alone, once I have what I am owed.”
King Ulder yelled then, grabbing one of the swords off the guards near him in order to launch himself at her, fire be damned. But Mizora simply laughed again, loud enough to echo throughout the room, and disappeared into her own fire.
The celebrations did not continue then. There was nothing to celebrate when Ulder’s only child was cursed.
However, Ulder did not admit defeat so easily.
Ulder searched far and wide in hopes of finding someone to break or change the curse. For a time, no Cleric or priest seemed strong enough, all admitting defeat when they tried.
Until Ulder met a Cleric of Selûne and an Aasimar who told him they might be able to do something about it.
“This is a powerful curse.” The Cleric, Isobel, told him. “Removing it completely is out of even our hands, but… I believe I can alter it.”
“Anything.” Ulder begged. “Anything at all.”
Isobel nodded and gently laid her hands on the infant prince. Her eyes glowed with silver power and when she spoke, it was with a magic that demanded the curse listen.
“When the prince pricks himself upon the spindle, he will not die.” She told the curse. “But rather, he will fall into a very deep sleep, and will be able to awaken from this slumber only if he receives true love’s kiss.”
The magic surrounded the prince like a second blanket, and even if the child did not understand what was happening, he was soothed by it nonetheless.
“True love’s kiss?” Ulder asked skeptically.
“Yes.” Isobel smiled back. “It has the power to break many curses, no matter the type. I apologize, it’s the most I could do, but now your son has a chance.”
At Ulder’s continued doubt, the Aasimar, Dame Aylin, spoke up. “I was once saved by the very power we speak of. A century of pain, ended because of love. Perhaps you have not seen its power, but that does not mean it’s not there.”
Ulder nodded at last. “Very well. Thank you for your help. You have done what no others could.”
“Blessings upon you and your son.” Isobel told him. “And good luck. You’ll need it.”
Ulder returned, the curse on his son altered, and had every single spinning wheel in the kingdom burned.
Even then, it did not feel like enough. So Ulder took further steps to keep his son safe.
Wyll would not grow up in the kingdom. He would grow up somewhere safe and remote, far from Mizora’s eyes. Anything he needed, Ulder would provide, but he would be hidden. He would grow up with tutors and caretakers but he would stay far away from Baldur's Gate.
There were no dangers of spinning wheels in the middle of nowhere. Wyll could be safe.
Ulder would see that he would be.
—
In the year 1489 DR, two hundred years after his enslavement, Astarion is suddenly freed of his master’s compulsions and doesn’t hesitate to run as far as he can.
Astarion knows he felt it snap. He’s pretty sure Cazador would’ve called for him to return two days ago if he could. He knows these things and yet, it doesn’t feel real. It feels more like a dream he hasn’t woken up from or a trick that’s going to damn him the moment he gets caught up in it. Something Cazador did in order to test him and when Astarion goes back to him, he’s going to be punished tenfold because he was the fool who fell for it.
Stupid boy, Cazador would say. Did you really think you were free?
This is going to go wrong, he knows it. Cazador will find him again. Maybe he already knows where he is and is just watching him dig himself a deeper grave. Maybe Astarion is only tacking on more and more years locked away in a tomb, forgotten and left to rot until Cazador thinks he’s learned his lesson.
Maybe it would be better if Astarion returned and begged for forgiveness at Cazador’s feet.
He keeps running anyway. Astarion can think of little else to do.
During the day, Astarion hides away wherever he can and waits for the sun to set. Then at night, he travels as far as he can manage, doing his best to stay away from other people. He doesn’t know who he can trust.
His feet ache terribly but Astarion doesn’t stop moving. He gets his hands on a squirrel to drink— which is far better than a rat— but he doesn’t hunt more than that. He keeps pushing onwards, desperate and paranoid, and each day, he gets further and further from Baldur’s Gate.
It’s hard to gauge what he really feels. Astarion laughs hysterically, then shakes and sobs, then sits in quiet disbelief before the cycle begins all over again. It’s impossible. It’s more than impossible.
Astarion had felt the compulsion snap. This is the only thing he knows for certain. Two hundred years of being on Cazador’s leash— he knows the constant weight of it. He felt unbalanced when it abruptly fell away. Astarion had stood there for a solid minute trying to comprehend it.
Then he ran. Because of course he ran— two hundred years of Cazador, unable to escape his grasp, now suddenly gone? He could think of little else. Still thinks of very few things other than running.
Astarion has been traveling for nearly three days straight for as long as he can push himself. It still doesn’t feel like enough. With Cazador still alive, Astarion doubts it’ll ever feel enough.
