Archive of Our Own

As Astarion's soul was torn from his body, through the ancient markings on his back and into the grotesque grinning form of his master, he realised he might actually, finally be dying. 

He watched in agonized passivity as the energy of thousands of people pooled into markings in the black marble floor, all those souls he’d glimpsed when he’d been forced through those corridors, seen all those cages - 

- thousands of souls he had trapped there, he had lured with his good for nothing body, his fault, so many people - 

Their energy ripping through him coursing through his bones -

All dead dead dead dying screaming ending and so hungry -

Tearing ripping wrenching splitting rending -

The best he could do was scream. 

He'd longed for this. He'd lost count on how many times he'd yearned for death to come back for him over the years. But now it was here. He was alone, naturally. With no agency, of course. And his master, right there, controlling it all, soaking it all in.

To die at the hands of the rotten Cazador Szarr had always seemed like the most utterly wretched way to go. Whenever he’d prayed for death, he’d prayed that it would spite his master in some way; caused him some great inconvenience like the Flaming Fist coming knocking, or the black mold of his dead body rotting holes in the ceiling letting the sun blaze through. At least then he'd have made a mark on the world in some undefinable way. 

Nothing but a whore, a forgotten tombstone, wretched rotting rag and bone, nothing but scrag -

Surely he could have done something with all the stretch of time that had been his unlife. Something, other than be tortured day after wretched day. 

His feet and hands lost all sensation, his muscles screaming, veins bursting, blood boiling, skin crumbling like chalk - 

At least, he thought through the excruciation of his soul being lacerated from his mortal shell, torture would be off the cards after all this. At least soon, hopefully, there will be nothing. 

Through blinks of red haze – blood vessels had popped in his eyes, coating the world in a crimson tinge – he realised something seemed to be going wrong. Cazador was no longer in the centre of the dias. There were strangers - not the irritating werewolves-for-hire his master had been consorting with recently, but people. Fighters of some kind. Adventurers. A cleric with a mace which stung just to look at, druids and Gur. 

And there was Cazador - ugly staff twirling, the flash of blinding lighting - fighting with the most beautiful man Astarion had ever seen. His sight might be blurry and brain full of molasses but the man had horns which swept back at an angle which could only be described as artistic, and arms muscles that rippled with sweat, and were those golden scales that glistened amongst his dark skin? It was only when he transformed into a 7 foot bronze dragon, biting through Cazador’s arm before his eyes that Astarion thought he must surely, finally, be losing his mind to the pain. 

Being murdered by the man he was forced to call master was pathetic. A stupid end to a rotten, poxy existence. But to be killed by this group - to be killed by heroes and get to witness the euphoric downfall of his master at the same time, well. That was surely more than he could ever ask for. 

Cazador turned into mist, reforming on the main dias with no injury, clapping his hands together in some ritualistic gesture. The pain in Astarion’s back surged anew, souls peeling him away bit by bit, chunk by chunk - 

Gashing and cleaving all screaming all scared all cold and hurting ravenous dying -

When suddenly, it all stopped. Something warm and red pressed against him, smelling of metal, oud, and brimstone. He struggled against it, his arms shaking against his control, his broken body seizing in panic and pain. 

“Woah there, stranger. Just trying to help. You’ll be alright.” The thing holding onto him spoke, the sound muffled like his eardrums had popped. He blinked, and was suddenly on the ground. A very red woman was leaning over him, the explosions of battle behind her haloing her face in gold. Her beautiful yellow cat-eyes seemed concerned as she surveyed his bloodied, shuddering body. But then someone called to her, and she turned away. “Lae, you got the rest of ‘em? Nice!”

He could hear Cazador screaming behind her as she jumped back in the fray, leaving Astarion behind to shake off the effects of the ritual alone. Removing the spawn from the ring must have stopped the ritual early. That must have been the reason she helped him. And she must not have seen him as a threat, if she left him alive. She and all her hero friends will likely double back later, to make sure all the vermin are culled. That sent a wave of panic through him, but movement was far beyond him. 

He spat foamed phlegm as he turned his head to watch. The heroes had turned the tide, it seemed. The cleric was calling down beams of sunlight which threatened to boil his irises the more he looked at it, and an odd looking green woman was dispatching the last of the werewolf guard dogs.

That horned man was still in his dragon form - copper scales resplendent with the reflected sunlight no matter how hard it was to look at - and he had Cazador pinned against a pillar, biting down hard on his shoulder blade. Astarion could hear the shout of pain all the way from where he was laying, and that alone was enough to give him strength to sit up. 

Cazador wasn’t reforming into mist anymore. That wound was remaining. 

“Wyll, get back!” Astarion saw a wizard call out, and the dragon teleported away from Cazador’s swaying form like it was nothing, the creature’s huge glistening jaw dripping black blood.

But Astarion couldn’t stare at that captivating sight for long, because the wizard was making some complicated gesture, followed by a feeling like all the air was being sucked out of the room. Then a bolt of light - release - and Cazador was hit, disintegrating before his eyes. He didn’t even have time to retreat to his coffin for healing sleep. 

He was dust, just like that. It was over. 

He stared out at the heroes and Gur who stood around the pile of ash, talking logistics. He could see his other spawn siblings, staring in similar shock. There wasn’t even anything left for Astarion to kick. It was like Cazador Szarr had never existed at all. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Time moved strangely, after that. It was like there was a huge gap in his head, which he supposed there very well could be, considering the space Cazador’s commands used to take up. They were all gone now. There was nothing stopping him from doing anything at all, yet all he could do was sit there stupidly. A brainless marionette with its strings cut. The floor was cold on his bare skin, he smelled like iron and the air stank of electrical storms. 

