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A burning blast of heat flashed past Astarion's head, close enough to leave behind the faintest odor of burnt hair, but he found it surprisingly hard to care.
The battlefield was a blur of chaos, with a hoard of merregons and a powerful orthon mercilessly battering the flagging party. Every strike, every slash, every explosion wore at Astarion, leaving wound after wound across his dirt and gore-streaked skin as he struggled to keep to his feet. Devastating spells flew around him to strike the ruthless creatures, but the hellspawn just soaked up the damage.
His companions returned the destruction in spades, but they were only mortal. The unending battle exhausted what spells the magic users had remaining after a harrowing trek through Shar's temple, while the melee fighters were visibly wilting under the near-constant barrage.
Gods, it felt hopeless.
The felling blow, when it came, slid through his fading defenses like a hot knife through butter. The brutal strike sliced deeply into Astarion's abdomen, the world tilting sideways as he collapsed to the ground, painting the scuffed and broken floor below him with dark, secondhand blood.
Fucking hell, that blood was the first he'd had in weeks, he couldn't afford to lose it–
A dull ringing filled his ears. His vision blurred. The vampire felt everything around him start to fade and slow as agony threatened to overwhelm him.
But then, a whirlwind entered the battlefield. A gale, if Astarion's mind had the fortitude for such a silly pun while in the midst of trying to keep his insides tucked firmly on the inside of his body.
This wasn't the calm, unruffled wizard that he knew. No, at this moment, Gale was a force of nature itself, a pillar of energy and unstoppable power.
Where sparks of the Weave once tore from his nimble hands, he now held his fingers wrapped around his quarterstaff, and Astarion would be a fool to consider it naught but a walking stick any longer. The solid oak shaft spun with lethal precision, arching and twisting with impossible grace as it slammed into one enemy after another. Gale's body flowed like a dancer, from one practiced step into another, shifting the staff from two hands to one and back again like he'd been born holding it.
The quarterstaff wasn't as fatally efficient as a sword, for sure. But as Gale leaped before Astarion's crumpled form, his body becoming a blur of power and protective fury, the vampire found himself desperately clinging to consciousness, spellbound by the sight.
But just as quickly as the battle had begun, it was over. The last enemy finally fell to Lae'zel's blade, and quiet settled over the field of combat like a threadbare shroud.
Gale stood over Astarion, panting and relaxing enough to clutch at a minor wound carved into his side. Blood and viscera splattered the normally pristine fabric of his robes and soaked up from the hem, while the air around him stank of fresh sweat and his magic's fading scent of ozone. Strands of silver-streaked chestnut hair stuck to his face from where they'd fallen from his usual half-bun.
He was a disheveled mess, but hells below if he wasn't the most gorgeous creature the vampire had ever seen.
It was then that Gale dropped to a knee beside Astarion, his face briefly tightening in a faint wince at the unhappy sound the joint made. He set his quarterstaff aside and cautiously reached for his fallen companion, his gaze softening as it met the vampire's face.
"Easy, now," the wizard murmured, his voice low yet filling with concern as he helped him sit up and took in the extent of his injuries. "You're going to be all right. Eventually. One of the healers will have you patched right up, I'm sure."
Astarion, his body sore and his head still spinning, couldn't help but flash the other a shaky grin filled with fang. Despite his oozing wounds, despite the searing pain in his stomach, despite the mortifying knowledge that he'd fallen and needed to be saved, he still felt something deep within himself that burned a little hotter than before– something that had nothing to do with survival.
Blast it all, but it's a one-sided infatuation he'd been trying to ignore.
"Shar's saggy tits, Gale," Astarion breathed, his voice little more than a weak rasp, turning on the charm despite the hole in his belly. Might as well use the situation to his advantage, yeah? "You looked… good. I've seen hints of it before, of course, but I never realized that someone like you could look so bloodthirsty with both hands on such a nice, thick shaft."
While normally such blatant innuendo would leave the wizard blushing profusely –and there was still a hint of it high on his cheeks– the praise seemed to bolster Gale's lingering confidence from the battle. He shrugged and offered Astarion a sly smile. "Well, one can't always be a gentleman, can one?"
Oh.
Oh.
That simple sentence made the vampire's stomach do funny things not at all related to being recently perforated.
If he slumped against Gale a little more than he normally would, it'd be easy to blame on the pain. If he drew comfort from the hand that curled around his shoulder, he'd blame it on a momentary lapse of judgment. "No," Astarion mumbled, the adrenaline of battle starting to fade and take his consciousness with it, "I guess not."
And if he found himself hoping to see more of this bloodthirsty side of Gale in the future? Well, who could really blame him?