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The thick, dark gloom that befell the Shadowlands clung to everything like its own living curse, twisting the air of the desecrated maze of crumbling stone dedicated to the Lady of Loss, Shar herself, into something hungry and suffocating.
The Gauntlet of Shar had proven merciless in its pursuit to defend its secrets from any that intruded upon its hallowed ground. The party was all but exhausted, it felt like every room they trudged into bore more enemies than the one before.
Caliban moved like a phantom through the smog like the rogue he was, the only things visible in the darkness were the rhythmic throbbing glow of the runes etched on his dual swords. Caliban thrived in this environment, the darkness his ally and the silence a cloak. The rest of his party trailed around him; Shadowheart in her element with her grim devotion to her goddess, Gale muttering consistently about the arcane wards to look out for, and Astarion, ever the picture of reluctant elegance, his crimson eyes busy scanning the Gauntlet for any more threats.
“Darling, must we poke every cursed relic in this miserable dungeon?” The vampire drawled, his voice a silken whisper that somehow cut through the heavy air around them. “I’d rather not end up as another offering to the void.”
Caliban, or Cal, as the others called him in lighter moments, flashed an easy grin over his shoulder. “You volunteered for this adventure, Astarion. Besides, the Library is close by. I can almost smell the fanaticism.”
Deep down, he knew the familiar whisper of his cursed blood, the Urge as he called it, the legacy of Bhaal, the God of Murder. Despite being the son of a god, Cal had chosen resistance to his fathers will, a choice he continues to make every day that he drew breath. But in places such as this, a dungeon soaked in death and shadow, the whispers grew louder. Kill. Revel. Become. He shoved the urges down as always.
The party had tracked a group of Dark Justiciers to a decrepit, silent and likely trap heavy library deep within the Sharran Dungeon. After spending most of a full day in the Gauntlet, they suspected that the library itself was the hiding place of an artifact needed to descend further into the Gauntlet to unearth a weapon that could tip the balance in their fight with the absolute. However, while they had determined that the library was guarded, what they hadn’t anticipated was the sheer number lying in wait.
They were surrounded before they even realised it. The ambush came at the center of the vast chamber lined with destroyed statues of the Dark Lady and old crumbling bookshelves. Dozens of Justiciers –Figures wearing battered black and grey armour and wielding various wicked curved blades and spears and channeling dark necrotic magic – surged from the shadows from all directions. Their leader, a high priestess with sunken, barren eyes, screeched a prayer that summoned writing tendrils of shadow from the floor.
“Intruders! For Shar’s embrace!” she howled.
Caliban didn’t hesitate. He exploded into motion, blades flashing around him in a deadly dance. One sword parried a downward strike while the second slashed across the Justiciar's throat, separating its head from its body, sending a spray of blood into the gloom and into Caliban’s face.
The urge flared with the kill, a dark thrill he crushed with his own will. No. Not like him. Not Bhaal’s puppet. He spun low, hamstringing another body before rolling aside narrowly missing a bolt of dark energy that was earmarked for him. His movements were poetry in violence, precise, efficient, the mark of a man who’d survived a hundred back alley brawls and worse, all while resisting his fathers call.
“Cal, flank left!” Shadowheart called, her own spells flaring as she summoned a sphere of darkness to disorient the Justiciars.
Gale hurled a fireball that lit the chamber in brief, hellish orange, incinerating a cluster of enemies. But the numbers were overwhelming. Astarion had fallen back into shadows embrace, picking off stragglers with precise shots of his bow, his lips curled in distaste at their odds of the melee.
Caliban pressed the advantage. He leapt onto a half fallen statue, using its height and his weight to plummet headfirst into a thick of Justiciars. His swords became blurs, one embedding in a justiciars chest, the other deflecting a mace that would likely have crushed his skull. A brawny attacker lunged from the side, too close for a clean parry. The back of the man’s elbow smashed into Caliban's face with brutal force, splitting his lip open in a burst of hot pain. Blood flooded his mouth, staining his teeth crimson as he caught the taste of iron.
The impact jarred his arm violently. The Urge roared louder in the haze of pain and blood– More. Tear them Apart. Bathe in it. Caliban spat a mouthful of blood to the side and snarled, driving both of his blades upward into the attackers ribs in retaliation. The burly Justiciar attempted to wrench Cal’s swords from his chest but Cal resisted, instead channeling the violence into controlled strikes rather than a frenzy. The Justiciar finally crumpled, but the damage had been done– Cal’s lip throbbed, already swollen, blood trickling down his chin and his shoulder screamed from the wrenching force, now clearly dislocated.
“Cal!” Astarion’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with concern.