Strangers and spawn milled around him while his regeneration slowly healed the most broken parts of his body. It sounded like they were trying to figure out the best way to deal with a whole city’s-worth of traumatised vampires. So these adventurers weren’t going to kill all the monsters, apparently. He couldn’t decide how he felt about that. 

With Cazador’s death the magic seal on the cages had broken, though many still had bog-standard locks they would have to break through. They would have to let each group out slowly to avoid a panicked crush - not that many of the spawn would be able to move, starved as they were. The heroes would have to choose who to feed first, not to mention find the resources to feed that many in the first place. It would be less of a hassle to just cull the weak. Hells, many would likely consider it a relief.

Not that he cared. 

It wasn’t fair . Cazador had been erased from existence like it was easy , his body snuffed away into ash that everyone was grinding into the bottom of their fancy adventurer boots. Not even clothes remained, only the staff lay there, discarded after the heroes had used it to unlock the prisons. Astarion walked over to it. 

The scepter was one of the ugliest things Cazador had owned. It was so garish, the most cliché vampiric thing in the whole mansion, which was certainly a statement in itself. Cazador had only ever brought it out for special occasions, implying even he knew it was tasteless. Astarion picked it up. He wanted to use it. Blast everything in a mile’s radius with its necrotic rotting magic. Kill somebody. Kill everybody. He wanted to snap it in half, break it over his knee like it was an extension of Cazador’s body, but he knew he was too weak. Simply holding himself upright was a task, and not something his knees felt capable of as he sank to sit on the small step of the dias, clinging to the awful staff for pathetic balance. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, clutching the damn thing. Dal came up to him at one point, just as naked as he was, offering simpering smiles and halfbaked plans for the future involving the Underdark, all those people who needed help, and making something like a community. 

Fuck that, Astarion had said. As if any of them were qualified for that nonsense. As if Dalyria could pretend at goodness. 

She left, not long after that.

“Excuse me.” A new voice said, a deep slightly posh baldurian accent, “Is anyone sitting here?”

Astarion looked up. It was the beautiful man from earlier, with the horns and bronze scales. His thoughts spun into cotton wool. The man towered over him, but his smile was disarming, and his mismatched eyes held no malice. While there was an infernal scent, his blood smelled much stronger of metal and flame, smoke and warmth. 

He should feel panic at one of these heroes addressing him. This was the same man who tore through Cazador like his skin was rice paper, after all. He’d have no problem snapping Astarion in half like a toothpick if he wanted. 

But panic felt dulled, now. It was rather hard to muster any kind of feeling at all, really. Not to mention this human (for he was human, despite the otherworldly features) had taken the top half of his armour off, and the hair that surrounded his bare navel was really quite distracting. Humans were truly hairy just about everywhere. 

“What?” Astarion said, having completely forgotten what the man had asked, but he had already sat down anyway. He had a little bundle of cloth, and was holding it out to him. 

“We found some spare clothes and wondered if you might like them.”

Astarion took the package, shaking out a plain cream tunic and some sturdy tan trousers. There was even a leather belt and some underwear, simple, but clean and nary a frayed seam to be seen. He stared at the gift blankly. 

“Sorry if they’re not quite your style. I just picked out what looked like would fit you best, but we can always go and see if there’s something a bit more fashionable lying around. I’m Wyll, by the way. With a Y.” 

“Astarion.” Said Astarion, still unthinking. He shrugged the tunic on. It was soft. “With a Y?”

“Why not?” Wyll’s eyes crinkled with mirth. 

“I suppose it does suit you. Unique, like all of this.” Astarion gestured to his scales and horns, not bothering to hide the long up-down look he gave to the rest of Wyll’s body. He didn’t know why he was flirting. He blamed the residual brain damage caused by having his soul sucked through a straw like pulpy fruit juice. And besides, it was fun to watch this powerful adventurer fluster. “You must have quite the stories to tell.”

“I will say the past few months have been quite eventful. You know we fought a God around.. two weeks ago?”

“Well now I know you’re having me on.”

“I’m not! No one believes me when I tell them that. It’s rather hard to imagine myself.” 

Astarion looked back down at the dust of his master. Some of it had gotten between his toes. His body felt so very far away. What part of his master did that bit of dust used to be, he wondered? He hoped it was his head, so he could imagine stomping on it. 

“I suppose it makes sense. If you’ve killed Gods, that would make killing him look easy.” He felt empty. And so tired. 

“I’m sorry.” Wyll said, and he did genuinely look upset. Astarion felt the sudden urge to spit at him. How dare he. “You all should have been the ones to kill him. You deserved that much.”

Astarion sniffed and snarled. “Yes, I do suppose you’re right. We should have paraded his body through the square. His eyes should have been stabbed out with a moldy old stake. I should have ripped his heart out and eaten it. Boiled his skull and turned it into a tankard. But now he’s just - this.” He spat at the scattered ash. “Did it even hurt? That fucking wizard should have made it hurt .” 

Wyll looked at him sidelong. 

“And now I imagine it’s my turn. You’re talking to me so I lower my guard, then you’ll interrogate me for information and cull the vermin, surely.”

