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It was a night like any other.
The campfire warmed the faces of the merry band of travelling companions you had accrued throughout the course of your journey. The strangest bedfellows one could ever imagine, but amidst the chaos of your journey up to now, the sound of laughter was a joyous reprieve; a rare moment of peace.
Your gaze was drawn inexorably to Astarion who sat across from you. Firelight danced across his pale skin as you watched him, and he caught your eye then. A mischievous smile played at the corners of his mouth and your heart fluttered, just a little.
“Darling,” he purred, raising a finger to point to you, “you’re bleeding.”
You were?
Your hand reached for your face, feeling a slickness trickling from your nose. Strange. You hadn’t noticed any pain.
Suddenly, the firelight seemed too bright, the laughter too loud.
Something was wrong.
You opened your mouth to speak, but your body was wracked instead with a fit of coughs. You could not breathe.
You doubled over, and an ache spread throughout your jaw - a pain unlike anything you had ever experienced. Your innards felt ready to burst out of you.
“Are you alright?” Astarion’s voice was tinged with an uncharacteristic concern. Moving quickly to your side, his cool hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. But as your eyes met his, you recoiled in horror.
A mindflayer.
Where Astarion’s once beautiful face had been, you were greeted with orange eyes, burning with malice, sharp teeth like cut glass within a tentacled maw, and slickened, wet skin. Yet, his voice remained the same, teasing and rakish - a jarring contrast that set your heart pounding, limbs begging you to flee.
You tried to scream, but your jaw felt wrong. It cracked, a sickening sound that reverberated through your skull. The pain was excruciating, blinding. Something writhing and slick attempted to push its way out of your throat and you choked.
Astarion-Not-Astarion’s hand, still cool against your feverish skin, stroked your cheek almost tenderly. “That’s it,” he cooed, his voice a twisted parody of his usual flirtatious drawls, “embrace the change.”
You looked around wildly. All of your companions had transformed, their familiar faces replaced by disgusting, terrifying… No, beautiful, evolved, magnificent alien features.
“Change,” they chanted. “Change. Change… ”
You bolted upright, a strangled gasp escaping your lips. Cold sweat drenched your skin as you wildly scanned your surroundings. The familiar sight of your tent came into focus.
Your heart pounded in your chest as realisation set in. A dream. It was a dream.
It was a night like any other.
And that was precisely the problem.
Sleep, you decided, was no longer an option.
There was a river in the woods nearby and you were in desperate need to cleanse yourself of the sweat which clung to your still shivering body. Or rather, you needed something, anything to distract yourself. And so, packing washcloths, you left the confines of your tent and snuck away into the woodlands.
–
The sound of running water called to you, a moment of solace drawing nearer. Or so you thought, until a familiar figure came into view.
It was Astarion, sitting by the river's edge, moonlight gleaming across his pale… Bare skin.
Assuming you'd stumbled in on something you shouldn't have, you averted your gaze hastily, a blush crawling up your neck. “A-ah, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude!”
“It's just my shirt, darling. No need for such modesty.” Astarion’s voice carried a hint of amusement, clearly privy to your embarrassment.
A moment passed as you attempted to recompose yourself. Looking up, he was indeed just shirtless.
Thank the gods for that.
As you drew closer to him, you noticed the blood smeared across his face - evidence of a recent hunt.
Truth be told, he was a bit of a mess. Crimson streaks painted his cheeks and chin, with a particularly gruesome splatter across his left temple. Some of it had begun to dry, flaking at the edges. It was a stark, almost beautiful contrast against his pale skin - a reminder of the predator that lurked beneath his charming exterior.
You sat across from him, trying to ignore the way the moonlight played across his bare chest.
His lips curled into a smirk. “Out for a midnight stroll or were you just hoping to catch me in a compromising position?”
You rolled your eyes, though you were grateful for the familiar banter. You tried not to recall the events of your nightmare, the lingering tendrils of which still threatened to send you into a blinding panic. In a way, you were grateful to have stumbled across Astarion on your journey out here. As much as you told yourself otherwise, being alone was perhaps not what you needed right now.
“I just needed some fresh air,” you said, less than eager to give away the finer details of your predicament.
Your gaze fell on a needle and thread beside him, and a hole in his shirt draped across his lap.
“What happened?” You asked, nodding to his shirt, in a hasty attempt to change the subject.
“Ah, this? I was unfortunate enough to get tangled up with a particularly feral boar this evening. The little bastard didn't get very far though.”
Well , you thought to yourself, that explains the blood.
As he picked up the needle and resumed his repairs, long fingers moving with practised ease, you found yourself curious. “I didn't know you could sew.”
“I'm a man of many talents. I'd be happy to give you a… private demonstration, if you like.”
You sighed in mock exasperation. “Isn't it exhausting trying to talk your way into my trousers all the time?”
“Who says I was trying to talk my way into your trousers?” Astarion gleamed.
