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“How about we make a pact, you keep your fangs away from innocent flesh, and I keep from putting a stake in your chest.”
The words gripped him tighter than any noose or bedded lover could. An ever-present threat that was just waiting to come true, begging, even.
Astarion cast a jealous glance at his companions circled around the fire, laughing as they enjoyed another of Gale’s disgusting stews. Even Lazel had joined the party, having lightened considerably after finding new faith in that fallen Gith.
It filled him with rage, every bite of food, every jolly laugh. Their full bellies. While he lay here and starved.
It had been over a tenday—maybe closer to two, he was losing track— since they’d come to these godsforsaken lands, where even the rats were tainted by this curse. But the days continued as if his stomach wasn't trying to digest itself, wasn’t trying to claw its way up his throat. Fighting shadows, defending innocents, and ‘of course we can’s, ‘we’ll take care of it’s, all at the whim of their leader. Who put him in charge anyways?? It made him sick.
No, worse. It made him hungry.
He turned in his bedroll, turning his back on the ‘oh-so-touching’ scene before him. It was bad enough before, being near them, their heartbeats so close… rich warm red blood just begging to be consumed, all he had to do was take a bite and—
He dug his nails into his arms. They would have bled if he had anything left in his body.
Now he couldn’t even stand the sight of them. Of knowing what lay just inches below their skin. He could take and take and take and take—
Only 200 years of discipline kept him rooted to his bedroll. He couldn’t keep going like this. But what other choice did he have if he wanted to stay on the good side of everyone’s swords?
His trance that night was restless. Just as it had been every night.
Astarion remained curled in his bedroll long after he heard the others gearing up for the day. Part of him prayed to whatever god would listen that they’d simply forget him there to wither away. He’d never wished more that hunger could kill him.
“Astarion, are you sleeping in again?” A voice called, the playful voice of Karlach.
It took everything in him not to hiss at her, instead, he called a simple “Beauty rest, love.” Before reaching for his daggers and leaving the tent. He made a show of stretching his shoulders before tying his weapon sheaths to his belt. His armor kept its abandoned place on the ground, collecting dust after it became too heavy to carry around all day.
All eyes lingered on him, and he felt a wave of foreboding go through him. “What?” He snapped.
Finally, Wyll stepped closer, a hand hesitantly extending to rest on his shoulder. “Astarion are you—“
“Fine, fine darling,” Astarion cringed, all but cowering from the hand. He at least made it look more like a noble avoiding a filthy mutt than a gnoll trying to keep from biting the very hand extending to him. “You know, I’d be up much earlier if I had someone there to wake me up,” he purred on instinct.
Wyll, naturally, pinched the bridge of his nose, assured by Astarion’s crude flare like the little sheep he was. “I’ll start making sure you’re awake in the mornings, your sleeping habits haven’t gone unnoticed. We’re so close to getting answers about the absolute, we can’t afford to get lazy now.”
The blade of frontiers turned just in time to miss Astarion baring his teeth at him.
Easy for you to say. Brave too, you walking blood bag.
He took a deep breath—useless with his undead lungs no longer needing air—and followed the group, taking his complementary place at the tail of the group.
“I believe today it would be best if we ventured towards the house of healing,” Wyll called as they walked, looking at the map they procured. It was of the city long before the shadow curse took over, and while the monuments were hardly as pristine as the map made them out to be, it gave a good lay of the land. “One of the Harpers suggested we may find something to help Art Culligan out.”
“Is that really the best use of our time, darling?” Astarion was asking before he could catch himself. “I mean we’ve already infiltrated Moonrise, shouldn’t we get to the bottom of this whole Absolute thing and get the hells out of this cursèd place?”
“Astarion, yet again forgetting the concept of human decency,” Gale hummed presumptuously.
“While trying to save the city, you cannot neglect the dog in the way of the runaway cart. We owe it to the man just as much as we do to the people—”
“I say we owe the ‘people’ nothing,”
“—Besides. If Art were trapped in the shadow curse for 100 years, he may have insight that we don’t. Such as how to survive it. We cannot rely on the pixies' blessing forever, nor can the people of Last-Light on the power of Selunè.”
Astarion buried his fangs in his lower lip to keep any further protests from bubbling up.
Their adventures eventually took them to the ruins of a house, and everyone gathered around as Astarion picked the lock to a dirty but ornate chest. Honestly, calling it ruins was a disgrace to poorly kept castles everywhere, scarcely the brick or the foundation remained, just the ghost of something that once was.
“A little Light, darling?” Astarion snapped to Gale after his cantrip flickered out, and several seconds passed without it snapping back. “While my darkvision is marvelous, it does require some light.”
