Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There aren’t many opportunities for joviality while wandering the wilderness, so when Wyll suggests a game of cards at camp one evening, it’s all you can do to keep the excitement out of your voice. 

So far, your days have been one hard slog after another, and your party could do with something to bring them together.

The tension between the druids and the tieflings weighs heavily on your mind, not to mention the incessant probing of the parasite every time you try to sleep. And that’s to say nothing of trying to be the peacekeeper amongst your unlikely group of allies.

A fallen cleric, a blood-hungry warrior, an elusive wizard, a misguided warlock… and a vampire rogue.

A vampire.

You shiver at the notion even as you take your place by the campfire and listen to Wyll explain the rules. But as the cards are spread and the drinks poured, your thoughts are elsewhere, distracted by a singular absence of the glint of silver-blue hair.

“Something on your mind?”

You start in response to Gale’s question. He’s edged closer to you around the fire while Wyll, Shadowheart and Lae’Zel bicker about a detail of the rules.

In your mind’s eye you see the glint of red eyes and the curve of a fanged smirk.

Your neck twinges.

The bite marks faded days ago, but they’ve left you with a lingering tiredness you’ve been unable to shake. You resist the urge to reach up and touch the whispered bruises.

“It’s just a lot to take in,” you reply evenly, taking a sip from your glass. The wine is cheaply made and it burns a little, but it’s not the worst you’ve ever had. “Two weeks ago my largest problem was what to eat for supper. Now I don’t know which day might be my last.”

Gale smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah. Well, strictly speaking, one never knows when one’s final day might be, regardless of circumstance. I suppose that’s just a little more obvious now than it once was.”

You nod, staring into the fire as the flames dance around one another, licking at the cool night air. The others seem to have settled down and are playing out their round - you’d elected to watch at first, to get a handle on the game, but truthfully your attention couldn’t be further from it.

“If I may,” Gale continues, and clears his throat softly. Your gaze moves to him. “It’s a lot, what we’re dealing with, I agree. Parasites. Ceremorphosis. The seemingly endless list of … troubles we encounter.” He looks briefly to the rest of their party, where Shadowheart is hiding her cards from an interested Wyll, her expression half way between a smile and a scowl. “I can’t say for sure that it will end happily. But! And this is the important thing - ”

“If you’re about to extol the virtues of things bringing us closer together , save your breath.” The sardonic drawl of the pale elf cuts through the night like a knife.

You turn, glancing up to watch as Astarion stalks over to you from the shadows of the surrounding forest. As he approaches you notice the tell-tale smattering of blood across his jaw and the top of his shirt. He’s been hunting. He nods his head pointedly towards your companions.

At that precise moment, Lae’zel jumps to her feet. “Tsk'va! Your cards are dirty, wicked man, and encourage foul play,” she says to Wyll, anger glowing in her slit-like eyes.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my cards, though I can’t say the same for those holding ‘em.”

Shadowheart then wades in as well, and before long the three of them are arguing so loudly, their comments echo off the hollow trees around the glade.

“As I said. A waste of your breath.” You could charm a kingdom with Astarion’s smirk of self-satisfaction.

Gale sighs, getting to his feet. “I was merely trying to liven the mood. Excuse me.” 

With a small bow to you, he turns and approaches the group in an attempt to bring calm to what otherwise might have been an evening full of camaraderie. His placating falls on deaf ears, however, and soon his voice, too, has joined the throng of discontent.

Astarion looks on, his eyes sparkling as he watches the group verbally tear each other apart. You’re about to get to your feet yourself when he sits on the log you’re resting against. 

“Leave them.”

“Someone has to step in,” you reason, tiredness lining your voice - the same tiredness you’ve been trying to shrug off since the night you discovered Astarion was a vampire. “If things escalate we could be down a warlock by sunrise. You know what Lae’zel can be like.”

Astarion reaches for your glass of wine without asking, then grimaces after taking a sip. “This is what you’ve been drinking? Heavens. No wonder about the bickering, this would sour anyone’s mood.”

“I’m serious.”

“As am I, my dear. Leave them. Nobody said it was your job to make sure we all ‘get along’. They’re adults. They’ll live.”