But Caliban couldn’t stop, the urge beginning to numb the pain but his resistance was dwindling. “Come on, you bastards!” he snarled through bloodied teeth, fighting one handed as best he could, twisting out of one’s grasp and kicking him into the path of another. He was a whirlwind, severing limbs, opening arteries, his rogues cunning turning the Justiciars formation against them despite the agony. A feint here, a shadow-step there. He vanished into the darkness only to reappear behind the priestess, driving both blades through her back despite the fire in his face, the useless arm and the whispers urging completely mindless slaughter.
She collapsed with a wet gurgle, but not before her dying curse lashed out. A spear of shadow energy slammed into Caliban's side, cracking several ribs with a snap even his companions heard over the clangour. He gasped, but didn’t falter, yanking his swords free and pressing on, resisting the urge to revel in the carnage. A follow up strike worsened the shoulder, driving the puncture wound deeper into the already empty socket.
The fight dragged into a brutal slog. Another Justiciars blade found Caliban’s thigh in a vicious laceration that almost brought him to his knees. Blood soaked through the leather of his trousers, warm and sticky but nevertheless he fought on, dodging, striking and at this point, purely surviving. His dual swords sang through the air, claiming life after life until the library floor was slick with the fallen. For the most part, he resisted his fathers dark gift, turning potential massacre into precise necessity.
By the end, Caliban stood amid a sea of corpses, breathing raggedly through a split lip and multiple injuries that would otherwise have been life threatening for any other mortal. The last armor-clad body fell to his blades in a spray of arterial red. Victory, but at a cost. As the adrenaline of battle left his system, Cal dropped to a kneel, his abdomen burning from a deep gash where a desperate thrust had slipped past his guard. Broken ribs grated with every breath. The dislocated shoulder, punctured and swollen, hung useless without the adrenaline, the joint grotesquely out of place. The Urge ebbed, mostly sated but ultimately denied its true feast.
“Cal!” Astarion was at his side in an instant, his bow discarded, one pale hand hovering over one cheek as if afraid to touch. “You absolute fool. Look at you– your face, that shoulder… I can’t even tell which blood is yours and which isn’t.”
Shadowheart approached them, her face tight. “We need to staunch the bleeding. I can–”
“No.” Astarion’s voice was sharp, cutting her off and stopping any rebuttal with one fierce and possessive flick of his crimson eyes. “I’ll handle this.” Him. “Shadowheart, retrieve the artefact. Gale, secure the perimeter. We’re not lingering in this hellhole for a second more than we have to.”
Caliban tried to wave them off with his good arm, but a cough sent pain lancing through his broken ribs and shoulder. He tried to smile and fresh blood welled in his mouth. “I’m.. fine. Just need a moment. The whispers are quieter now, at least.”
“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” Astarion muttered, slinging Cal’s good arm over his shoulder despite the man stifling a groan at the movement. “Lean on me, you reckless idiot. And don’t argue, I’m in no mood. That shoulder looks wrong.”
The trek back through the Shadowlands was a nightmare of endurance, especially for Astarion. With the combination of the injured man leaning against him as they walked and the weight of the Shadow Curse, it was a miracle they got even half way back to Last Light Inn in the time it took them to get to the Gauntlet. Caliban’s wounds slowed them down significantly. The dislocated shoulder sent shockwaves of agony with every stumble. Despite the slow jostle back to safety, Astarion stayed glued to his side, his vampiric strength supporting the rogues weight more than either of them would like to admit.
Shadowheart and Gale scouted ahead, fending off minor shadow creatures that dared approach them. Caliban’s vision was beginning to blur at the edges as his body tired from the blood loss, the pain worsening as his wounds festered beneath makeshift bandages.
“Hang in there, Cal,” Astarion said quietly during a brief rest under a twisted tree. He took a moment to wipe the congealing blood and spit around his mouth, but his voice lacked its usual mockery. “Last Light is close. Isobel’s wards will hold, and we can finally rest.”
Cal managed a weak, bloody smile.. We. “Worried about me, Astarion? Or just the mess? You know what I am.” His voice was slurring ever so slightly as he fought to stay conscious. “Resisting doesn’t make the blood any less mine… Or the pain.”
That was the first time he’d mentioned the pain. It had to be bad. Nevertheless, Astarion shook his head. “Both. Now move.”
Several hours later, the lanterns of Last Light Inn punctured the eternal twilight like beacons of defiance. The Inn buzzed with wary adventurers and Harpers, but the party drew concerned glances as they crossed the bridge into the safe haven that had become home to them.
Jaheira herself met them at the doors, her expression hardening at Caliban’s brutalised state. “Get him inside. Rooms have been prepared.”
Astarion wasted no time. Not wanting to risk the stairs jostling Caliban’s wounds, he all but carried the injured man to a private room at the side of the inn. He went to slam the door shut behind him but a hand blocked the way.
