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It started subtle, just a gentle tingling on his skin. Astarion would have paid attention to it, but he’d been quite distracted by the whole defeating a Netherbrain and falling into the River Chionthar business. Then there was some drama with Orpheus, after which Lae’zel grabbed Shadowheart, climbed onto a fucking red dragon and flew off to the stars or the astral plane or wherever githyanki went to start a revolution.
Gale was saying something. He was talking about the Crown again, how he’d need to fish it out of the Chionthar for his bitch of a goddess. Astarion tried to pay attention, but the tingle had turned to a prickle, spreading across him like a wave of crawling, biting insects under his skin.
“Astarion?” Gale looked at him with something between curiosity and concern.
“Hm? Yes, I’m listening, darling. I only— Ah!” He cut off in a hiss, a searing heat flaring across his face and hands. “What in the blazing Hells?”
The last time Astarion had felt burning like this was when he’d been splashed with acid. Hadn’t Gortash’s engineering endeavors polluted the river with strange chemicals? Had he gotten something on him? Astarion wiped at his face, and skin flaked away under his fingers in a fine, white ash. Astarion stared at the powder on his fingertips, gleaming in the dawning sunlight, and cold dread clenched around his heart.
“Oh. Oh no.”
“Astarion, what…” Gale trailed off. His eyes widened in horror as Astarion’s skin began to smoke.
“Well,” Astarion said around a lump in his throat, “it was nice while it lasted.”
The pain roared to a peak, as if he’d been plunged into the fires of the sun itself, and Astarion stumbled back.
“I’m sorry, I have to go!”
Astarion sprinted away from the pier. Behind him, Wyll gave a shout and Karlach roared a scream.
Dammit. Dammit!
A row of dingy little shacks sat along the beach, homes to fishermen. He’d have to contend with whoever was inside, but he was more than willing to slaughter some poor bastard if it meant shelter. Astarion raced for the nearest shack and threw open the door. He lunged for the safety within, only to run face-first into a barrier of force over the threshold. Astarion stumbled back, stunned, and stared in horror at the open doorway.
This was a private residence, someone’s home. He needed an invitation to enter. Oh gods, it was everything. Every protection the tadpole offered him was gone. Idiot, he should have realized! He’d wasted precious time running to the damn shacks, he might only have seconds before he burst into flames. Godsdamn it all, he’d survived Cazador, the Gur, and all this nonsense with the Absolute, he refused to die here! He would not have his freedom taken away so soon!
He turned back toward the docks and caught a glimpse of stacked boxes, barrels, and shipping crates, cargo still standing after all the chaos from last night. Facing the sun once more, unbearable heat blazed along his face and sizzled through his eyes. Out of options, Astarion sprinted for the crates before the light blinded him.
By the time he collapsed to his knees in the shade cast by the crates, Astarion tasted charred flesh on his tongue and his blistered skin flaked away in patchy crumbles of ash. He clenched his eyes closed and pain radiated across his skin in blinding waves, shock and adrenaline warring within him. He slumped against a crate and his cheek left behind a smear of white ash.
Fuck. Fuck! It was all over. His brief jaunt in the sunlight was done, and he was damned once more to an eternity in the shadows. Perhaps it would have been kinder to have never been granted this foray in the sun at all, so he wouldn’t have fresh memories of what he’d lost.
The temptation to give in to self-pity and grief was strong, but fear was stronger. Astarion forced his eyes open, and the scorched remains of his eyelashes crumbled away like motes of dust. He was still too exposed. The stacked cargo would protect him for now, but he’d burn once again when the sun reached its zenith. Running wasn’t an option. Going back into the sun once more would more than likely spell his death before he found better cover. No, he needed to handle this here. What did he have to work with?