“We’re not going to kill you. Unless you suddenly snap and start blasting everyone with nasty magic, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t know any magic.”

“Maybe, but I imagine that thing could help you out there.” Wyll pointed to the staff Astarion grasped onto. He’d forgotten he still had it. It was pulsing dim red light. “Could I take it please?”

Astarion looked at the glowing red bat adorning the tip of the staff. He didn’t want to look at it again. He wanted to smash it to pieces. He didn’t want to give it away. Before he could think anymore, he chucked the staff as far as he could, one of the glass bat wings shattering against the stone. The glowing sputtered, then stopped. The room of adventurers went quiet at the noise, eyes turning towards him. He realised his chest was heaving, and stopped breathing. His face felt wet. He didn’t care .

“I don’t know why you’d want it.” He said to Wyll. “It’s hideous.”

Wyll laughed, leaning back on his hands, a beautiful pointy grin that lit up the dingy cold marble room. “Oh, thank the gods you agree. I wasn’t sure if all vampires just suddenly gained terrible taste the moment they’re turned. Karlach and I have a bet going, and you’ve just earned me 10 gold.”

Astarion huffed a surprised hitch of a laugh, despite himself. “Cazador was simply a master at kitsch, darling. If I had to hand him one thing, it was that he knew how to keep his aesthetics consistent, even if they were terribly gauche.” Using the past tense was a marvel. He felt inches away from breaking out into hysterics.

“You’re telling me. I’ve never seen paintings quite like those.” Wyll gave an overdramatic shudder. Astarion decided not to mention how he’d had to pose for hours in those gory, lurid positions to give the thralled artist something to reference. He hoped they all burned. Wyll continued. “I hope now you’ll be able to live somewhere which ascribes more to your tastes.” 

Astarion stared at where his reflection was supposed to be in the dusty marble floor. Live? Was that…it? His owner of 200 years got blasted into nothing in seconds and now, what, he was supposed to just live among the populace? 

What would he do now? 

He’d never imagined a life of freedom. He’d tried to, especially in the earlier years, but had always gotten caught up in the damnable logistics. He didn’t have any life skills other than whoring, and that wasn’t a particularly enjoyable fantasy to engage in. 

He’d tried to imagine running away, making a new life for himself, but he had no money, could only travel at night, and was surrounded by running water.

Not to mention, where would he live? Anywhere he would go, he would have to hide his vampiric nature. Hells, what kind of landlord would take him? Would he need roommates? It was already incredibly difficult to hide being a vampire spawn when he was out and about, to do it 24/10 would make him go crazy from the constant vigilance. At least until now, he’d always had a den of fellow vampires to go back to. Maybe that was why you never heard tales of free spawn? 

Joining Dalyria and her society of victims made him feel sick. Petras had crawled after her, stuck on her heels as always. Aurelia was talking to the scary cleric woman over there, and he had no idea where Leon had gone. Violet and Yousen had run off together the first chance they got, which was a surprise considering their vitriol for each other. Maybe it had never been vitriol. Funny, how you could live with people for so long, and still never understand them. 

Either way, shacking up with his siblings for even one more second felt like torture. He was free now. He didn’t have to see those fuckwits ever again. He wouldn’t stoop so low to beg them for help. 

At the end of the day, he was a spawn. There wasn’t a place in society for a freed spawn. He was made as a tool, a simple extension of his master’s will, and his master was no longer here. So what was the point of anything? 

“Why won’t you kill me?”

“What?”

“All those people. I brought them here. I killed them. I’m dangerous.”

“Your master was the one who hurt them.” Wyll said. His smile had gone. Astarion mourned it. 

“Bullshit. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I'm capable of.” Astarion stood, his muscles creaking like rotted timber.

Wyll stood too, his back seeming broader suddenly, his face changing to something older – experienced. A leader in his own right. Asatrion took a step back. “That’s true. But we’re not about to kill you for something you could potentially do. You’ve only had hours of freedom so far. I’d like to see what you could do with years of it.”

Astarion scoffed, choking on a sob. As if he were capable of anything except depravity. As if he could bring anyone anything except destruction. 

“Listen,” Wyll continued, “Maybe we could help you out? We have a place at the Elfsong, and there are safehouses with the Harpers-”

Astarion bared his fangs at Harpers, crouching as if to bolt. “They will kill me. The moment any authority’s back is turned they will pull my fangs, cut off my fingers, sell my corneas-”

“Woah! Alright, no Harpers. Though I can assure you, I’ve never heard of anything like that from these ones.”

 He scoffed. “Of course you haven’t. I know what they’re capable of. You won’t take me there.”

“I understand, but if we could just-”

“Wyll!” Another voice called over to them. An old woman approached them, with the demeanor of iron and ice. Gur. More than that, a Gur leader . Astarion took another step back. 

“Ulma. How goes the relief efforts?”

The woman’s steel eyes were set on Astarion. He was suddenly very aware he was only wearing a tunic, the trousers still loose in his grip. The length of the shirt just covered him, but the woman’s gaze still cut through like he was nothing but the chalky soot that coated his feet.

Just bone meal and filth. 

“That one.” She pointed a calloused old finger at him. Her hands knew battle. Her head knew vampires and their weaknesses. She hadn’t been near Cazador when he died, and looked like she was chomping at the bit to kill a monster. To have blood on her swords. Astarion knew the feeling. The panic that had felt so far away while talking to Wyll exploded through his body, leaving his limbs shaking and ears roaring. He was so preoccupied by trying to keep a straight back and not blinking he almost missed what she was saying. 

