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You get a blissful couple hours of sleep before your eyes open and refuse to close. The only comfortable position you could find with your bruises was on your side, but now there’s no position that gives you any relief. Finally you sit up, wondering just how bad your back looks for it to ache so much. You would give all your gold for an aspirin right now.
It’s too dark in your tent to check your wounds. Even if you use your staff the light won’t be enough to tell the difference between the shadows and the bruises. With the camp quiet you step out of your tent and into the firelight. The braziers are still going, flames a little smaller now but giving off plenty of light.
The first few nights you’d been too scared to take off any of your clothing to sleep. Your jacket, socks, boots, everything had stayed on. But you’ve grown comfortable enough to take some of it off. You walk on the balls of your feet to get to a brazier, enchanted socks whisking away the dirt as fast as it touches them. Those, your loose pants and untucked tunic are all that protect you from possible attack. You’ll be fine within the base, surrounded by weirdly overprotective barbarians and Scratch. The dog lifts his head when he spots you, tail wagging but he remains laying by the campfire. You hold up a finger to your lips and he sets his head back on his paws, eyes closing. His tail gives a couple more wags before settling.
It’s hard to manoeuvre your body well enough to see all of your injuries. You can see the dark blue bruise on the right of your hip, which wraps around to your back, the edges fading to lighter colours. There’s an equally dark bruise on the right side of your ribs—had you been jabbed there? Between the goblins' pikes and a couple of falls you’re not sure who is to blame for what bruise. But those ones aren’t the ones bothering you the most. The ones in the middle of your back are what keep you from a comfortable sleep and you can’t see them at all.
You poke at the bruise on the right of your ribcage when a voice startles you.
“You’re still injured.”
You drop your shirt, hiding your wounds. You look at the broken wall that leads to the Spectator, finding Astarion crawling in, blood on the collar of his shirt. His words don’t really register, neither does the guilt in his eyes or his downturned lips. Instead all you can see is the blood on his shirt and hands, and you rush over to check him for wounds.
“Astarion,” you hiss. Your hands hover around him, eyes searching for any sign of injury but it doesn’t appear to be his blood. But he’d just come from—what was he doing out there?! “You shouldn’t go out there alone! It’s—that way is…bad.”
It’s no wonder he called you dim when this was how you spoke to him. Lying on the spot is so much harder when it comes to life and death situations. You sidestep him and peer outside but there’s no evidence of an epic battle between the vampire and the Spectator. The petrified drow are still scattered across the cliffs, the explosive mushrooms unexploded. When you turn back to Astarion he seems lost in thought, eyes on your torso.
“Are you okay?” you ask. “Did you go hunting? You should have waited until someone else could go with you, we don’t know what’s out there.”
Liar. Well, half-liar. The Underdark in the game is only a sliver of your new reality.
“You’re asking if I’m all right?” he questions. “You…”
He cuts himself off with a sigh. He grabs your hand and begins to pull you to his tent, muttering something you can’t make out. When you say his name he doesn’t respond, and you are dragged inside, the flaps closing shut behind you.
Unlike in the game his tent is almost as sparse as yours. But you can’t really tell because it’s nearly pitch black inside, only the faintest of light coming from the braziers outside making it through the fabric.
“Lie down,” Astarion orders. You squint into the dark, his hair and shirt the only things you can somewhat make out. With another sigh he grabs you by your shoulders and manhandles you to the ground. Your body goes pliant as he sets you facedown on his bedroll and begins to lift your tunic.
“Hey!” you yelp. His knuckles brush against a tender spot.
“Be quiet. I don’t feel like being tackled by the tiefling again.”
“But what are you—”
Something cold is pressed against the bruise on your hip. You flinch as Astarion rubs something against your skin, his fingers warming the spot.
“It’s a healing ointment,” he says quietly. “Since you refuse to let the others help you, this will have to do.”
You open your mouth to argue but he quickly continues, “And if you say you’re fine or you don’t need it I will get Tav in here to pin you down while I apply it.”
You snap your mouth shut, face heating at the thought. You raise your arms to bury your face into them, mumbling your thanks.
Astarion’s hands are soft as he applies the ointment. He doesn’t spend too long rubbing it into the wounds, and he’s gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt. You let out a soft sigh as both his hands travel beneath your shirt and stroke over your upper back. He’s quick to pull back at the noise, but doesn’t comment on it. When he’s done with the bruises on your back he tells you to flip over.