He forced himself upright with trembling arms and examined the crates nearest to him. They were wooden and stacked four crates high, but each box only came up to his waist. Further down the row of cargo was a long chest with another two stacks of smaller boxes atop it. That was more promising. He couldn’t move the boxes and open the chest without burning, but if he could pry the nails free, he could pull the side of the box off, discard the chest’s contents, and squeeze inside. Getting the wall back on would be tricky and confining himself to a coffin-sized space would be… challenging, but Astarion was out of options. Death was worse than claustrophobia. He crawled to the long crate and started picking at the first nail with a dagger.
He had a plan to survive the day, but then what? He’d need time to recover and a source of blood. His usefulness to his new companions was severely limited by his vampiric restrictions. Without something of value to offer, he couldn’t trust they’d be willing to help him. Besides, hadn’t the plan always been to go their separate ways after the tadpoles were gone? If they had any brains at all, they wouldn’t even come looking for him, and they’d leave Baldur’s Gate before anyone could figure out what in the Nine Hells happened.
Where did that leave him? Fleeing to the sewers was the obvious choice, and the thought of it made Astarion want to retch. He’d had enough slogging through sewer filth to fill a lifetime. He wasn’t a rat! No, he refused to resort to hiding in fear and scuttling through dark tunnels like vermin. He pried the first nail free and started on the next.
Cazador’s gaudy palace, then? They’d stolen the key to Cazador’s Counting House vault. Perhaps they’d find the deed to the place and Astarion could claim the property as his own. It had the benefit of already being suitable for a vampire’s needs, with luxurious amenities and convenient basement access to the Underdark, but…
Astarion’s stomach twisted. Could he really bear to live under the roof that had been his personal hell for the last two centuries? Would anything in all of Toril make that insufferable monstrosity bearable? Wood splintered under his dagger and he dug out the second nail.
The Underdark, then. That’s where the other spawn had fled. As the one to kill Cazador and free them, perhaps he’d even be able to seize command of them and become a lord in the Underdark with his own vampiric army. No, not an army, trying to conquer the Underdark was idiotic. Perhaps a mercenary company. Drow houses were more than willing to hire mercenaries in their endless wars against each other and everyone around them. There was profit and blood to be had. Hm. Though seven thousand starving, insane, feral spawn weren’t exactly a trained fighting company. And leadership sounded… ugh. Astarion didn’t really want to rule over anyone apart from himself.
Besides, Petras was more than likely to try and kill him, the bastard.
Dammit.
“Astarion!”
He jerked with surprise at the sound of his name, the dagger tip slicing into his finger. Instead of bleeding, the skin flaked away into dust.
“Astarion! Can you hear me?”
It was Gale.
Astarion pressed himself against the crates and went perfectly still, letting his chest relax as he stopped pretending to breathe. The shadows weren’t deep and didn’t provide much in the way of concealment, but if he was lucky, Gale wouldn’t notice—
No, wait. What was he thinking? Hells below, it was Gale! Someone actually came after him! Gods, having allies was still taking some getting used to.
“Astarion, where are you!?”
“H-here!” His voice came out in a wheezing croak, but it was enough. “Over here!”
“Astarion!”
Gale came into view, scrambling around the rows of crates, his robe still damp with river water and clinging to his form.
“Astarion, there you are! Gods, you look a right mess. How are your injuries?” Gale dropped to his knees beside him and looked him over, hands hovering over him as if afraid he’d do more damage by touching him. “I would have come sooner, but Karlach’s engine finally failed. She’s alright! Well, alright as anyone could be in that situation. We convinced her to return to Avernus, but Wyll’s with her. They’re going to find a way to fix her engine, maybe take out Wyll’s bedeviled ex-patron while they’re at it. It was all quite a bit of commotion, but I think it’s for the best, really. I’ve got some ideas for interplanar sending to stay in communication with them, but obviously I need to do some more digging!”
Astarion let Gale’s rambling roll over him and stared. He was here. He was really here. Astarion was nothing more than a murderous half-incinerated spawn who’d threatened to kill all his companions at one point or another (or worse), and still Gale had come after him.
