Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gods below.

If they died here, at some in some godsforsaken Shar ruins in the middle of the Underdark, for the sake of some gnomes…there would be hell to pay. Astarion would make sure of it.

As it was, he and his companions had just managed to free True Soul Nere, only for the damnable Drow to turn on them the moment it became apparent that they came to kill him.

This could have been so much easier. They could have played along, pretended they were also devout followers of the Absolute, and then turned on Nere to collect his head for the Myconids. After learning valuable information that could help them on their way to Moonrise.

But no, Gale just had to save the gnomes. And Wyll just had to back him up!

Damn it all, these humans were going to get them all killed with their bleeding hearts and need for heroism.

He had said as much early on to Gale, his…on and off again…lover, of sorts. Astarion had expected the man to understand, at least somewhat, where he was coming from. They didn’t have time to stop for every person in need, let alone gnomes. Even Lae’zel had agreed with him!

But then Gale had just stared at him, those stupid brown puppy dog eyes looking so disappointed in him. “No one deserves to be a slave,” Gale had said, and Astarion hated how pointed that statement seemed to be, how intentionally broad it was supposed to be.

And so, he had gritted his teeth and followed the wizard’s lead, sulking quietly and feeling too much like a petulant child that had just gotten scolded by their parent.

And where had these oh-so-heroic acts landed them? Right here, feet away from molten fucking lava, dodging both Duergar and cultist drow alike. Wonderful. He was going to have some words with his companions as soon as they were done here.

Astarion cursed and rolled out of the way of another arrow that flew towards him. As he rolled, he pulled an arrow from the quiver on his hip and, as soon as he was upright, let his own arrow fly, snarling in macabre triumph as it pierced through the enemy Duergar’s skull.

Foreign movement to his left caught his eye, and Astarion instinctively reached his right hand over to grip the sussur dagger strapped next to his quiver and swung.

Blade met muscle as the dagger sunk into Nere’s calf. The Drow growled in pain and swung his hand out. Astarion had enough time to smirk smugly at the man before getting pushed and knocked back on his ass with a Thunderwave.

Astarion groaned, his faculties scrambled as he tried to recover from the point-blank blast. He watched blearily as Nere ripped the dagger from his calf and threw it aside. His lips were pulled back in an outraged sneer, “You will regret standing against me, you whelp.”

Unable to help himself, Astarion breathed a little, hysterical giggle. “I’m not standing, though.”

There was a beat of silence between them, comical, given the sound of spells flying and steel singing through the air all around them. Then, Nere gave a menacing grin.

“So, you think yourself funny, do you?” He mocked, then raised a glowing hand, “Let us make it so, shall we?”

Oh shit.

Astarion attempted to scramble up and out of the way, but his brain was still recovering from the blast and his hands and arms were still shaking with exertion.

“Astarion!”

Gale’s voice. Astarion felt a flutter of something like relief amidst the panic clouding his mind.

Twin flashes of blinding light seared the vampire spawn’s eyes.

Astarion was expecting a counterspell from Gale. He hadn’t been expecting the man to literally throw himself over him.

Crackling energy struck Gale, who let out a strangled yelp in response. Astarion grunted as the man’s full weight fell atop him. Behind Gale, Nere cried out as an eldritch blast struck him in the chest, knocking him prone.

Astarion could distantly hear Wyll calling out to both he and Gale in alarm. Over the wizard’s shoulder, Astarion zeroed in on the incoming swing of an axe wielding Duergar and instinctively tightened his hold on Gale, rolling them both out of the way and wincing at the sharp sound of the axe impacting the iron floor.

There was a sudden roar and a glint of well-whetted steel as Lae’zel swung her sword, cleaving the Duergar across the chest and pushing them several feet back into the lava.

Now crouched over Gale, Astarion quickly scanned his eyes over his fighting companions and the cowering gnomes and scowled. “Hey wizard,” he snarled, “how about next time we decide to be heroic, we—”

Astarion paused as he finally looked down. Gale stared back up at him, his mousey, greying brown hair fanned out beneath him, cheeks flushed in exertion. In any other situation, their positions would have felt rather intimate.