“That’s the one who stole our children.” The hand that wasn’t pointing was tight around her blade. 

Wyll turned to look at him, an incomprehensible expression on his face. “Astarion?”

“I - I don’t -” Astarion swallowed around the stones in his chest. 

Wyll’s brows furrowed, but he turned back to Ulma. “The head has been cut off the beast, Ulma. The true evil is destroyed.”

Ulma snarled. “So we let his snakes roam free, no retribution to be seen? These spawn have lived nothing but depravity longer than you have been alive, lad. Justice must be meted out.”

Astarion could not be here when these two figured out who the winner of their moral spat was. There was too much of a chance that Wyll would concede the point, and Astarion would be culled, just like he feared he would. They weren’t looking at him while they argued the moral correctness of evil under compulsion. 

He took a step back, then another. Soon, he was running.

“Astarion, wait!”

He didn’t turn around.

—

Wyll breathed slowly through the bleeding pain in his side, leaning against the damp wall of the underground tunnel. 

It had been months since they had beaten the Netherbrain by the skin of their teeth and returned from the depths of the Hells. Wyll’s father was safe and well, Mizora’s head was rolling in the Avernus deserts, and yet he still couldn't feel satisfied . It was selfish of him, really. His life was great now. Better than it had ever been. Despite the current situation, alone with a still bleeding hole in his side, trapped in the wet stench of the city’s sewer system. 

Though it wasn’t as if he was alone because he was friendless! Karlach was still healing from her heart surgery, and everyone else had moved away from Baldur’s Gate and back to their respective lives - be that in Reithwin, Waterdeep or the celestial tears of Creche K'Liir. 

And that was fine. Wonderful, even! Despite the distance, his friendships stayed strong in his heart. Wyll loved to see his friends taking it easy, moving on with their lives, understanding what it could mean to be domestic . But he didn't think he had it in him to sit still. He wasn’t sure he’d ever sat still. 

Life in the ducal residence had its perks of course, the main being three solid meals per day that he didn't have to worry about procuring himself. It has only been a few months and his small wiry frame was already filling out nicely. But between the abrupt ending of their stint in the hells to the sudden static life trying to learn Baldurian law with his father in the courts, he needed more spice in his life. The Blade didn't stop just because his father told him to. Baldur’s Gate was a mess and not just because the majority of law makers had been killed by Gortash. It still needed the support of its heroes, even if the world ending giant space brain had been dealt with.

Which was how Wyll had found himself tangling with a nest of Bhaalists, perhaps over-estimating his skills at solitary skirmishes since becoming so used to backup, and bleeding out in this abandoned corner of the Gate's sewer system. 

All in all, perhaps not his cleverest moment. He just needed to find a pothole. A grate of some kind. Something that would get him back out into the open world, where someone might see him and help. It would be wonderful if his vision would stop going grey at the edges, and if his feet worked like how he told them to. 

He just needed…a little rest. A bit of a sit down, then he’d be right as rain. He slid down the wall, breathing through his nose.

“I don't suppose you're going to be using any of that blood, are you?” 

Wyll leapt out of his skin, fatigue rushing away as adrenaline poured in. He was alone. His ability to see in the dark was limited, but he could at least tell that much.

No, wait. There. At the end of the tunnel, wreathed in shadows, barefoot, tall and pale, was a person. He couldn’t see their face, except for two points of reflected light in their eyes.

This was how Wyll died, he supposed. Prayed upon by some kind of ghast, in the underbellies of his city. There were worse ways to go. He didn’t have all that many regrets. 

The figure stepped forward, culminating in a very tangible, real elf. Not a ghost or ghoul after all. But alive? That remained to be seen. 

They were practically skeletal, bare feet and ankles a mass of raw skin and cuts. Their mouth was slightly open, and they hadn’t looked away from the slowly growing bloodstain down the front of Wyll’s leathers. The elf’s hair was matted, clothes grimy, torn but vaguely recognisable as something Wyll had given away over six months ago. Neat painstaking stitches in the wrong thread colour, the white fabric giving way to a stained grey. 

On closer inspection, that dirty hair was a fascinating snowy white, and those cheekbones, well…he’d only seen them the once, and he had never forgotten them. 

“...Astarion?”

The elf blinked, then blinked again, eyes focusing on his face. 

“Wyll?”

Wyll huffed, then hissed as his ribs growled at him. He tried to smile disarmingly through the pain. “What a small world! I must admit, I’m surprised you remember me.”

“Who could forget you?” Astarion was very suddenly very close. There was something of a crazed look in his eye. Wyll remembered in a daze that this was a stranger, and that he really ought to be rather concerned, this close to a very hungry vampire. But the pleasantness of seeing even a vaguely familiar face was not to be ignored. “Who could forget the prince of my dreams? The dragon hero who saved me from a life of torment?”

Wyll couldn’t help but note the tone, a strange mix of wistful and bitter. “Well, Gale was really the one who defeated Szarr.”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“The wizard we were with.”

Astarion’s face twisted into a snarl. “Ah yes, the wizard. I hate wizards.”

Wyll laughed, feeling vaguely like he was dreaming. Everything felt tinged with a hint of unreality, his thoughts were clouds where his brain drifted inches above his head, nestled amongst his horns. It was cold too, despite the heat of the Baldurian summer. Even Astarion’s breath was chilly where he spoke so close to Wyll’s face.