He tries anyway. And on the fourth day of his escape, he finds himself in a thick forest with plentiful animals, and reasons that he should hunt. The blisters forming on his feet aren’t making it any easier and hopefully, a little blood will go a long way.
Just a little blood, he tells himself, as if he’s not already salivating at the idea already.
So Astarion hunts. Or, well, tries.
It seems four days with nothing but a squirrel and nonstop traveling haven’t been kind to him. Many of the creatures are faster— the squirrels are too high to reach, the rabbits bound away, and Astarion tries to snatch a bird that’s on a branch just close enough to reach. It flies away however, but not after chirping so angrily that Astarion is pretty sure it’s cursing him out.
Nonetheless, he drags himself along. He keeps trying and as the sky slowly starts getting lighter, Astarion realizes that he’s running out of time. It’s a thick forest but he doesn’t want to risk it— leaves can only block so much.
He stumbles along, searching for shelter.
The cave was supposed to be his salvation, especially with how bright it was starting to get. But it isn’t until he reaches the entrance that he notices a pair of gleaming eyes already occupying the inside and his heart leaps into his throat.
There’s a bear in the cave— two bears, he realizes when the first one moves. One is much smaller than the other and sleeps peacefully. The bigger one however has locked onto Astarion with a low growl and he resists the urge to freeze completely.
Astarion takes a step back. “My deepest apologies.” He says, voice wavering. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The bigger bear takes two menacing steps forward, the growling getting louder. Astarion takes another step back, putting his hands up.
“Now darling,” he says, because he can think of little else to do but keep talking, “Don’t worry about me, I was just going to—”
The thing about being undead is that it’s always a coin toss whether or not animals see him as a threat or not. And as the bear charges forward with a roar, Astarion immediately knows which side the metaphorical coin has landed.
And Astarion doesn’t like his chances with a bear. He bolts.
Branches whack him in the face, scraping his skin as he rushes through them in a blind panic. The bear follows closely behind and Astarion can’t tell if it’s gaining on him, too afraid to look. He just presses forward, hoping it’ll get tired or deem him not worth it or something—
His foot catches on a stray root. Astarion yelps and tumbles to the ground, landing in a small clearing. He scrambles to get up but he feels teeth sink into the flesh of his leg and a hoarse cry escapes him. Tears spill out— in terror or pain, he cannot tell— and for a moment, Astarion thinks that’s the end.
His life ends because he wasn’t good enough to last against a bear in the woods. How Cazador would laugh.
Then there’s tiny, high pitched screeches— dozens of them— and his leg is released as the bear stumbles back. It roars and Astarion twists around, muffling a cry of pain as he does, in order to see what the hell is happening.
He’s… Even more baffled by what he sees.
A dozen or so colorful songbirds are diving at the bear, quickly pecking at its face before flying back up as quickly as it came. The bear swipes as it backs up, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of them, before finally it bounds away, back the way it came. The birds follow it for a moment, ensuring it’s really on the run, but they pull back in the end, seeming satisfied with their work.
Astarion just stares, feeling like he’s just witnessed something impossible. Since when do birds— especially such small birds— attack bears?
The flock of birds split into two groups— half flying somewhere behind him while the others circle high above his head. Astarion flinches, arms up and ready should they direct their ire towards him. He’s not as scared of them as a bear but that hardly looked pleasant. He doesn’t exactly have as thick of a hide as the bear.
It comes as an added shock when he hears footsteps rushing in his direction. Astarion twists his body to get a better look, wincing as he does, and feels out of his depth when he sees a human finally step into the clearing. Said human stops in his tracks when he sees Astarion, a look of surprise on his face.
The human has dark skin and wears a white undershirt with a red and gold vest over it and black pants. There’s a rapier on his hip and a bow on his back, along with at least half a dozen colorful songbirds surrounding him, either in the air or perched somewhere on his body. He doesn’t look terribly old— Astarion couldn’t even begin to guess his age, as humans live a fraction of the time elves do— but he looks like an adult, albeit probably a young one.
He looks at Astarion almost like he’s surprised that another person exists in the world. Then he sees the state of his leg and his eyes widen before he rushes forward.
“Shit!” He swears. Astarion flinches when he gets too close but the human holds his palms up. “I mean you no harm! Are you injured anywhere else? I— damn it, I didn’t bring my supplies with me but if you think you can make it, my home isn’t far. I could patch you up there.”
Astarion struggles to find the words to speak despite himself. Between the bear, the birds attacking the bear, and now the sudden and oddly convient rescue at hand, he hardly knows where to start. The human seems to realize this and backs up.
“Apologies.” He tells him. “Sometimes I get ahead of myself. My name is Wyll. And you?”