However, with jarring clarity, Astarion noticed how dilated the wizard’s eyes suddenly were. Warm brown were almost completely overtaken by black, and the man was breathing hard, wheezing almost. The vampire could clearly hear how fast Gale’s heart was beating.

“Gale—"

The man in question suddenly widened his eyes. His mouth opened and he made a strange noise, something nearly animalistic in nature, and, with surprising strength, shoved Astarion to the side.

Astarion coughed a startled ‘oof’ as he was thrown aside, but quickly recovered and sat up. His mouth was open, ready with enough scathing remarks about being tossed around, before those words died on his lips as he took in the current scene.

Gale had tackled an injured Nere, who Astarion apparently had not noticed creeping up behind him earlier, and was currently clawing at the man’s face in rage.

The Drow was screaming, weakly trying to push the wizard off him, hands sparking uselessly with used up spells. Gale was screaming back, digging blunt nails into bloodied, dusk-toned skin. Fingers of one hand were gouging into the Drow’s eye sockets, the other balled into a fist and punching anywhere he could.

Nere had lifted up a shaking, weak hand, only for Gale to bite down on it, hard enough to break skin even with blunt teeth.

“Gale! Gale, enough!” Wyll shouted, running over.

The puddle of blood beneath Nere grew, his body now limp. Gale kept punching, kept biting, kept scratching. Kept screeching.

A sword clattered to the ground and strong arms gripped Gale’s arms, halting his movements. Gale wailed.

“That’s enough,” Lae’zel growled, pulling Gale off Nere, “the drow is dead. Calm yourself, istik.”

Astarion lurched forward at the same time Gale did, catching the man before he could dive at Nere’s corpse again. “Darling, you heard her,” he said shakily, bewildered by this turn of events, “he’s dead, there’s no need to—"

Gale froze. Then, with a gut-wrenching whine, the man launched towards Astarion, slipping from Lae’zel’s hold, and wrapped his arms around him. Astarion stilled, his arms awkwardly outstretched in front of him, as Gale clung to him and began to sob.

Astarion blinked slowly, then turned to look up at Lae’zel and Wyll, who were standing before them. The two of them looked battle-weary and a little worse for wear, but unfortunately, they only appeared to mirror the same bewildered confusion that he felt.

At a loss for what to do or say, Astarion slowly, haltingly lowered his arms to rest awkwardly on Gale’s back. At his touch, even uneasy as it was, Gale almost seemed to sag even more on Astarion, cuddling his face closer to his chest, over where Astarion’s heart would beat had he still had a pulse.

“Darling…” Astarion murmured, trying in vain to get Gale to loosen his hold, “now is hardly the place, don’t you think?”

Gale only whimpered in response, tightening his hold a little.

“Well,” Wyll chimed in from above, false cheer masking the real concern in his voice, “this looks like it might be a problem.”

Astarion could only glare at him.

Chapter Text

The trek back to camp was a quiet one. It had taken a bit of coaxing to get Gale to let go of Astarion, to reassure him that they were all safe, at least for the meantime.

The bigger obstacle had been trying to get Gale to at least drink a healing potion. Healer-less as they were at the moment, the potions were the best they were going to get until they returned to camp.

The question of why, again, they had attempted this particular excursion – without a fucking healer, no less – had flittered back into Astarion’s mind and only made him more irritated. Sure, they now had Nere’s head, tucked away in Lae’zel’s bag of holding for Sovereign Spaw, but surely there could’ve been a better, easier, less hazardous way of retrieving it.

Now they had a mentally incapacitated wizard to deal with, one that couldn’t speak a coherent word, let alone utter a spell. 

Moreover, it was just so fucking quiet. Astarion had become so used to Gale’s constant chatter, his droning on about this and that and “Back in Waterdeep, I would never be caught doing something like this” and “Tara would have to agree with you there” and so on.

Now, all Astarion had was the sound of ambient and distant clanging from the nearby forge, their footfalls as they walked on and their heaving breaths from a battle recently fought.

It wasn’t enough to distract Astarion’s thoughts from where they always went. Back to dark, dreary hallways. Dank crypts and kennels. Cruel, mocking, glowing red eyes staring down at him, smirking at Astarion’s pain, his plight.