“Fiat lux, Fiat lux sol—I… I can’t seem to…“ Gale trailed off, a chill rushing over them.
“Weapons ready!” Wyll yelled, drawing his sword.
The air crackled as a wraith materialized between them. Wyll was barely quick enough to tackle Gale out of the way of its swing as they were all thrown into combat.
Wraiths, Gith, Harper’s, flaming fists, Astarion hardly paid attention to where one faction ended and the next began. What he did pay attention to was the fact that the enemy far outnumbered them. The paltry remains of the walls were their only shelter from back-to-back waves of shadows and soldiers.
The closed quarters were far more torturous, however, than the dragging battle. Through the rot, he could swear he smelt blood—human blood, every glance towards his companions only made it worse.
Astarion jumped into the back of a Flaming Fist, sliding his daggers across each side of its neck then rolling as the beast collapsed. The blood was surely black, as all the vile creatures bled a thick ichor, but through his monochromatic darkvision, it may have well been a deep, rich, red.
His head dipped forward, dagger lifting towards his mouth in an agonizingly slow motion. Just a taste, it was all he needed.
“Arde!” A yell came from behind, before Gale pushed against his back, stumbling by the force of flames that erupted from his hands.
Astarion snapped his teeth at him, and it was by some mercy that he only met air. Before his body could get a chance to react like some mindless animal again, he shoved Gale away, snapping something about room to breathe. The damage, however, was done, hearing Gale’s racing pulse just inches from his face, smelling it from so close—
He turned his back on the danger around, taking a single step towards the rest of the party with painful apprehension. They’d be none the wiser until his teeth were ripping their blood from their throats. Nothing mattered, just getting blood. He needed it.
No! You feral creature! Are you trying to get killed?!
He stayed frozen, watching, waiting, for one side of him to give into the other. A cursed Harper approached him from behind, using his lack of awareness to its advantage. Astarion wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have cared, if it hadn’t dragged its sword through his flesh, from his ribs to his tailbone.
The strings cut completely, any sense of resolve burning away like wood on a pyre. His mind surrendered completely to the hunger.
One hand grabbed what remained of the monster's hair, the other stabbing into its throat then through it completely. He latched onto the stream of not-quite-blood that flowed out, following the creature down as it slouched lifelessly. It tasted vile against his tongue, worse than any diseased rat cazador made him scarf down with the threat of nothing but this to eat.
It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. He thought manically. He had his blood and there wasn’t a thing in Faerûn or the hells that could pry him off.
Nothing, besides two burning hands, apparently.
They blistered his frozen skin with their touch, and some distant part of his brain wanted to bubble out a laugh. He was so dead, such a frozen corpse, that Karlach could still burn him even after her engine adjustment.
A louder part of him, the only one he listened to, growled animalistically as they pulled him from his mark. It looked different, he distantly thought, than the one he remembered sinking his teeth into.
A set of hands against either arm pinned him to the ground. He looked to either side, wondering what would dare hold him down when there were plenty of fresh necks around. He may just have to make two more meals out of a certain tiefling and wizard.
“I’m going to slit all of your throats and leave you as husks! I’m going to make it slow, and painful, just for this!” Astarion shouted. He had plenty more obscenities to throw but the blood he just consumed came spilling out of his mouth as his stomach tried to reject it; choking him in a way that made him forget he didn’t need to breathe anymore.
“What is going on with him??” Karlach’s voice came. Astarion’s head lolled towards the sound of it. She looked off towards his feet, and he lifted his head to see who she was talking to.
Wyll stepped into view, illuminated only by the freshly lit torch he held. Astarion blinked away the dark spots of his vision, his dip in energy ceasing as the rage of seeing exactly who caused all of this in front of him.
“This is just what you want, isn’t it?” He snapped, voice a mix of delirium and fury. “To see me lying here, starving like an animal. Or is this the excuse you’ve been waiting for? To put me down, ‘the spawn who couldn’t control his hunger’.” He fought desperately against the hold. “Well, you’re the asshole who let me get this bad! You are just as much of a monster as I am!”
“Astarion, I need you to calm down,” Wyll said calmly, but Astarion could see the pure, unfiltered worry in his eyes.
“If you’re so worried, come here and let me get a taste. I’d feel so much better with just a little bit.” The words came out more begging than he meant, but was nothing to allude to any subsiding anger. In fact, at the thought, Astarion realized he could have a taste, who was going to stop him? He was a godscursed vampire, and he didn’t ask permission.