“Out. All of you. This is mine to handle.”
Shadowheart crossed her arms. “Astarion, he’s lost a lot of blood. That shoulder–”
“I said out.” His tone brooked no argument, laced with that dangerous edge he rarely showed the group. The door shut firmly, leaving them alone.
The room was sparse, but warm, lit by a crackling hearth and shielded from the Shadow Curse by Isobel’s Selunite protection. Caliban collapsed onto the edge of the bed, wincing as his broken ribs, ruined shoulder and lacerations protested. Blood had crusted on his leathers and his face and fresh blood had started to well anew around his lacerations and face.
Astarion knelt before him, his movements precise and almost gentle as though afraid he’d scare the man off. “Shirt off, darling. Now. Let me see that lip and shoulder properly.
Caliban raised an eyebrow, pain making his voice hoarse and slightly lisping from the swelling. “Straight to it, huh?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Those rags are soaked and useless.” Astarion’s cool fingers worked at the laces and buckles with practiced ease, peeling away the ruined leathers. Cool air hit Cal’s wounded and bloodied body, exposing black tattooed bands that wrapped around his arms like tentacles, the ink stark against pale and badly bruised skin.
Astarion took stock of the full extent of the damage; mottled contusions across his ribs, the deep laceration to his abdomen continued to ooze freely now the tight leather holding the wound together. Then there was the punctured and dislocated shoulder grotesquely swollen and out of alignment, the deep and jagged slash to his right inner thigh and the split lip still leaking a combination of spit and blood.
Astarion’s eyes darkened at the sight, his jaw clenching before tracing each wound to see what he was working with . “Look at this mess. Broken ribs, three by the feel.” He paused as Caliban hissed as he gently checked him over. “That abdominal cut needs cleaning before it festers any further. Thighs jagged. This shoulder, punctured, dislocated and gods know what else.”
He stopped and tilted Caliban’s head upwards, cool thumb gently stroking his split lip and Cal stifled another hiss. “And this lip, split wide open. You look like you went ten rounds with a troll. All while wrestling that bastard fathers whispers I imagine.”
“Could’ve been worse. That elbow came out of nowhere, then the rest just piled on. The Urge.. It wanted more. But I resisted.”
Astarion perused the room, fetching a basin of water, cloths, salves, a bottle of Jaheira’s strongest whisky and prepared for the worst. He uncorked the bottle of whisky and pressed it into Cal’s good hand. “Drink. Deeply. It’ll take the edge off… And maybe wash some of that blood from your teeth. This shoulder reset is going to hurt like the nine Hells.
Caliban took several long pulls of the Blackfire Whiskey, the burn spreading through his body like liquid fire. It helped numb the sharper pains, including the consistent throb in his lip and the grinding in his shoulder. “Not bad. You planning to play healer now? Even knowing I’m Bhaal’s son?”
He used the moment of painlessness to shuffle further onto the bed.
“Someone has to, since you clearly can’t be trusted,” unable to stop the haughtiness of a past life. Astarion soaked a cloth and placed a hand on Cal’s chest, forcing him to lie back against the headboard. He waited for him to get comfortable and then started to jab at the incision on his abdomen first, his touch firm but careful. The wound was ugly, and deep enough to glimpse muscle.
Cal grunted in discomfort, but maintained the position. Blood from his lip continued to trickle down his chin, forcing Astarion to pause and dab at it gentle. “Stop bleeding, its distracting.” he murmured, almost to himself, as he pressed a fresh bandage against his abdomen. His voice held a strange mixture of irritation, more intimate. “Bhaal’s blood or not. You’re mine to tend to. Not his.”
After cleaning the wounds littered around his body and bandaging his thigh, Astarion turned to face him.
Caliban knew what was coming next, he brought the bottle of whisky to his lips and took several more swigs, his head beginning to spin with a combination of blood loss and whisky.
Astarion, to his credit, looked at him regretfully and handed him a thick roll of cloth. “This has to be done now, before the swelling makes it even worse.” Caliban put the roll of cloth in his mouth, handed over the bottle of whisky and instead gripped the bedframe. When Cal nodded, Astarion gripped his arm firmly. “On three. One.. Two–” and pulled. He reset the joint with a sharp, practice yank and a pop,
Cal roared through the thick mesh of gauze in his mouth, pain exploding and his eyesight whiting out before the blessed relief as his shoulder slid back into place took over. While Caliban was basking in the relief of having his shoulder back in place, Astarion cleaned the puncture wound there and stitched it with fine thread– vampiric eyesight making short work of it.
Cal panted, sweat mixing with blood. “You utter, utter bastard.. I felt that.”