No. Never again, you bastard. Never again will you have that power over me. Stay the fuck away from me and mine—

A whine.

Waking nightmare broken, Astarion turned to look where Gale was tiredly resting on Lae’zel’s back. He was eyeing Astarion, looking distressed.

“Tone. It. Down. I can feel your ire from here, Astarion,” the githyanki warrior said lowly, obviously trying to keep her own irritation in check, “the wizard appears to be more sensitive to our moods right now, but especially attuned to yours.”

Gritting his teeth, Astarion forced his shoulders to relax and flashed one of his practiced, easy smiles at both Gale and Lae’zel. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said, lilting his voice in a faux playful manner. He turned his eyes solely to Gale and, with more reassurance than what he felt, said softly, “We’ll be in camp soon, my dear. Worry not.”

Lae’zel scoffed. Despite that, it seemed that the statement was enough for now to assuage Gale, who made another soft noise – somewhere between a croon and another whine – before resting his forehead back between Lae’zel’s armored shoulder blades. 

Astarion was honestly surprised that Lae’zel was tolerating all of this. But she had been shockingly gentle with the wizard, silently volunteering to haul him back to camp and whispering soft things when the man appeared distressed at any sudden noises they encountered along the way.

Then again, it’s very possible that she could just be whispering death threats. In his current state, Astarion doubted that Gale would be able to tell unless she let the venom slip into her tone or mannerisms.

Turning away from the two, he continued forward, letting the smile drop and replacing it with a frown, focusing his thoughts back to minutes ago in the forge and recounting the events that occurred post-battle.

“Feeblemind.”

Astarion slowly turned his head to face a gnome – Barcus? Whatever his name was – and stared at him blankly. “What?” He asked. Belatedly, Astarion realized that the battle was over. The area was full of Duergar corpses, and the formerly enslaved gnomes were tearfully, quietly rejoicing a few feet away.

Barcus made a face, looking both remorseful and deeply uncomfortable. “It looks like your friend has been afflicted with Feeblemind,” he elaborated, then briefly glanced over at the other gnomes, “Nere…he would sometimes cast it on the other gnomes. He thought it was…amusing, I suppose.”

“Explain.” Lae’zel said, crossing her arms and glaring down at the gnome. Her upper lip twitched and her hands gripped her arms tightly in agitation.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much more than that,” Barcus sighed. “All I know about it is from what I’ve seen. It seems to revert a person to their most basic, most primal. All they have are their instincts, and barely that.” He rubbed his chin, staring thoughtfully at Gale as one would an animal in an observation chamber.

Like Lae’zel, Astarion felt his upper lip instinctively start to curl up, the need to shield Gale from prying eyes rearing its head unexpectedly.

“It looks as though he’s able to discern who his allies are at least, if the way he’s holding onto you and not attacking the rest of us is any indication.” Barcus finishes.

Wyll dropped to a crouch, next to where Astarion sat with Gale practically in his lap, clinging like a limpet. The warlock slowly reached out and put a gentle hand on Gale’s shoulder.

At the touch, Gale poked his head up a little. His eyes met Wyll’s, the rest of his face obscured where it was buried against Astarion’s chest. Wyll gave him a small, uneasy smile. Gale’s eyes, teary and still extremely dilated, turned up in a hidden smile and he made a soft, muffled coo, shifting just a little into Wyll’s touch but not enough to leave Astarion’s hold.

Wyll swallowed hard, “We need to get him back to Heart. Maybe she can do something? Or Halsin, even?” He turned to look at Barcus, “It can be healed, right? Surely?”

Barcus gave a helpless shrug, “No one that I’ve seen afflicted lived long enough to be healed.”

A hand slapped over Astarion’s shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. He turned to face Wyll, whose good eye flickered with the same concern that Astarion felt clawing through his chest. It was there for a moment, before it shifted into something almost annoyingly optimistic, given the circumstances.

Matching it to his tone, Wyll said, “We’ll get him fixed up, Star. He’s strong. And we’ll be with him every step of the way.”