He lunged for Gale, who was already struggling to keep him pinned. At the near attack, Gale recoiled, giving Astarion the upper hand to pry his hand away, grab his dagger, and bury it in her shoulder. Her blood burned on contact, leaving his hand red and welted. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t the target here.
There was one blood that would be the sweetest, no matter how tainted it was with devilish pacts.
“You owe me this!” Astarion yelled as he sent himself and Wyll to the ground. “You owe me everything!”
Wyll hadn’t seemed particularly caught off guard by the lunge. Astarion would blame his success on the blood he just consumed but in all honesty, he’d never felt weaker.
The how didn’t matter, all that mattered was closing the gap between his mouth and the blood blocked by just inches of skin. He bit down, more than just his fangs piercing the delicate flesh of Wyll’s neck, and drank it in like he’d simply wither away if he didn’t. Because he had. He’d been withering to nothing and it was everyone else’s fault, especially his. This was justice here. Wyll would finally understand what it was like to be bloodless. This was…
This was…
Consciousness came slow. Fading in and out with each new wave of pain. It felt like his very veins had turned on him, snakes of venom worming their way under every inch of skin.
Lifting his head was too much of a chore, as was opening his eyes. He managed a twitch of his fingers, recognizing the pelt of his bedroll beneath him. A surge of terror went through him, feeling so heavy with no memory of how he got here.
But no… this was no sedation he was used to, and he’d met the crossed fingers of many in his time collecting marks for Cazador.
This was different, a sickness probably. The memories would return, all he had to do now was lie here. Everything else could wait just a little longer.
It was voices that brought him out of his latest spell of unconsciousness. He turned his head slightly to tune in, but couldn’t will his eyes to open.
“—3 days now, surely there’s more to be done.” Some instinctual part of him wanted to growl at the sound of Wyll’s voice, but that had been the hunger talking, and the hunger couldn’t touch him now.
Now that he thought about it, the hunger really had no grasp on him. By some miracle, he felt… sated, happy even.
“Healing magic is doing nothing,” Shadowheart? They must be talking of him, if he could just remember. “The only thing that seems to touch the disease is…”
The voices trailed off, seemingly reaching a silent understanding.
Astarion thought he might drift off again, left with a stretch of silence that gave little to focus on. His desperation for answers was all that kept him awake, ears tuned for any more voices.
Footsteps approached, stopping at his bedroll. All he could manage was a groan and cracking his eyes open in a squint. Though the tent around became no clearer, nor did the person kneeled over him.
A hand gently lifted his head, while the other uncorked a bottle and pressed it to his lips. Astarion allowed the handling, not having the energy to protest, especially if whatever this person was doing would stop the feeling of rot through his veins.
Then the taste of blood hit his tongue. Not just any, but human.
He shoved the stranger away, suddenly feeling very in control. His body like an armed mousetrap, finally snapping down before his mind could fully process the danger. The blood was left to be spat on the ground, desperately hacked up despite how utterly heavenly it tasted.
“Astarion—“ Astarion looked up, seeing the offending bottle lingering just a foot from his face.
“Get that away from me,” he spat out vehemently, pretending not to hear the fear in his own voice. He followed the hand upwards to finally make out the person's face. Wyll’s stone eye and devilish horns stared back, now risen to his feet and several steps away.
Damn it all! Of course, the warlock had to be the one to see this. He wasn’t drinking it! It wasn’t his fault!
“I’m sorry. Gale hypothesized with his orb stabilized, his blood wouldn’t be so vile for a creature like you to consume.“
“What are you talking about?” Astarion managed out, hunched over on his elbows, watching the bottle of blood with apprehension.
“You had lost control, drank blood diseased with the shadow curse, and in no small amount. It had… adverse effects. Ones were still trying to figure out the full extent of. But we believe the cure is flushing out the tainted blood with normal blood.”
He’d been looking Wyll in the eyes, but he couldn’t help but notice the still-healing scar on Wyll’s throat. Teeth indents with two perfect fang marks right over the artery. The memories came rushing back with the most unpleasant weight of dread replacing the earlier high of having a full stomach.
A laugh escaped Astarion’s throat, one of a man who knew his death was near, in the most preventable yet inevitable scenario possible. Every step he took had only led him right here.
“Astarion…” Wyll said unsurely.
“Damnit.” Astarion finally breathed out, voice betraying him. His elbows shook with the effort to keep him propped up. He was in no condition to fight, and even if he escaped the swords and stakes here, what waited for him outside of this group? The shadow curse come to finish the job? Losing himself to the absolute once he lost the protection of the artifact?
“Talk to me Astarion, we don’t know exactly what this curse is doing to you. Anything that seems amiss should be said.”