“So as lovely as it would be to catch up, I really am rather peckish, if you catch my meaning. …I’d hate to see all this go to waste.”

“Oh.” That sounded reasonable, Wyll thought. Plus, well. Wyll had stacks of vampire erotica back under his bed in the estate. He was curious if it really felt like they said. Not to mention getting his own experience in the matter was vital, if he ever wanted to take a stab at writing a little something himself. Getting his own adventures serialised had always appealed. 

The Blade part of his brain screamed at him that this was dangerous. The only time Wyll had met Astarion he had been erratic; and while that was likely due to the near death experience, death of his abuser and the subsequent terrifying freedom that had stretched out ahead of him, just being a victim did not make him a good person. 

But he looked so hungry. And Wyll was currently doing the equivalent of dumping a delicious three course roast dinner right in front of him. That was cruel. And wasteful, like Astarion said. Wyll never liked to be wasteful. 

“Well, alright. But careful where you put your teeth. I’ll be sad if you kill me.” That didn’t make an awful lot of sense, in hindsight. His tongue felt fat in his mouth. It was nice that Astarion had waited for consent, he mused.

Astarion’s tired eyes dilated at the permission, before immediately ducking down to lick at Wyll’s leather armour. Wyll couldn’t feel anything but light pressure, but that alone was enough to make him moan. How deprived could he be, getting so excited over someone clearly starving? It was like getting horny at his father’s Sunday soup kitchen functions. He was nothing but a nasty soup pervert. 

Long deft fingers unbuckled his armour, the front of the cuirass falling into his lap. A pale face thrust into the damp part of Wyll’s shirt and the resulting ecstatic pain was enough to have any loathing thought leave Wyll’s head. He was helping, after all! Wyll was giving and Astarion was taking, and wasn’t that enough to make anyone rather excited? The fact that vampirism and the rather low positioning of the wound was inherently suggestive was just tangential to the point. 

Astarion hadn’t even bitten down. He was just sucking at his wet shirt, licking stripe after stripe along the fabric. Wyll wanted to tell him that he could suck his body if he wanted to, but his face felt fuzzy and mouth felt numb. He didn’t think he could form words. 

Wyll looked down into Astarion’s snowy curls and relished in the groans of delight coming from the vampire. The sewer passage was already dark, but it seemed to be getting darker by the second. Was the sun setting? No, his eyes were just closing. 

He was awfully tired. How rude of him, to fall asleep in the company of an acquaintance. 

He hoped Astarion would forgive him. 

—

Wyll woke with a pounding in his head, and that odd disorienting sensation of knowing he had been moved in his sleep. He was lying on a cot - no, an old frayed bed sheet, strung up between crumbling pillars of stone. 

He peered out into the room - it was generous to call it a room, really - it was not much more than a narrow passage, tucked out of the way of the main sewer tunnel. An old rotted wooden door was haphazardly plonked in the entrance way to give the illusion of privacy, and perhaps an attempt at a homey touch. 

Unlike the rest of the claustrophobic tunnels, the enclave's ceiling seemed to go on for miles, stretching out into the darkness. Wyll could just make out the bottom of a broken-off ladder, and could feel the echo of a breeze ghost across his face. So this was an abandoned access shaft, then. A private exit into the wider world must lie above. The perfect hidey hole. 

The rest of the room was lit by a dozen little gas lamps, making the pallid place glow with an orange warm light. A pile of worn paperbacks were stacked in a corner, and a few corduroy cushions in the other. It was almost cosy, if you ignored the damp dripping underground walls, and the odd skittering sound of rodents or whatever else that lived down here. It was frigidly cold as well, despite the sweat that coated his skin. 

He stretched his aching muscles and felt along his abdomen, only to realise belatedly he’d been stripped in the hours he’d been unconscious. He still had his britches thank goodness - but he was completely shirtless, and bandaged? Strips of fabric were haphazardly thrown around him anyway, and held together with pins. He peeled them back to look at the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it was swollen, red and inflamed. He hoped it wasn’t infected, though he wouldn’t be surprised considering both his location, and the fact it’d had a vampire’s face nestled in it however long ago. 

Before Wyll could assess if he was getting to his feet any time soon, the door was pushed aside, Astarion peering in. 

“You’re awake.” Astarion walked in, jimmying the door back into its wedged position in the nook. He had a little bundle of cloth tucked under one arm. “I must say, I expected at least a warning before you passed out on me. It’s the least you could do.”

“Apologies for not giving you a head’s up. I was really rather caught up in your nose being inside my abdomen.” His voice sounded rough. There was something of a tickle at the back of his throat. What a nightmare. Wyll wriggled in the hammock, trying to get some purchase to sit up. 

Astarion had frozen, not moving from the doorway. His ears were pinned to the back of his head. “You - you said I could. You can’t go getting gifters remorse now. And - and I didn’t kill you! I did a good job!”

Wyll looked at him through bleary eyes. “I’m not - I’m not angry, Astarion. Really, I should apologise for not realising just how much blood I’d lost. I hadn’t thought it was that bad.”

“...You were practically swimming in your own fluids.”

“Eurgh. Well. If that’s the case, you seem to have saved my life and cleaned up a bit of mess at the same time, so, I thank you for that.”

Astarion full-body twitched, before manually relaxing his body inch by inch. He seemed to be doing his best to project nonchalance, and not particularly successfully. “Haha. Yes. I suppose I did save your life, didn’t I? How noble of me. What happened to you, anyway?”