You hesitate, watching the group for any sign of escalation. After a few more minutes of arguing, Wyll proclaims the game was a bad idea and starts gathering up his cards; Lae’zel stalks over towards the river, her armour clashing against itself with her heavy steps; Shadowheart pours herself some more wine, and Gale puts his head in his hands, his shoulders sagging. 

For a moment the only sound between them all is the fire crackling into the night.

“There, see?” Astarion says smoothly, his voice soft and rich as freshly churned butter. “What did I tell you? Everything’s fine.”

You would hardly call things ‘fine’ between your companions, with everyone sulking to themselves, but the night didn’t lead to violence so you take some solace in that, at least.

You’ve always struggled with being the peacekeeper. Somehow, it’s always been you inserting yourself into conflicts and calming flared emotions. You’ve never been able to sit idly by and let tensions play out - it’s not in your nature. Your instincts are to help; to save, even before the tadpole and the band of men and women before you. Even before the tieflings, the grove, every fucking corner of this gods-forsaken spit of land apparently.

Frustration roils within you. Perhaps Astarion is right - perhaps it isn’t your job to make sure everyone gets along, but in your experience if you don’t do it then nobody will, and then what?

You can’t watch people burn themselves, or each other, to the ground. 

It’s not in your nature.

You take the glass back from Astarion, eliciting a surprised grunt from him as you do, and take a significant gulp of wine. Then another. And another, until you’re draining it of its last drops. It tastes like gnoll piss, but you don’t care. It’s not enough to get you drunk, but it’s enough to flush your cheeks and warm your belly.

You feel his eyes on you, practically burning into the side of your face, but you ignore it. Any questions he has can remain unanswered.

Your neck tingles again. You ignore that too.

“You know,” he starts conversationally, taking the empty cup from you and putting it on the dusty floor. “I wasn’t sure about this whole ‘travelling with people’ thing, at the start. People and I don’t get on.”

You snort unceremoniously, still gazing into the fire. “I can’t think why.”

“Now, now, no need for that. I was going to say that it’s… grown on me.”

Now you do look at him, unable to keep the surprise out of your voice when you say, “Really?”

“Truly. For one thing, the bickering is entertaining. And there’s something to be said for safety in numbers. But it’s more than that.”

In the dim light from the fire, his eyes look the colour of blood. You try to focus on that rather than the trickle of actual blood that’s dried around his mouth. He holds your gaze intensely and you feel the moment stretch taut between you, an invisible thread pulling you almost imperceptibly towards one another. Your breath stills, your lips becoming suddenly dry.

“What is it?” you prompt quietly, when he doesn’t continue.

Astarion’s eyes seem to flash. “You should all hate each other. Perhaps some of you even do. I love it.” He laughs, and leans back nonchalantly on the log, delighting in the mood that’s settled over your unhappy companions. “You couldn’t pay me to miss this kind of chaos.” 

The moment, had it even existed, is lost. 

You look at him, appalled, chastising yourself for being momentarily distracted by his charm. “That’s it? You like it because we hate each other?”

“Yes! Darling, it’s fantastic - the energy between people who truly despise one another. I’d missed it and hadn’t even realised. It makes working together so much more… valuable.”

You shake your head, fighting back a laugh. “Surprising that you’re here, in that case, if you hate everyone here so much.”

He looks surprised. “I thought I just went over that. Besides I never said I hated anyone. In order to hate someone, you have to care first. That’s not really… me. Think of me more as an amused bystander, invested in our overall success.”

Your gaze settles on the disbanded group, and the awkwardness the silence leaves in the wake of their attempt at kinship. “Some investment.”

He clasps his hands together over his knees, his smirk giving way to a more neutral expression. “At the end of the day, I’m not going to get this worm under control on my own. I know that. And when you fight alongside people who would normally kill you, it invigorates you, don’t you think? That energy. You know where you stand and where each of your limits are. It makes you stronger .”

You cast him a sidelong glance, appreciating the glow of the fire warming the pallor of his skin, surprised to be getting something akin to a real conversation out of him. Normally with Astarion it’s all charm and bluster and you don’t want to ruin the moment by saying the wrong thing.

You shift against the log, sitting up straighter, watching him carefully. “You really think one of us would kill you, if things were different?”