You fixed him with a doubtful look, eyebrow raised. In response, he reached into his pack which rested behind him, and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to you. As you unfolded it, you gasped. Delicate florals, intricate patterns adorned the fabric, embroidered with a meticulous care and skill that you would have attributed to the tailors and seamstresses of Baldur's Gate’s Upper City. It was as if he had captured the essence of a moonlit garden, with silvery threads weaving a tapestry of nocturnal blooms and shadowy vines.
“Gods, Astarion. You made this?”
He nodded, a flicker of genuine pride crossing his features.
“It's beautiful,” you breathed as you ran your fingers across the stitches. “What a wonderful talent to have.”
Something shifted in Astarion’s expression - a flash of vulnerability quickly masked.
“Yes, well, one must find ways to pass the time. Keep it, if you like,” Astarion continued, attempting to feign disinterest. The look in his eyes told a different story.
“Thank you,” you said. You meant it.
A moment of silence passed between you, punctuated by the gentle bubbles and burbles of the river as it flowed.
“I don't think I have any special talents of my own,” you mused, more to yourself than to him.
Astarion glanced up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, I'm sure you have some hidden talents. I'd be more than happy to help you explore them, if you like. In my tent, perhaps?”
You raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze.
Astarion grinned, unabashed. “ That time, I was trying to talk my way into your trousers.”
You laughed then and gods, did it feel good to laugh on a night like this, even with the familiar feeling of heat rising to your cheeks. This dance between you - this constant push-and-pull - had become almost comforting in its familiarity. Of course, you had considered his offer - he had not exactly been subtle about his intentions with you. But you weren't quite ready to give in. Not yet, anyway.
Your laughter settled, and something in the mood shifted as Astarion turned his gaze from you to the river.
“Truth be told, Cazador didn't give us much beyond the clothes on our backs. I had to learn some things for myself.”
The admission hung heavy in the air. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, despite the venom that laced his voice at his former master’s name.
“I'm sorry,” you said softly. Once again, you meant it.
He shrugged, forcing a lightness into his tone. “It’s not all bad. Using my hands to create something beautiful - it's a welcome distraction. It lets me feel… well, not good, but less terrible for a while.”
You nodded. You never knew quite what to say in these moments. Astarion had only recently begun to open up to you regarding his past, and each story drew forth a maelstrom of emotions from you. Sadness at the gods-awful role he was thrust into; guilt at not having been there for him sooner; anger, not only at Cazador, but at those who had the opportunity to save him but chose not to, as though his vampiric nature made him less worthy of the safety that all who live, crave. You could only imagine the feelings which raged like a tempest in him.
It was in moments like these that you had to admire just how brave he really was.
You were snapped out of your ruminations when Astarion finished his mending. You caught a glimpse of a sharp, pointed fang as he used it to cut the thread - an action which shouldn't have been as fascinating as it was.
He stood and slipped on his shirt.
“Well?” He asked, with a twirl and a flourish. “What do you think?”
“Perfect as always,” you replied, then paused. “Except for, well, the blood on your face.”
Astarion’s eyes widened in indignation. “And you're only mentioning this now ?”
You shrugged, fighting back a grin. “I thought the feral look rather suited you.”
“You absolute freak,” he scoffed, but there was no real heat behind the words.
“I can help if you want.”
As you dug into your pack to procure a washcloth, your intentions clear, Astarion’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He recoiled as if you'd brandished a weapon, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Absolutely not.”
Pride and uncertainty marred his voice. You recognised the look in his eyes - the same wary glance of a feral cat, torn between the desire for a gentle touch and the instinct to flee.
“Come on,” you coaxed, keeping your voice soft, even. “It's not like you can look in a mirror.”
You had hoped humour would de-escalate the situation.
It did not.
For a moment, anger flashed in his eyes - a cornered predator lashing out. But as he met your gaze, something in his expression shifted. The fury melted to uncertainty, then a flicker of longing so brief you almost missed it.
Astarion’s body language was a mess of contradictions. He leaned slightly towards you, as if drawn by an invisible thread, only to catch himself and pull back. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but the words lacked his usual bite. “I don't need– I mean, I'm perfectly capable of–”
“If you don't need my help, that's okay. We don't have to do this if you don't want to.”
Astarion’s eyes darted between your face and the cloth, held loosely in your hand. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
“Why?” He asked.
The question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Why are you helping me? Why care?
“Because I want to,” you answered simply.
Something in Astarion’s expression cracked then, a hairline fracture in his carefully constructed façade. He gave a jerky nod, not quite meeting your eyes.
“Well,” he said, his tone aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile, “if you insist on playing nursemaid, who am I to stop you? Though I warn you, darling, caring for me can be a dangerous pastime.”
The words were pure Astarion - flirtatious, guarded, with a hint of threat. The words weren't quite acceptance , but they were close enough.
“I'll take my chances,” you teased softly, patting the ground beside you, prompting him to sit.