“I’m afraid I’m quite drained after the battle, or battles, to be more accurate. It was quite the sprint getting up to the brain, not to mention the fight atop it!” Gale said. “I wish I could provide you some healing, but all my potions shattered in the fall. I’ve got a few scrolls that may be of use to the current situation, at least. I assume all the normal rules of vampirism have returned to you? I doubt we could Dimension Door into one of these houses without an invitation, then. I’ve got a scroll of Darkness, but it doesn’t extend far and we need a destination before—”
“Why are you helping me?” Astarion interrupted.
Gale stopped short and looked at him.
“Why?” Gale let out a short laugh. “With all we’ve been through, I thought I was quite comfortable in making the assumption we’d become friends. And I’d be a poor friend to leave you in such a state!”
Bullshit. That made even less sense than some misplaced notion of charity.
“But…” Astarion gestured vaguely, ash falling from his hand like snow. “I’m just… you know I’m a…”
“A selfish, sadistic, bloodthirsty menace to society?” Gale supplied.
“Yes, that.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Gale’s mouth. “That may be so, but you’re our selfish, sadistic, bloodthirsty menace to society, and we all want to help you. Ah, and speaking of! Halsin, over here!”
With the adrenaline rush fading, Astarion’s strength went with it. His eyes fell closed and he sagged against the crates. Have someone else figure out what the hell to do. Let him rest for five gods-damned minutes. Voices conversed above his head and he let the words wash over him. Idly, he realized he didn’t doubt that his companions would figure out a plan. Now that they were here, he was certain they wouldn’t leave him to the damning sun. Something about the thought stirred in his chest. He had allies, he had friends, but he was too damned tired to unpack that revelation right now. He grimaced as Minsc’s booming baritone joined the fray, but didn’t stir until a large hand settled atop his head, followed by the familiar warmth of healing magic.
His eyes fluttered open and found himself pressed face-first into ugly purple robes. Ah. He’d slumped forward against Gale at some point, and the wizard had wrapped one arm awkwardly around him. Odd. He didn’t remember that happening.
“Are you back with us, Astarion?” Halsin’s deep, gentle voice asked from somewhere above him.
“I never left,” Astarion snapped, but the venom in his voice was undermined by the way exhaustion slurred his words. He didn’t pull away from Gale, telling himself the effort of moving was too much work.
“Of course not,” Halsin said, infuriatingly understanding. “Can you stand?”
“Do we have a plan?” Astarion retorted instead of evaluating the answer to the question.
“There is a Harper safehouse we can reach through the sewers,” Jaheira’s thick accent replied. “There is a sewer entrance east of us. We wrap you in cloaks and layers and use Gale’s darkness scroll to cover some of the distance. Between that and using ourselves as a shield, we will protect you from the worst of the sun and run for the sewers.”
“And if you cannot walk, Minsc will carry you! Lifting such a puny vampire will be as easy as carrying Boo!”
Astarion hissed and lurched away from Gale’s chest, ignoring how both Gale and Halsin steadied him.
“You will do no such thing!” He snarled and fixed Minsc with a glare.
“Good, then you will run on your own two feet,” Jaheira said, and offered him a hand up. “Come. We must move while the shadows are still long.”
The entire ordeal turned out to be less of a fiasco than Astarion expected. He managed to force himself to his own feet and stubbornly refused to let Minsc carry him, but ended up being half dragged by Halsin and Gale during the mad dash when his feet refused to keep up. His skin was smoking by the time they reached the safety of the sewers, even under the layers of cloaks, but he was alive.
He was alive. Against all reason and expectations, he was alive. Not just the sun, but the Absolute, the Underdark, Shadow Cursed Lands, illithids, Avernus, the Netherbrain, fucking Cazador and he somehow managed to survive all of it. And he’d done it with people at his side. People who were somehow still by his side.
Astarion didn’t know what was next. Hells, he’d never known what was next, planning wasn’t his forte. The future was still uncertain, but as his companions helped him through the winding tunnels, Astarion was sure he wouldn’t have to face it alone.