He puffs out a dispassionate laugh, looking at you. “Sweet thing, of that I have no doubt. You have a monster hunter in your midst, for one thing.”

“Wyll wouldn’t hurt you - you’re not a monster.”

“Kind of you to say, but you’re likely the only person with that opinion. The only reason I wasn’t run out of camp a few nights ago is because of you.”

“That’s not true,” you say feebly, feeling protective of your unlikely allies but not certain of your own conviction.

His eyes pierce yours, searching you. “You’re one of those people who always sees the best in others, aren’t you? Even if it’s not there.”

You’re not sure how he manages to make it sound like an insult, but you break eye contact, instead start picking at a loose thread of your trousers. 

Possibly sensing that he has dampened the mood somewhat, Astarion gets to his feet, brushing invisible dirt off from himself.

“Time for rest, I think.” As he starts to walk away, over his shoulder, he adds, “Let’s just hope that naivety doesn’t get you, or any of us, killed, hm?”

And then he’s gone, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts for company.

Chapter Text

Several days later you’re picking your way through the ruins of some sort of ancient crypt, driven more by curiosity than you’d care to admit.

Two weeks ago, your companions would never have agreed to a detour, the focus on finding a healer too great to distract you from things like history or treasure. But with the conspicuous absence of tentacles or bleeding orifices, the group has started to relax.

Gale is easy enough to tempt. An abandoned magical boathole, which almost certainly promises ancient artifacts and hidden secrets, has his eyes gleaming like a child on Christmas day.

“Oh, all right then,” he says, his voice full of humour. “You’ve twisted my arm. I always did love a good mystery.”

And, like dominoes, the rest fall into place.

Which is why you find yourself creeping in the near-dark of a secret passage from a cellar with a hidden shrine in it, leading to gods know where, lit only by the floating lights of Gale’s magic.

You and Astarion scout ahead, leaving the wizard and Shadowheart murmuring quietly behind you, and it dawns on you that things have been decidedly easier since the night of the card game.

“Nothing lightens the mood like a dank crypt,” Astarion drawls from beside you, as though reading your mind. For all you know that’s just what he’s done.

“I thought it would make a difference. You know, to all the sunshine.”

You can’t be sure, but it almost looks like he smiles.

“I’m sure Lae’zel is hoping we fall into a pit of spiders as we speak, for delaying her visit to her… what was it? Some sort of Githyanki nursery?” He then casts a furtive look back to the pair behind you in the dark. “I have to give it to you. Despite my best efforts, you do find a way of bringing people together. It’s positively nauseating.”

He is smiling - you can hear it in his words, the sound of it curving around the syllables like a lover’s hand around your throat.

It makes you smile, too. “I do my best.”

“Indeed. It’s ... adequate.”

You almost trip over a rock. Was that a compliment, from Astarion? Not a real compliment of course, but not an insult, and from the elf that’s about the same as a warm commendation and an invitation to dinner.

Perhaps he’s thinking about your almost-argument from a few days prior and trying to make amends. Or, with a little more cynicism, you wonder if he’s trying to butter you up for another midnight snack. He caught you unawares the first time but you doubt he’d try the same again.

Then again, he made it sound like a one time event. Perhaps you tasted unpleasant? Gods, no - you shake your head. Spending your idle time wondering how you taste to a vampire is not a mental route you need to go down.

Your reverie is interrupted by the soft shushing from your roguish companion, and he holds out his arm, signalling for you to stop, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

You turn to signal for Gale to turn out the lights, and within moments you are plunged into darkness.

“There’s something up ahead,” Astarion answers before you can ask. “I don’t know, exactly… give me a moment.”

His voice tails off into a whisper and you imagine him crouching, edging into the darkness with his bow drawn, his eyes and ears alert and his footsteps light over the rubble beneath you.

You can’t say for sure how long you wait, but the silence of the place isn’t lost on you. Normally places of abandon have some kind of monster sneaking about that you and your team dispatch. This place has been an exception.

Behind you, Gale and Shadowheart begin to approach, their tip-toeing decidedly less subtle than Astarion’s grace.

“Well?” Gale whispers, barely daring to keep his voice hushed.