Ugh. Astarion wrinkled his nose and shrugged Wyll’s hand off his shoulder, ignoring the warlock in favor of continuing to trudge forward towards their makeshift campsite.

-x-

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t fix him?”

“Exactly what you think it means,” Shadowheart responded, glaring at Astarion.

They had made it back to camp nearly half an hour ago. Understandably – frustratingly – everyone had been immediately alarmed at the sight of Gale nearly unconscious on Lae’zel’s back. 

Karlach had been standing outside her tent, and her eyes bulged as noticed their arrival. She ran to them immediately, loud as she always was, “Soldier! What’s happened? Can you hear me?!”

Lae’zel’s hissed ‘be quiet’ had been for naught, as Gale immediately snorted awake at Karlach’s shouting. He raised his head up, blinking owlishly with those over-dilated eyes of his, and stared at the tiefling blankly for a moment.

Then he grinned and, to everyone’s horror, nearly launched towards Karlach in an attempted hug.

Lae’zel gripped Gale’s legs at her sides and tried to both pull him away and keep him from falling off her, hissing curses. Karlach squawked in surprise and instinctively tried to catch him, remembering too late about her ever-raging, infernal engine.

The fingertips of one hand only grazed Karlach’s skin, but that was all it took as small flames erupted along the flesh of Gale’s hand and bracer.

Gale yowled loudly in pain and jerked back. He flailed his arm out, and Lae’zel grunted as she scrambled to try and keep her grip on him so he wouldn’t fall, growling out a loud, “Shadowheart!” to try and summon their cleric.

“Fuck! Gale, soldier, I’m so sorry!” Karlach cried, vibrating in place trying to figure out what to do without further exacerbating the problem at hand.

Lae’zel lost her hold on the wizard, and he fell to the ground in a heap of tears and flailing limbs. Luckily, the dirt appeared to douse the flames, but his arm still bubbled and blistered an angry red.

Gale shot up, looking around wildly, eyes both unseeing and seeing all there was. Both Astarion and Wyll kept to the perimeter of the campsite, each preparing themselves in case Gale tried to bolt.

Gale’s eyes landed on Astarion, and the spawn braced himself.

But instead of having to dive towards their errant wizard before he could flee, Gale bolted directly at Astarion. Clumsy, panicked feet stumbled, and Gale made a distressed wheeze as he tripped a few feet away from Astarion instead, face planting directly into the dirt ground.

Any other time, Astarion might have found the scene borderline comical.

But this…

As soon as Gale fell, Astarion rushed forward and fell to his knees next to Gale, his own panic making his hands shake a little. Still, he gripped Gale’s shoulder firmly and helped him up, immediately shushing the wizard who was openly crying now. Wet trails mixed with dirt and grime from battle, and Astarion did what he could to wipe it away with his fingers, wincing as much of it instead smeared across Gale’s skin and beard.

“Shh, hush dear, it’s alright…” Astarion whispered, feeling his voice shaking and hating it, “I’m right here, I’m right here…”

Still nearby, Karlach took a few steps forward, “Gale?”

Gale gave another distressed wheeze and pressed close to Astarion. Karlach’s expression crumpled. Over Gale’s head, Astarion gave Karlach a look; he knew that she hadn’t meant to cause Gale any harm, but at this point, all Gale knew was that his friend hurt him. Anything that she tries to do now will only upset him further.

Karlach’s shoulders slumped, defeated, and she backed up. Astarion felt a little pity for the tiefling but couldn’t dwell on it now. He had more pressing things to deal with at the moment.

And so, here they were. Once again on the ground with Gale practically in his lap. At least this time, however, they were in the middle of camp and not some boiling hot forge in the middle of decrepit Shar ruins.

Shadowheart had finally emerged from her tent shortly after the commotion began, jogging over quickly as soon as she realized several of her companions were injured, one decidedly more so than the rest.

Astarion had repeated what the damnable gnome had told him regarding Gale’s current…affliction. Shadowheart had kneeled next to them, reaching out cautiously the way someone would to a skittish animal. Gale had eyed her warily, looking a little fearful when her hand began to glow a calm blue.