He complied with an obvious reluctance, perching on the edge of the riverbank as if the ground might swallow him whole.
As you wetted your washcloth in the river and moved closer to him - close enough to feel his cool breath on your skin - you notice him tense at the anticipation of your touch. His eyes were squeezed shut, face turned slightly away from you. But you were gentle as you placed the cloth to his cheek and began to wipe away the streaks of crimson from his face.
The sounds of the world around you dulled, faded to a murmur as you tended to him, as though the leaves had stilled their rustling and the river its gurgling. In this moment of suspended reality, your focus narrowed to Astarion’s face and the myriad of emotions playing across it.
His hesitation, his vulnerability - it struck you how monumental this simple act truly was. Here was a man - a vampire - who had known centuries of cruelty; who had learned to weaponise his charm and keep the world at arm’s length for his safety. And yet, he was allowing you to see him like this: uncertain, teetering at the edge of trust.
The weight of his concession settled over you like a blanket. Each micro-expression that flickered across his features told a story of internal struggle - the tightening of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for pain that wouldn't come. It was a dance of contradictions; a battle between ingrained distrust and a longing for gentleness.
In this frozen moment, you realised that what you were offering wasn't just a clean face. It was acceptance, care, a touch unburdened by expectation or demand. And for Astarion, perhaps accepting it was an act of bravery greater than any he'd shown in battle.
With careful strokes, you cleaned the blood away from his cheek. You worked slowly, mindful of the tension in his jaw. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he began to relax under your ministrations.
“Turn your head for me?” You asked, softly.
Astarion complied without a word, tilting his face to give you access to the other cheek. His eyes remained closed, but the furrow in his brow had softened.
You resumed your task, gently working your way across his features. A stubborn smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, another at the hollows of his cheekbones, droplets that had spattered at his forehead - all melted away before your eyes with each glide of the wet cloth, unveiling his pale skin.
As you worked, you found yourself studying him in a way you never had before. His elven features were a study in contrasts - ethereal beauty intertwined with the weathering of time and hardship. High cheekbones caught the moonlight, throwing delicate shadows across his face. His skin, where it wasn't marred by blood, was like polished alabaster, smooth and luminous.
As you gently moved to cleanse his temple, your fingertips brushed against a strand of his hair - silk curls spun from starlight.
Yet it was the imperfections that truly drew you in. Fine lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes, like a map of laughter and sorrow etched by the years. His brow, while regal, bore the weight of exhaustion, a testament to the burdens he carried.
There was something mesmerising in the juxtaposition - this timeless, otherworldly beauty marked by the unmistakable signs of an unlife born of hardships and losses yet unspoken between you. But each line, each weary shadow, only served to enhance a grace that time and pain could never fully erase.
Your hand paused, cloth hovering near his cheek, as you realised you'd been lost in studying him. In that moment, beneath the moon’s gentle gaze and the river’s whispered song, you saw not just the elf; the vampire; the mysterious travelling companion, but the man - beautiful, vulnerable, and utterly captivating.
Astarion’s eyes fluttered open, catching you in your reverie. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The air between you was filled with unspoken words and possibilities.
It was… intimate.
“See something you like, darling?” Astarion’s voice was soft, lacking its usual sharp edge of sarcasm. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that made your breath catch.
You smiled softly, resuming your gentle ministrations.
“Just making sure I didn't miss any spots.” You weren't quite ready to voice the thoughts swirling in your mind.
A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by rippling sounds of water as you periodically dipped your washcloth in the river to wring it out.
As you shifted to clean the last traces of blood, you finally looked up again to meet Astarion’s gaze fully.
“There,” you said, “I knew there was a handsome man somewhere under all that filth.”
Astarion’s lips quirked into a smile - not his usual smirk, but something softer.
“Well, I suppose I should thank you for your… attentions,” he murmured.
The moment stretched between you, fragile and charged with possibility. For a heartbeat, you thought he might lean in; might close the distance between you. But the moment passed, leaving behind a mix of relief and something that felt dangerously close to disappointment.
You cleared your throat, breaking the spell.
“We should probably head back to camp,” you suggested, your voice steadier than you felt.
Astarion nodded, rising to his feet with his usual grace. As you gathered your things, you felt his eyes on you, thoughtful and considering.
“You know,” he said as you started back through the woods, “I think you might have one hidden talent.”
You glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow in question.
His smile was enigmatic, tinged with something you couldn't quite name.
“You have a remarkable ability to surprise me. And that… that is no small feat.”
As you made your way back to camp, the weight of your nightmare felt lighter. And if you walked a little closer to Astarion than strictly necessary, well, that was just to avoid tripping in the dark. Nothing more.
It was a night like any other and yet, as you settled back into your bedroll, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you and Astarion. A new understanding, perhaps, or the first trembling notes of a melody yet to be fully composed. Whatever it was, it sang you to sleep, keeping the nightmares at bay just this once.