“Astarion sensed something,” you explain. “He’s gone ahead to check.”

“Are you telling me we’re waiting here in total darkness with our safety entrusted to a vampire?”

“Oh come, it’s not that bad,” Astarion’s voice quips from the darkness beside you, making you jump. “I’m an excellent bodyguard, you know. And you can turn the lights back on now.”

Lights dance in the air almost immediately, illuminating you all in the same blue-glow hue.

You look at Astarion expectantly.

“It was nothing,” he says with a small sigh. “At least, nothing to kill. It’s hard to explain, just - follow me. And be careful where you tread. I think there are traps.”

Together the four of you make your way through the damp, stony corridor, Gale’s lights moving as you do.

Astarion is slightly ahead, dismantling the few haphazard traps in the area, and eventually you reach the mouth of the corridor. It opens into a vast room, an expanse of darkness that teases the weak tendrils of light Gale has summoned.

You’re not sure why, but you have a bad feeling about this place. Suddenly the appeal of treasure is replaced by a palpable presence of fear, although from what you cannot say.

“You sense it, too,” Astarion murmurs, his voice low.

“What, that ‘this place is definitely cursed in some way’ feeling? Yes, yes, absolutely,” Gale replies, although the comment wasn’t meant for him.

“A moment,” Shadowheart interrupts, stepping forward into the room. The lights dancing around her cast a long shadow across the floor that moves in unnatural ways. “Let me see if I can…” She reaches for the mysterious box you’ve seen her carrying around, and mumbles a few words into it. Several minutes later, she turns to you, her eyes emanating a soft, golden glow, and she whispers, “There’s magic here. Evil. I can feel it. We’d better be careful.”

You move around the room slowly as a group, keeping to the walls to ensure that nothing surprises you.

The first thing you find of any consequence is a sturdy stone pillar hewn from the rockface of the wall, no higher than your chest. Investigating, you run your hands over it, and to your surprise an orb sitting atop it suddenly flares to life.

You and your allies recoil a little, surprised by the strength of the light in an otherwise dark room, but nothing further happens. The warm orange glow, like a candle but stronger, illuminates more of the room. There are more of these pillars spread around the circumference and, slowly, you each spread out to light them.

There are raised portions of the room obscured by shelving, desks, some of them covered with papers, some potions and bottles, and all manner of texts and labels you can neither read nor understand. To your surprise, Gale is equally as perturbed.

Shelves line the walls too, stuffed with jars holding the remnants of once living matter from any number of creatures - too many for you to guess, and too bizarre for you to really discern beyond ‘macabre’. The air feels damp, clinging to your skin, and there’s a stale, fetid element to it that presses on your throat the longer you remain.

You don’t know how old this place is, or how long it’s been since anyone has been here, but it certainly seems empty for now.

Gale, who’s leafing through some of the parchments on the desk, draws your attention with a quiet “Ha!”. When you turn he’s enthusiastically holding up a scroll before bundling it into his knapsack, you assume so that he can copy it into his spellbook later on. Ever the connoisseur of powerful magic, you smile at him, and he dips his head in the smallest of acknowledgements before returning his attention to the desk.

Meanwhile, Astarion calls your name and beckons you over to a corner of the room with less light in it than the rest.

“Look at this,” he says as you approach.

He points towards a small crevice in the wall. At first you think it’s a hole in the brickwork, damage from the sheer age of the stone, but as you step closer to inspect it you can see that it has instead been carved into its surface.

You trace the edges of the carving with your finger, pausing as Astarion moves up behind you.

“Unusual, isn’t it?”

He’s so close his breath ghosts across your ear as he speaks, sending a flutter down your spine. You swallow, silently, and nod, trying to ignore the smell of spice and leather now enveloping you.

There’s a divot in the centre of the carving and your finger moves to it without really thinking. Within moments there’s a large rumble from the wall next to you as it starts to move, and you jump back in surprise. Into Astarion.

Your back collides with his chest, his hands moving to your shoulders to steady you, and he lets out a small grunt.

“Steady on,” he chides, not without warmth, and you notice not for the first time the gentle pressure of his fingers as they hold you. There’s strength there that he’s holding back. It reminds you of the night when he came to you hungry, although you try to push that memory out of your mind.