But as the cooling healing spell began to wash over him – around them both, to Astarion’s surprise – Gale calmed considerably, his eyes softening and gazing up at Shadowheart in wonder. Even still, however, he clung to Astarion, forcing the man to essentially cradle him like a babe.

As she healed them both, however, Shadowheart had, rather dejectedly, revealed her earlier confession.

“Whatever this is, this Feeblemind,” Shadowheart mumbled, lightly inspecting Gale’s newly healed arm and hand, “I don’t have any spells that can ‘fix him’, as you so put it. I already tried Lesser Restoration and that did nothing. This isn’t a curse – no matter how curse-adjacent it feels – so there’s nothing for me to remove in that respect, either.”

As much as Astarion wanted to be angry at her – and he still was, honestly – he couldn’t fully be so, not with how genuinely upset she looked upon revealing this to him.

So instead, Astarion huffed, re-adjusting his hold on Gale to try and keep his legs from going numb in this position. While he wasn’t unused to such proximity with people, he was unfamiliar with holding them like this for this long, let alone still fully clothed and with the other person essentially incapacitated.

Nevermind that said person was also someone that he’s come to care for, God’s below.

At the movement, Gale snuffled and mumbled incomprehensibly, but otherwise didn’t protest.

Astarion looked down at him for a moment, then back up at Shadowheart with a frown. “Fine. So you can’t fix him. Where’s the druid, then? He must have something to–”

“He’s not here.”

“What?”

Shadowheart pursed her lips at Astarion’s sharp tone, “Something about tying up a loose end in the grove. Said it shouldn’t take long and he’d be back by mid-morning.”

“What th–mid-morning?!” Astarion sputtered indignantly, “I don’t even know what time of the day it is now in this godsforsaken place! How long ago did he leave? Why would he even leave in the first place if he’s the one that wanted to travel with us so bloody badly–”

“–Astarion–”

“–absolutely fucking ridiculous, what the fuck was the point of letting him come with us if he wasn’t going to be any godsdamn help whatsoever–”

“Astarion!”

Wetness along the skin of Astarion’s neck, rather than Shadowheart’s exclamation, broke his concentration on his tirade. He tilted his head down and met Gale’s wide eyes, where gentle rivers of tears were trickling down and over the swollen skin around them.

“You’re making him upset,” Shadowheart said quietly.

Gale reached up and pawed the fingers of one hand, his healed hand, against Astarion’s downturned lips, making a plaintive noise. Astarion sighed, reaching up to take Gale’s hand and pull it away from his face, shushing Gale as the man made a noise of protest at the action.

Eyes that were more black than they were warm brown, dilated as they were, continued to stare up at him. Astarion absently moved one of his hands to swipe a thumb under one eye, attempting to stop his tears. Gale’s eyes closed at the touch and leaned into it.

Something wrenched in Astarion’s chest. Something bitter and horrifying and dreadful.

Near him, Shadowheart tilted her head curiously at the scene, “I shouldn’t be surprised that he turns to you at his most vulnerable.”

No.

Astarion is the last person Gale should ever turn to, state of mind be damned. If the wizard had any sense, he would know this. But stripped of sense as he was, Gale’s instincts were still asking for him.

Gods, no. 

Everything in Astarion wanted to scream. It was one thing for Gale to tell him (as he had, a few times before) that he trusted him, and another completely to have it shown to him so blatantly before.

Astarion did not deserve his trust. He would take trust from others where he could get it, if only to seek out that for his own benefit, that for his own gain. Trust is currency, a favor to be cashed in at a later date. 

But Gale’s trust was fragile. True. A gift somehow slipped into a sullied pickpocket like Astarion with a whispered ‘thank you’ that he also did not deserve.

Why? And why, upon realizing how much Gale trusted him, did some part of Astarion feel…touched? Happy, even?

Gale’s eyes were opening. Astarion belatedly realized that his hands had begun to shake and forced them to still so as not cause Gale any alarm.

“Astarion?” Shadowheart asked uncertainly, noticing how tense he had become.

Astarion swallowed roughly and turned his gaze to the cleric, “When is mid-morning?”