“Amiss? Amiss?” Astarion yelled hysterically. “You hand-feeding me a bottle of human blood like a star-crossed lover is so far past amiss that it’s not even a speck in the distance. Is this what you need to feel good about yourself?”
The words seemed to cut Wyll deep, deeper than Astarion even meant them to. His grip on the bottle of blood tightened, face pinching as he looked away in an uncharacteristic show of shame.
“It is,” He said stoically. “I shouldn’t have let it get that far, I should’ve realized the second we stepped into the shadowcursed lands that you had no way to feed yourself.”
“Well. Then I suppose we both made mistakes.” Astarion spat out. “I made the mistake of thinking this traveling circus could work. You made the mistake of not staking me the moment you realized what I was. But you’ve done it, your good deed, made yourself feel oh-so good inside. I see no reason for more justifications. Just finish the job.” He lay back on his bedroll, forcing laxness through his body despite every instinct screaming at him to keep fighting.
Wyll’s eyes swept over him before focusing on his face. “What in the hells are you talking about?”
“Kill me already!” Astarion snapped. “Stake my heart! I broke the golden rule, I’m the monster everyone believes, I can never change my nature. Just stop dragging it out, the anticipation is—“ he cut himself off, voice straying dangerously close to vulnerable. He steadied himself, grasping at that iron resolve that had carried him through centuries of torture far worse than this, then in a detached voice he continued. “The anticipation is worse than anything you think you’re doing for me, or yourself, trying to make it easier. I want it to be over.”
Wyll stared at him in a stunned silence, horror painting his face. “I truly have made a mess of things.” He whispered. Footsteps came closer, and Astarion forced himself not to flinch. He refused to give anyone the satisfaction of dying scared.
“Look into my eye as I say this, Astarion. I was misguided when I told you I’d bring you harm for drinking innocent blood. I’ve only known vampires for their ravenous hunger and their lack of concern for what they have to do to satisfy it. And while you have your interesting outlooks on some matters, you’re a far cry from a monster. I should have made you see that I felt that way— gods I should’ve made you believe it yourself. Now please, drink this blood. It’s all we know to flush out this disease. It’s what you need to survive without starvation.” He held the bottle of blood out to him.
Astarion stared up at him, hearing the words but not sure if they were holding any weight in his mind. The bottle still felt like a trap, the whole mousetrap metaphor feeling reversed now. “I.. um…” he said eloquently, but didn’t know where he planned to go with the statement.
“You will find no harm by my hands, nor anyone else’s. I won’t allow it. But only if you let us help you. If Gale’s blood doesn’t taste right, I suppose you can have more of mine. Though it may not be the hearty meal you need right now.” Wyll said sheepishly, averting his eyes.
“How much did I take?” Astarion asked lowly, almost fearful of the answer. He remembered his threats towards the other, the feeling of being latched onto his throat. It shouldn’t have been so easy, but it was.
“Enough that Gale had to halfway drag me back to camp, and threatened to leave me every time I began to drift off,” Wyll bemused before his smile slipped away. “I could have stopped you, but…”
“You felt guilty,” Astarion said in revelation. “Guilty I had starved so long.”
The pieces finally put themselves together. This was no ploy on Wyll’s part, no twisted ‘feel-good’ tactic, soothing his own mind before killing the clearly unstable monster. He’d simply been guilty. Wyll’s disgustingly soft heartthrob extended even to him. It was confusing, to say the least, being on this side of the olive branch.
“By the time we reached you, you’d gone through 3 shadow-cursed monsters. Each time another attacked you simply changed targets, more ravenous than a Roper in a freshly reopened cave. There was no telling how much blood you consumed, what it was doing to you. Your veins were turning black as the Shadowfell, and you screamed at me that it was my own fault, that all of this happened as it did because I failed my duties as a leader. So when you lunged for my throat I—“ he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I felt like I owed it to you.”
“You are the biggest idiot I have ever met! Letting a feral vampire spawn have free access to your neck, what were you thinking?” Astarion asked, using the same cadence he had when Gale, in his pursuit to fill his ever-growing curiosity, dropped an entire creche on him.
A fond look came to Wyll’s face and Astarion was tempted to ask about that stupid grin, but he didn’t want to let the blood being offered get any staler.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Astarion mumbled, dipping his head away. “But if you’re so concerned, I suppose I can indulge in a bit of blood. You said this was from Gale?” He reached for the bottle, eying Wyll’s free hand as he did.
“Indeed. If it doesn’t taste right, we can procure blood from elsewhere. The last thing you need is more poison in your system.”