“Astarion.” He answers before he can think about lying. “I’m— okay, other than the leg.” Astarion glances back at the way the bear left, relieved that it’s really gone, then back at Wyll. All of the birds now surround Wyll, like a second shadow, and their beady little eyes are all locked onto Astarion. He feels strangely judged for it.
“I’m sorry but are those… Your birds?” Astarion can’t help but ask. It’s not a priority by any means but he’s just had the most bizarre few minutes of his life and Wyll is surrounded by birds but isn’t acting like that’s an abnormal thing. In fact, he seems to blink like he had forgotten they were there until that very moment.
“Oh! Sort of.” Wyll laughs softly. He glances back at the birds, and Astarion swears that the look in the birds’ eyes change when they look at him. Then it’s back to staring down Astarion like he personally offended them. “They uh, led me to you actually! It’s a long story but— you really look like you need medical attention. Can I help?”
Astarion thinks, briefly, of denying it. He’s in no hurry to become indebted to others, but fuck if he doesn’t need it. Pain shoots through his right leg whenever he moves it. It would hurt like hell to try and stand on his own, much less walk. Not to mention, it’s getting closer and closer to sunrise, and Astarion needs shelter now more than ever.
Wyll and his small army of songbirds is all he has right now. A pitiful thought, really.
“That would be appreciated, darling.” Astarion smiles as prettily as he can, which is immediately interrupted by the shooting pain in his leg when he moves.
Thankfully, Wyll is quick to help, slipping himself under Astarion’s arm for support and pulling him up. Astarion staggers a little, hissing and easing up on his bad leg, but Wyll keeps him upright. Astarion groans but muffles the sound and glances up ahead.
The birds that were on Wyll’s shoulder circle them once in the air before flying up ahead, chirping as they do. Wyll adjusts his grip on Astarion and gives him a considering look. “Ready?” He asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” Astarion bites out. They take a few steps, testing how they move as one before they find a pace. A slow one, as Astarion is limping, but not bad, all things considered. The fact that they’re moving at all is nothing short of a miracle.
It’s silent at first, with nothing but the occasional tweet from the birds. Astarion finds himself glancing at Wyll however, wondering exactly what he gets from this. Wyll glances at him too, but there’s so much concern and worry in his eyes that it’s hard to read anything else.
“Do you often rescue random strangers in the woods?” Astarion asks when he has the breath to. Wyll laughs, louder than he was expecting.
“Can’t say that I do! Actually I don’t get many visitors at all.” Wyll tells him. “Other than animals, that is.”
“Oh yes, plenty of those.” Astarion lets out a long puff of a breath. “The bear was most charming.”
“She’s normally a lot nicer.” Wyll gives him an apologetic look. “But she’s very protective of her cub these days. Even I can’t approach her unless I have an offering.”
“Ah. Birds and bears. Do you spend all your time speaking to animals?”
“I— well, they’re the only ones around.” Wyll explains sheepishly.
“A man living alone in the woods.” Astarion gives him a once over. “Should I be concerned? You’re not an axe murderer, are you?”
“Nothing of the sort.” Wyll promises. He sounds quite honest about it, like he thinks Astarion is truly afraid of the possibility. “My only intention is to help."
He says it so genuinely that Astarion has to resist the urge to gag.
Two hundred years and only now is he getting his knight in shining armor. Only he’s fairly certain that if he knew better, Wyll wouldn’t be helping at all. Vampire spawn don’t exactly count as damsels in distress. They’re usually the monsters of the story, and Astarion knows exactly what happens to monsters at the end of fairytales.
He rids himself of the thought. Just a day to heal. Then he’ll slip away in the night.
“Chivalry isn’t dead after all.” Astarion flutters his eyelashes. Wyll sputters in a way that has him laughing.
The birds, it seems, were leading them back to a cabin. Wyll’s most likely. It’s a pretty thing, with flowers growing along the edges and colorful patterns painted onto the walls. Astarion eyes them going in, glancing over at Wyll.
“Did you paint those?” He asks.
“Oh, yes. I have a lot of free time.” Wyll replies, like it’s a confession. He eases Astarion down on an armchair near the chimney, then quickly goes to the fire. He whispers something and to Astarion’s surprise, a flame appears in his hand, which he uses to light the fire.
“Are you a Druid?” Astarion asks.
“Not quite. More of a Ranger who knows a Druid Cantrip or two.” Wyll tells him. He gives Astarion an apologetic look. “I’m afraid I used up all my spell slots earlier so I have no magical healing to offer but my medical skills are still quite good without it! Haven’t practiced a lot on humanoids other than myself but it should be easier on another person.”