“You’ll thank me later.” Astarion tended the split lip last, cleaning the residual blood on his teeth, lips and chin with surprising tenderness before starting to apply the salves. Healing potions and what little divine favor Astarion could muster (or coerce from a reluctant Shadowheart through the door) knitted the worst of it, but the pain lingered. More whisky helped; Caliban took another hearty swig, the familiar warmth flooding his veins and easing the sting.
Throughout, Astarion’s admonishments flowed like a steady stream, much like a toddler being scolded by his parents. “Reckless doesn’t begin to cover it. Charging into the thick of them like some glory-seeking barbarian. You’re a rogue, Cal. Shadows, stealth, precision– not this… heroic nonsense. That elbow to the face, then dislocating your shoulder? You should have dodged. All while–mostly– denying Bhaal his due.” The vampire tied off the final bandage with a sharp tug, eliciting a yelp from Cal. “I watched you nearly get gutted twice. TWICE, Cal! Lip split like a fool, arm hanging off kilter. What would we have done if you’d bled out in that god forsaken hovel? Or worse– If The Urge had won?”
Caliban leaned back against the pillows, shirtless and patched up, the whisky loosening his tongue. “We needed that spear. And I handled it. You saw my blades– dual dance, in and out before they knew what hit ‘em. Even with a face full of elbow, a ruined shoulder and my fathers voice in my head. I resist because I choose to. For this party. For our friends. For… You.” Shit. Karlach was truly rubbing off on him. He was going soft.
Astarion sat on the edge of the bed, closer than strictly necessary. One/hand lingered on Caliban’s uninjured side, tracing a contusion lightly. His hand moved to cup his chin, brushing a thumb near his healing lip. “I did see. Impressive I'll admit. That spin-kick into the double thrust? Poetry. You’ve got the skills of a true predator– Yet you choose time and time again not to be Bhaal’s monster.” His voice dropped, the usual flirtation edged with genuine warmth. “But gods, the way you pushed through… It terrified me. And infuriated me beyond measure. Why risk yourself like that? Your blood staining your own teeth, shoulder wrecked… And I couldn’t bear it. Not from the man who’s carved out a place in what’s left of my dead heart.”
The spacious room felt smaller, the hearth’s glow casting long shadows across Caliban’s bare skin. He searched Astarion’s face; those sharp features, the vulnerability he so rarely showed. The fight had stripped away more than just Cal’s pretenses, his Bhaalspawn nature laid bare alongside the wounds. “Because I couldn’t let them take you down. Any of you. Especially not you. Resisting Bhaal… It's easier with you here. You make the choice feel worth it. Worth more than just giving in.”
Astarion’s breath hitched, a rare unguarded sound. He leaned in, forehead nearly touching Cal’s, carefully avoiding his lip. “You foolish, sentimental man. You think I need protecting? I assure you I’ve survived centuries of worse.” He continued to softly brush Cal’s cheek. “Yet here I am, resetting your grossly dislocated shoulder and patching up his wounds, because no one else can touch you like this. Son of Bhaal or not, you’re mine. And I… I want you beyond the tadpole, beyond the Urge. All of you.”
The air thickened with unspoken things. Feelings that had been simmering for far longer than they realised– Stolen glances during camp, barbed banter that masked deeper want, the way Astarion’s eyes followed Caliban in every battle they fought. The injuries and shared truths had forced it to surface.
Cal swallowed, the whisky, pain and proximity making him bold. “Astarion… This isn’t just the fight, is it? Or the tending to my injuries. Even knowing my bloodline.
“No,” the vampire admitted softly, his voice a caress. “It hasn’t been for some time now. You infuriate me, Cal. Your recklessness, your light in this endless dark despite Bhaal’s shadow. I want… More than survival. More than this wretched tadpole game. I want you– scars, swords, blooded lip, dislocated shoulder, resisting heart, and all.
Caliban’s good hand rose, fingers threading into Astarion’s silver curls. “Then have me. When I’m not half dead, preferably. But yeah… I feel it too. The pull. I’ve been fighting it as hard as I have my bloodline.
Their lips met– carefully, mindful of Cal’s injuries but full of promises. It was tentative, tasting faintly of blood and whisky, but it ignited something deeper. Astarion’s cool touch grounded him, his touch a balm against the lingering pain and the ever-present Urge.
Astarion pulled back carefully with a reluctant smile, fangs glinting in the firelight. “Rest now, darling. I’ll watch over you. No more heroics tonight– and keep that lip from reopening. Bhaal doesn’t get you. I do.”
Cal breathed a laugh before drifting towards peaceful sleep. The pain dulled, his body safe in Astarion’s care. Outside, the Shadowlands howled, but inside the safety of Last Light, something new bloomed.