Your eyes shoot open, blinking wide. You shift and try to sit up when he pushes on your shoulder to keep you on the bedroll. You lie on your back, wishing you could see his face clearly and at least guess what he’s thinking. Him being so nice and quiet right now is off putting. But without his hands on your back the ointment begins to cool your wounds, and the pain fades. Unsure of what to do with your own hands you clasp them together atop your chest.
Astarion lifts your tunic until he uncovers your ribcage. You’re about to offer to apply the ointment yourself when he dabs his finger into a cylinder by his knees and leans over you. You watch his hair fall in front of his face while three fingers press against the bruise on your ribs. You inhale sharply as he puts too much pressure on the sensitive spot.
“Apologies,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you whisper back. “And thanks. I didn’t know stuff like this existed. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”
Astarion huffs and you see the hint of a smile on his face in the dark. But still, he doesn’t respond in the usual Astarion fashion. Instead he drags his fingers down your ribs, almost tickling you until his full palm is against your skin. His hand keeps going lower until it’s cupping the bruise on your right hip and just…stays there.
“You were telling the truth, weren’t you?” he asks.
Probably not, you think to yourself. “About what?”
“About…my being warm.” His fingers dig into your hip, just enough to remind you there’s a wound there. “Am I…now?”
“Yes,” you answer.
Whatever expression he’s making is lost in the shadows. And he still doesn’t move, even with all your bruises coated with the ointment.
Having him there, the warmth of another person and your bruises no longer so sore, you find your mind trying to drift off again. The couple hours of sleep wasn’t near enough to stave off the exhaustion of the previous day, and Astarion’s bedroll is more plush than yours. Your eyelids are fluttering closed but you can’t help but wonder aloud: “Do you think it’s because I’m a necromancer?”
“I doubt it, but who knows?” Astarion pulls his hand off of you, fingers dragging along your hip as if savouring every moment against your skin.
“Do you think…” You hesitate, lowering your shirt while Astarion lies down beside you, head propped in one hand. “Do you think Ethel was telling the truth?”
You can’t bring yourself to face him as he looks down at you. Not that you’d be able to see him clearly even if you turned your head. You keep your eyes on the roof of his tent, pretending like this is the most normal of situations.
“It would explain why you’re parasite free,” he replies. “If you were a Chosen of some high and mighty god.”
“No.” You turn on your side, mimicking his position and pointing a finger at him. “Because if I was a Chosen of some high and mighty god they wouldn’t have let me get taken in the first place. And–and! I’d remember them. Gods don’t like to be forgotten.”
Yes, this makes sense. You continue, “So, Ethel is wrong, and I’m just a really rich person from Baldur’s Gate and no gods love me. Done.”
Astarion’s brow furrows but he’s grinning. It’s only because his face is five inches away from your own that you can see this.
“Maybe you should try praying,” he suggests.
Your nose wrinkles.
“Oh, you have, haven’t you?” He sets a hand over his heart.
Does drunkenly cursing the gods at the tiefling party count as praying? You give a small nod, finger finally lowering to press into the bedroll. Your eyes follow the shadow of movement, no longer wanting to look at the vampire. “I know the gods don’t really care about us. Chosen are just…favoured toys for a little while. Passing fancies. I’m not about to hold my breath waiting for divine intervention.”
Had you been looking at Astarion you would have seen his eyes flick up and down your features, studying you intently. You go on, “It would just be nice to…know something.”
When you finally look up at Astarion a breeze flows into the tent, temporarily moving the flaps and letting the firelight in. The light catches in his eyes, reflecting like rubies when an image flashes in your mind.
Your heart rate spikes. Or maybe your heart just stops. That’s what it feels like. The wind is knocked from your lungs, vision blackened just as quickly as the image had arrived. A car horn screams inside your head, a voice trying to match the volume of the horn. Male or female, you can’t tell. You can’t even understand the words as it all vanishes.
Brake lights. You’d seen brake lights.
You choke, stuttering breath from your lungs as you try to remember how to breathe. When you shoot your torso upwards Astarion joins you, watching as you cough and wheeze, choking on nothing.
That was…your death, wasn’t it? But the first time you’d seen a truck coming at you, now it was brake lights? You cough again, hands grabbing at the fabric of your tunic and pulling. God, why was it suddenly so tight? You pull and pull but it feels as if something is wound around your chest–your heart and lungs and mind.
“What is it?” Astarion questions, voice giving away his worry. “What’s wrong?”
You gasp for air as another breeze shifts the flaps of the tent. Someone is watching you, someone that isn’t Astarion. You peer beyond the tent, past the braziers and campfire to find the source of your unease. And you see him. You’d actually forgotten about him, for a bit. But he’s watching you now from across the camp.
Withers.