“You’re sweet.” Astarion flashes him a smile, adding a little purr to his voice. “Anything will do. Even a towel wrapped around the damn thing is better than nothing.”
“Wait here.” Wyll tells him, then hastily leaves in search of something. Likely medical supplies.
Astarion eases back on the armchair, glancing around the room in an effort to forget the stinging pain in his leg. It’s a quaint little house, not quite neat or messy, but somewhere in between. An organized sort of chaos with various hobbies strung around like Wyll was trying out just about everything he could think of. There’s a bowl of rising bread by the window, a half decent attempt at carving a bird on the fireplace’s mantle, as well as a rather pitiful attempt to sew a torn shirt hanging off of one of the two dining chairs.
The birds are in the house too. There are perches nailed into the walls and a bowl full of seeds and other bird food on the kitchen counter. They flutter about like they own the place, several still keeping a wary eye on him while others sleep in a nest on top of a cabinet or tweet a song as they hop from perch to perch.
Astarion wages his chances of Wyll secretly being an axe murderer are rather low. He thinks he could probably handle Wyll in a fight, if it came to that. Though the birds might peck his eyes out of his tried, which would not be ideal.
Astarion glances at the windows, swallowing thickly at the steadily growing light in the sky. When Wyll returns with a basket, he says, in the most casual tone he can muster, “Would you terribly mind closing the blinds? I burn rather easily.”
“Oh— of course!” Wyll gestures with his free hand. Astarion’s eyebrows furrow until he sees the birds respond, all fluttering to the windows in order to close the wooden blinds. They move quickly and efficiently, as if having done it a million times before, and soon enough, the room is dim, aside from the light from the fireplace.
Wyll thanks the birds with a smile and kneels down by Astarion’s injured leg. Astarion doesn’t quite know what to say so he says nothing and allows Wyll to carefully roll his pant leg up and tend to the wound.
Astarion bites back the hisses as Wyll gets to work but Wyll is shockingly gentle. He minimizes the pain as best as he can and cleans the wound before he wraps it. Soon enough, his leg is bandaged and Astarion can’t help but be a little impressed that it’s done well.
“Not bad.” He says, and Wyll preens at the praise.
“I would hope so.” Wyll dips his head. “I have a spare bedroom— if you’ll allow me a minute to clean it up, you could stay there until you feel fit to recover?”
“Sounds lovely, darling.” He leans forward, putting on a practiced, charming smile. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing at all.” Wyll holds his hands up.
“Come now. Surely there’s something you want?”
“Your company is payment enough. As I said, I don’t get many visitors here. Or any at all, really.”
Astarion considers that. He supposes anyone living away from everyone else really would love any company they could get. Astarion once longed for company like that— a year, locked away in a tomb, with nothing but his own thoughts. Seeing anyone at all in the month following felt like a blessing.
Perhaps Wyll is simply that naive and desperate enough not to want anything more. And his loss is Astarion’s gain.
“Then company you shall have.” Astarion lays back. “I’ll need to rest, but I can be quite the conversationalist when need be. I hear I’m fabulous company.” He winks.
“I don’t doubt it.” Wyll smiles back. He rises to his feet. “I’ll go clean up the guest room then. Did you need anything else?”
Blood, some part of him thinks. The death of Cazador. Immunity to the sun. Some goddamn peace for once in my life.
“I’ll be alright.” Astarion tells him. “But thank you. For everything.”
“Of course. The flock was very talkative about you, it was hard to ignore.” His head tilts curiously. “Did you attempt to catch one of them?”
Astarion feels his body go cold. He recovers quickly. “I may have. I was quite hungry earlier. Thought I could hunt for something.”
“Are you still hungry? I can make something— or catch something?”
“I’ll manage.” Astarion ignores the part of him that salivates at the idea to eat. There’s no way he can explain just how raw he likes his meat without giving himself away.
Wyll thankfully doesn’t press and leaves to clean out the guest room. Astarion glances back at the birds again, hoping that they can’t innately tell he’s undead, and better yet, that they can’t or won’t communicate that fact to Wyll.
Just for the day, he reminds himself. Just enough rest to get moving again later.
If the goddamn birds out his secret however, damn their ability to fly, Astarion will be eating one of them before Wyll drives a stake through his heart. Desperate for company or not, Astarion doubts he’ll want it from a vampire. Nobody does.
Soon enough, Wyll helps him to the newly cleaned bedroom and lays him down in the bed. Astarion adjusts and Wyll tells him to rest easy before closing the door behind him. Astarion waits for a while, to ensure there really is no threat to worry about, before he allows himself to trance and everything else slips away.