“Ah…” He rubbed his forehead. The place where his horns had burst from his skull was aching fiercely. “It’s rather embarrassing really. I suppose you’re aware of the Bhaalist stragglers around here, the ones trying to make the temple habitable again?”

“Ugh. Yes. They keep trying to recruit me, thinking vampirism would fit right into their little murder group. But I’m much too classy for that.” Astarion made a fancy little hand gesture, quite at odds with his torn, dirty appearance, and the achingly sad living conditions. “They make for lovely little snacks anyway. So, what, you tried to tango with them?”

“Mmm. I suppose I rather forgot what it was like working solo. I’d gotten used to a team behind me.”

“Ah, privilege makes fools of us all.” He thrust the bundle of clothes at Wyll. “Here. Your things.”

“Oh! Thank you!” Wyll shook out the shirt, which had hardly a bloodstain on it. The cut made by the Bhaalist’s knife was fixed with the tiniest, neatest stitches Wyll had ever seen. “Wow! I thought this shirt was done for!”

Astarion sniffed. “Nothing a little lye won’t rub away.”

Wyll looked at Astarion. His own clothes hadn’t been given anywhere near the same exacting treatment. Had he only a small amount of lye, that he was saving for something special? “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Whatever.” Astarion turned away. “You let me drink from you, I fixed your shirt so you don’t have to walk around smelling like a tasty snack anymore in case any other Bhaalists want a taste….” He swished back around to Wyll, pointing directly at his chest. “ And it seems I’ve saved your life! That's two against one. So actually, you owe me a favour.”

Wyll blinked, shrugging the shirt on, wincing as it pulled at the throbbing skin around his bandages. His head spun. “What would you like from me? I’d like to help, where I can. You might have to wait a bit, if you want more blood. ”

Astarion faltered, seemingly surprised that he’d gotten this far. “I. Ah…”

“Please, name it. Anything you can think of, the Blade of Frontiers is at your service.” Wyll had managed to swing his legs over the side of the makeshift hammock, but his heavy head told him standing up would be pushing it. He tried to give his little patented salute anyway, but his limbs were exhausted.

Astarion’s eyes widened. “You? You are the Blade of Frontiers?” 

“That’s the name. Though I suppose the ‘frontiers’ aspect is on hold for the moment, while I’m in Baldur’s Gate. I was the Blade of Avernus for a few months, and now…Well. Now I’m not too sure who I'll be next. I’ve been trying the politician gig, but I’m not sure if it's for me.”

Astarion scurried over to his little pile of paperbacks and chapbooks, pulling out a thin, dog-eared collection kept together with a loop of string. “This Blade of Frontiers?”

Wyll thumbed through the pamphlet, and groaned with embarrassment. It was a collection of tavern songs which referenced him, ranging from just about accurate to the utterly radical. He quite enjoyed the fabricated story where he’d befriended Drizzt Do’urden though. That was one he wished was real. But the bards were making written records of him now? Their handwriting was awfully loopy. 

The tips of Astarion’s ears had gone bright red. “When I heard a bard mention a hero with mighty horns who could transform into a dragon at will I thought - Well, it sounded familiar. And then I think I must have gone rather insane… For a couple of months I, ah, started collecting any allusion I could find.”

Oh. Astarion had made this? On another glance, it was very neatly crafted. With references in the front and everything. “Wow. That's really flattering, Astarion. Thank you.”

Astarion seemed to come back to himself, and scowled. “Yes, well. Like I said, I went crazy.” He snatched the little pamphlet back, stuffing it near the bottom of his book pile. He let out a little high pitched giggle. “ I saved the Blade of Frontiers’ life. Hehe…What would the Bards make of that!”

Wyll tried to stand, before stumbling back into the hammock, smacking the back of his horns against the stone wall. The vibrations sliced through his head like static. All he could do was sit there with his eyes screwed shut until the throbbing dispersed. 

“Shar’s tits, what are you doing?” Astarion wrestled him into a horizontal position again. “I don’t exactly remember what it’s like to be mortal, but I think lying down was certainly important after losing pints of blood.” 

Wyll coughed, opening his eyes to Astarion’s face, inches from his own. “Sorry.” He rasped. 

“You know, you really don’t look well. Don’t humans usually bounce back from near death experiences? Like toddlers when they fall down stairs.”

“I think…the wound might be infected.” Wyll said, gingerly touching his side. “You wouldn’t happen to have any antidotes, would you? I’ll owe you a million favours after that.”

“I…don’t. Vampires don’t get sick.” Panic glittered in his eyes. “Shit. And the sun’s not down yet. I can’t leave to get some. You can’t die on me, I’ve still not extorted my favour from you!”

“I won’t die. Um. Well, I shouldn’t make any promises. But it doesn’t feel that bad, yet. Stay with me, would you, until night falls?”

Astarion ran a hand through his hair, then sank to the floor in his small collection of cushions, opposite Wyll. “Forgive me if I don’t quite trust you regarding your own wellbeing. You could say you’re alright then be nought but skin and bones the next time I look at you.”

Wyll chuckled, giving way to a cough, throat stinging. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, despite the biting chill and drip-drip-drip of his damp surroundings.  “So…This is where you’ve been living? Since…”

Astarion crossed his arms, holding himself defensively. Making himself smaller. “Yes. And? Don’t tell me you don’t like the accommodations. I don’t let just anyone in here you know. You’re rather special in that regard.” 