Astarion’s hand closed around the bottle, but he didn’t yet take it. This was the part he repaid the gift he’d been given, wasn’t it?
“Well, tell Gale I’m very appreciative, and can repay him in any way he’d like,” His voice dropped to a purr, words wrapped in seduction. “But you deserve the biggest reward of all, don’t you?”
He told himself anything was worth a supply of blood, even if it meant he had to get under every person in this camp. It would be worth it to survive. He’d survived torture for 200 years, he could survive it for a little longer. He just prayed they would allow his body to heal before they made their demands.
“No,” Wyll said firmly, cutting off his train of thought. “For one, that is never a payment. Especially with how you feel about it.” Astarion bit his tongue, never regretting sharing pieces of his past more. “No one in this camp is allowed to ask that of you. Especially not for this, this isn’t a gift Astarion, this is your survival. There is no repaying that, end of story.” Wyll wrapped Astarion’s fingers around the bottle of blood firmly, then drew back entirely.
Astarion opened his mouth, half tempted to beg for an opportunity to make it up. Nothing was just given to people— not to him. He couldn’t be the weakest link here, those were always broken and discarded. He couldn’t.
“If Gale’s blood does taste well, he’s willing to draw more of it. Within the next day, I should have replenished enough to be drunken from directly, as I’m sure you prefer that. Halsin has provided a great deal in your time unconscious, Karlach would have but I believe there’s still too great a temperature difference between the two of you. I believe they all deserve your appreciation, but not your servitude. It’s suffice to say, you will not go hungry any longer.”
“How touching, the whole camp came rushing to my aid,” Astarion dolled, rolling his eyes with a sarcastic smile.
“You don’t hide behind sarcasm as well as you think,” Wyll said with a fond smile. “I believe we have become more than a bunch of strangers joined together by a common affliction. Don’t you? People tend to care about their brothers in arms.”
Astarion scoffed, finally drinking the blood he was offered, the bottom of the bottle coming far too quickly, even though he knew he wasn’t starving anymore. “Well I’m certainly not offering myself up as sacrifice to a feral beast for any of you, so don’t hold your breath.” He licked his lips, and the pain throughout his whole body felt a little lighter.
“Was that blood enough? Do you feel full?” Wyll asked.
“A vampire can never feel full, it comes with the whole ‘insatiable hunger’ thing,” Astarion said, detached tone cutting through the warm atmosphere. He stared down at the bottle, looking at the meager drops that clung to the glass walls. A spawn with less dignity would try to lick it clean, he was certainly tempted. “But this is the closest I've ever felt to it.”
“You certainly look much healthier,” Wyll commented, eyes tracing over the vampire. “I suppose I’ll leave you to your rest, then,” he said, moving towards the flap of his tent.
“Wyll,” Astarion said, reaching towards him. Wyll turned, watching patiently as Astarion struggled with his words. “Thank you… for all of this. You know I didn’t mean what when I was feral, it was the hunger talking, nothing more. I... I never blamed you, you know.”
“You'd better rest before you say anything sappier,” Wyll said gently. “You’ll certainly regret it when you’re well, I’m sure.” He flashed Astarion one of those heroic smiles, but it was tainted with a fondness. He then exited the tent and left Astarion alone.
Astarion laid back against his pillow, staring at the canvas tent above. He took a deep breath, and for a second, with so much blood and not so achingly cold, he felt alive.
His trance came far easier that night.
When he finally emerged from his tent the latter half of the next day, instead of being visited with looks of apprehension and disgust, he only saw relief, even joy (or the closest some of his companions could get, Lazel).
Karlach had just insisted upon carrying around every locked chest they found while Astarion was out of commission, depositing them at camp at the end of each day ‘to give Astarion something to do as he recovered’. Just this once Astarion relinquished his first claim on anything found within the chest, as Karlach had quite literally done all the heavy lifting.
Gale began experimenting with prestidigitation to make Astarion’s servings of the nightly stew taste less like ash and more like the sweet richness of blood. It had varying levels of success, but it was nice to eat again, even if it did nothing for him.
Even Lazel stopped glaring at him with barely controlled fury any time he did have to indulge his bloodier tendencies, looking away with a scoff and nothing more.
It felt… strangely nice. The sort of thing he’d read in a story when Cazador was merciful enough to allow him even that. But no one was that ‘nice’, least of all to him. He continued waiting for everyone to come to their senses already, or even just tell him what the hell they wanted out of this so-far one-sided deal.
If they insisted on playing nice for now, though, so Astarion would too. Even if each day felt a little less like an act; whether on his part or theirs?
He couldn’t tell.