“Oh of course, I love what you’ve done with the place. I just thought - the underground doesn’t seem to suit you, that’s all.”

“This whole world is full of sunlight and water and divine magic siphoned from gods who want things like me dead .” He snarled. “What else am I supposed to do? Where else am I supposed to go?” 

“You could come with me.” Wyll could feel himself fluster as the words left his mouth, keeping his eyes screwed shut. He hardly knew this man. But there was something, something he couldn’t quite place about him. He was interesting, and funny. And if he’d managed to hold his own against his friendly neighbourhood Bhaalists then he certainly had the beginnings of talent for bounty hunting at least.

And while Wyll knew showing sympathy to a man like Astarion would do nothing but wound his pride, there was something blisteringly upsetting about all of this. He didn’t have any shoes . 

“You? And your merry band of intrepid adventurers? I don’t think I’d quite fit in, I’m afraid.” There was something strangled behind Astarion’s tone. 

“A few of them have hung up the adventurers hat, as it goes. Or moved away. Aside from Karlach, I’m something of a one-man band again.” Wyll paused, thinking. “If we worked together, you’d be a part of those bard stories you like so much. Immortalised in song.”

“I don’t like them.” Astarion snarled, but then fell quiet for a long moment. Wyll cracked open a tired eye. Astarion’s pale face was gaunt in the low light, but his profile was undeniably handsome. He looked troubled. Wyll tried to imagine him smiling. “I was going to extort you, you know. I was initially going to keep you here until you agreed to give me money or something, but then you were so easy about it, saying you owed me for saving you, just like that…”

Wyll smiled, closing his eyes again, his head foggy and heavy. “How exactly were you planning on keeping me here? Your door is just a bit of wedged wood.”

“I don’t know! I was still figuring it out, alright?”

There was probably something wrong with Wyll, that at admittance of crime against him made him feel so endeared. His chest stirred. He could feel his mind start to succumb to that wavy space between awake and asleep. 

“I’d still like to help you, if you’ll let me.”

“You’re the one with a hole in your side. From fighting an entire cult by yourself. I’m not sure if I want help from someone so brazen with their mortality.” 

Wyll laughed, conceding the point. He felt frayed around the edges, swallowing a yawn. “True enough. I could do with a partner. Someone to help me thwart foes together.”

Astarion stood abruptly. “You mean monsters. I know what you are, Wyll of Frontiers.” Astarion jabbed a finger at him. “All your stories only ever have you killing creatures like me. I’m not good like you are. I’m not made to have stories written about me, swashbuckling through the land. I’m just - just - this!” He thrust his arms out to encompass the tiny space he’d carved out for himself in the sewer walls. “I don’t get - I don’t get to have things like that.”

And with that, Astarion jumped onto the wall, skittering up the access shaft like a spider, up and away from Wyll. 

Wyll lay there in the dim light, the flickering gas lamps making ominous shapes along the walls. The space no longer felt cozy, without Astarion to light it up. Instead it was dank - a dismal hovel made by someone who felt like they had no place in the world. 

Wyll knew what that felt like. In the early days of his exile, it had been hard to put one foot in front of the other. He had struggled with the knowledge he was very likely going to die unloved and alone in the middle of nowhere, then inevitably conscripted into the Hells as a lemure. When he was so sure of his wretched fate like that, it became very difficult to take care of himself. He’d kept his belongings to only the barest of essentials, never allowing himself any luxuries. And looking around him now, it seemed like Astarion was in a similar place.

Wyll had probably pushed too far and too fast. He’d been too eager and needy for a new friend, and hadn’t been thinking about what Astarion would want. Wyll needed to be light and breezy with him. Offer help, but not with any caveats. Astarion could do whatever he liked, after all. He just needed support. And perhaps some new clothes, maybe a little apartment, to help him get started. 

It was getting hard to think, anyway. Wyll hoped he would come back. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to apologise. He hoped he wouldn’t die while he slept in Astarion’s bed. Out of everything that had happened to him in his 25 years, that would probably be the most embarrassing. 

—

Fucking shit. Astarion was such an idiot. The stupidest dolt this side of the Sword Coast. 

He rushed back through the sewer tunnels, freshly stolen antidote in hand, plus a couple of healing potions for good measure. The nest of kobolds that had been bothering him for weeks didn’t deserve them anyway, not after they’d stolen his last pair of shoes. Neighbours. 

But the petty dramas of underground living were far from Astarion’s head. All he could think about was the handsome man lying in his dirty cot. Wyll Ravengard (The Blade of Frontiers!!), who’d smiled at him. Even laughed with him. Hells, Astarion couldn’t even remember the last time he shared a conversation with someone who didn’t have a knife behind their back. 

So of course the man of his dreams would fall right into Astarion’s greasy lap, needing help and support and offering wonders in return, and he ruined it. He always squandered any and all opportunities that came his way. Why did he think this could be any different? 

He had shouted at the Blade of Frontiers himself, denied his perfect offer for some fucking reason and now the man was dying in Astarion’s gross little hovel and it was all his fault.

The truth was, he was terrified. He hadn’t lied back there. He wasn't made for what Wyll was giving. He was a whore and a monster, one that could barely survive on his own, at that. The thought that bards could write songs about him, especially alongside someone as beautiful as Wyll, was laughable. 

His foot scratched against the old rubble floor, an old sting he’d long gotten used to. Blood welled up in the cut for the first time in days. Wyll’s blood. He stopped for a moment, staring at the bright saturation against the grey of stone and skin. He knew he couldn’t live like this forever. 

Surely - surely there was more to him than scrabbling under the claustrophobic earth with kobolds for resources. 

But he was stuck. He’d been stuck, for so long now. Frozen in time, just like he’d been for two hundred years. Maybe…Maybe Wyll coming here now was a sign. He’d never believed in signs before. But when the man he’d been obsessively documenting for months offered him a hand out of the dark, what else could it be? 

Astarion sped through the familiar twisting tunnels, climbing onto the walls wherever the passage had been blocked by fallen rubble, until he eventually got back to his little corner of the world. 

The door - put in place as an attempt to make the enclave a ‘home’, therefore not allowing other vampires to pass the threshold - was still how he’d left it. No one had been in or out. 

He peeked his head in. One of his gas lamps had sputtered out, and it took all his control not to beeline for it, his only reprieve against the dark. He’d tried to make this place livable, but without the light it was impossible to ignore how small and claustrophobically underground it was. 

Wyll was lying where he’d left him, breathing heavily and sweating. The smell of his delicious smoky, iron blood was hot in the air, making his mouth water involuntarily. He wanted to drink him again. Anything for another taste of that power. 

But that would probably kill Wyll, in this state. He didn’t want to kill him. Wyll wanted to help him. He wanted to help Wyll. 

Unblinking, unbreathing so he didn’t have to smell how appetizing he was, Astarion slid up to Wyll’s prone body, and mashed the glass bottle of the antidote into his lips, clacking against his teeth. 

“Mrg..”

Astarion couldn’t help the breath of relief at the alive-sounding noise Wyll made. “Gods just, drink this would you? It’s not hard. Fuck, babies can do it. Just tilt your head back…”

Wyll choked as thick, bitter liquid spilled down his throat and chin. It looked grainy, ew. Astarion was suddenly very glad he’d never needed to take medicine. He supported the back of Wyll’s neck, the touch of skin-on-skin zinging down his fingers. His claws scratched at the short coiled hairs at his nape. It felt good. 

Clarity seemed to return to Wyll all at once as he snapped forwards, making himself choke again.

“Balduran’s balls, are human airways just a mistake of nature or something?”

“Astarion…” Wyll gasped through goopy breaths, “You came back.”

“Well of course I did, I live here.” He couldn’t make eye contact, staring at the frayed hems of his bedsheet-hammock. Wyll tried to sit up, hissing again as fresh, gorgeously red blood seeped through his bandages. 

“Fucking – take these as well.” Astarion dumped the other potions into his lap, before fwumping down in his pillows on the other side of his hovel. 

He heard the telltale sounds of a cork popping and gulping as Wyll took the potion. Astarion still couldn’t look at him. They breathed together in silence for a long moment. 

“Astarion…I’m sorry if I pushed too hard earlier.” Wyll rasped. 

Astarion put his head in his hands. “You didn’t. You’re just - perfect.”

Wyll paused, clearly confused at the direction the conversation was taking. “Is that a…good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know! You’re just - here, doing all these things I’d imagined you’d do. You’re offering this perfect fantasy. An impossible daydream.”

Wyll looked terribly sad then, his eyes getting rounder and droopier the longer Astarion stared. “I can leave, if you’d prefer. I think I’m well enough now to climb that ladder, if I got a boost.”

“No! Don’t go.” He couldn’t explain it to himself, but he knew that if Wyll left now, then Astarion would be stuck here forever. This was his last chance.

“I promise I can come back. With resources, anything you might need. Hells, I’d bring you a cow to eat if I didn’t think it would wander off into the nearest ravine. Oh, and it might not fit...”

“No! I don’t care about that.” Well, a cow did sound fantastic, but that was besides the point. “I want - to come with you. To the surface.” His tongue threatened to swallow itself. 

“Really?” The hope in Wyll’s eyes was painful to look at, like a cleric casting sunlight.

“Yes but - argh.” Astarion scrabbled at his scalp. “Fuck, I cringe at anybody with pointy ears or a widow's peak. I can feel his absence in my head - but - I still… ” He cut himself off from that line of thought, squeezing himself into his corner.

“...Feel like he'd still there? I know what that feels like. To feel like someone you’re scared of could always be just around the corner. You know they can’t be. But you can’t stop looking.”

Wyll sounded sincere, like he genuinely understood. Astarion gave him a close searching look. “Even though he’s gone, it’s as if nothing has changed. I feel like I'm running from ghosts.”

Wyll nodded. “The way I see it, we’ve both been shaped by people who sought to harm us. Now they’re gone, the thing that will spite them truly and utterly is living – living well and happily.” 

“But it’s so hard.” He whispered.

“It is.” Wyll stood, walking over to where Astarion hunched. The space was so small, it only took two steps. “It’s really hard. And I don’t think I’ve perfectly mastered it yet either.”

Astarion snorted. “Clearly, since you nearly died from Bhaal idiots.”

“They have good knife tricks! But you’re right. Since all that adventuring finished, I wouldn’t say I’ve been dealing with it entirely healthily.” Wyll offered a hand. “But I find it’s easier with others. …Three square meals a day and a decent bed doesn’t hurt either.”

Astarion looked at the hand.

“You don't even really know me.”

“Perhaps not. But I'd like to.”

And so he took it.