Instead you step away, shooting him an apologetic look.

Gale and Shadowheart approach. A large section of the wall has slidden away, revealing a new passage. The sound of running water greets you. Light from your current room floods out, illuminating an uneven set of stone steps that descend into what looks like a shallow stream below.

The cave, as that is what it seems to be, isn’t dark like you expected. Rather, the walls and ceiling reflect a soft cerulean hue which, you realise after a moment, is coming from the water. It glows.

Fascination lights your step, beating back the fear that settled on your first approach. As you go to cross the threshold, however, Shadowheart stops you.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“We can’t come all this way and not explore,” Astarion says before you can respond. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It would be a touch wasteful not to find out the meaning of this place,” Gale chimes in. “It’s obviously for a purpose, and I for one wouldn’t mind getting to the bottom of it.”

You give a small shrug, although you suspect Gale has his own reasons for being interested in the secrets these catacombs hold. “Sorry, Shadowheart. We’ll be careful.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t warn you if we all end up slaves to some necromancer,” she scoffs, and readies herself with her mace. “Lead the way then, if you’re sure. And don’t expect me to rescue you if this all goes south.”

With her warning still hanging in the air, it takes a few minutes to navigate your way down the steps, as they’re wet and slippery underfoot. As well as the rush from the stream, water runs down the walls, drips from stalactites from the ceiling, and collects in little puddles amongst the stone floor.

It’s only the water in the stream that glows, however, and as you reach the bank, you suddenly see why.

At the end of the chasm is the source of the running water. A well, or something that looks like a well, rises up out of a stream of mist. Its arches reach towards the ceiling like marble fingers, delicate and intricately carved, weaving into each other at the tip of the canopy. From within, water pulses, spilling over the edges and pouring in a deluge along the cavern floor. It’s a beautiful sight and for a moment you are struck with awe.

Astarion nudges your shoulder, drawing your attention to Gale and Shadowheart, who have both started making their way towards the well. “Come along. Wouldn’t want you to be left behind.”

The bank on approach is narrow, slippery, and progress is slow.

It takes several minutes, but eventually the four of you reach the well. It’s even more impressive up close. While the rest of the cave is dank and slimy with moss, this lights up like a beacon, the stone polished and smooth as though made by a sculptor’s hands. The cerulean water pulses in waves, flowing over the lip of the well almost like mist, before plunging down into the stream at your feet. It’s enchanting, mesmerising, and without really realising it your hand starts to extend towards the water.

Astarion grabs your wrist before you can touch it. “I wouldn’t.”

Once more his subtle grip surprises you with its strength. Broken from your trance, you shake yourself and drop your hand by your side once he releases it, grateful for his help.

“This is incredible,” Gale breathes with wonder, circling the well. The misting water reflects in his eyes, giving him a touch of the ethereal. “I’ve not seen such magic in a long time.”

“I do admit, it is beautiful,” Shadowheart agrees as she sheathes her weapon, clearly no longer sensing a threat. “But what is it doing here? What’s it for?”

Your eyes follow the line of the stream as it disappears into a small hollow in the cave further down.

“Whatever it’s for, there’s clearly more to it than simple water,” you reason as you watch the babbling brook. “Someone made this for a reason.”

“Made and enchanted,” Gale points out. “This is the work of a powerful wizard, no doubt. If I could take a sample I could study it - learn from it. Perhaps - ”

You don’t hear the end of Gale’s sentence.

Instead, an ear-splitting screech tears through your mind, deep in your skull, like it’s trying to rip your brain in half. You clutch at your head in agony, crying out. Then there’s laughter, disembodied, high pitched and terrible as it reverberates within you.

You can’t see. You can’t breathe. You just need the pain to stop.

You throw yourself to the ground not caring if your head smashes open on the rocks. You are vaguely aware of hands around you, but you throw them off and writhe away from them.

Through the din in your mind collects a command.

The water it says, the words a soothing balm to the splintering cries within you. Cleanse yourself in the water.

You obey.

There’s a splash as your body hits the current. For a moment things are at peace, the cool stream surrounding you and drowning everything else out. But then it burns.

You feel like you’re dissolving from the outside in, like pain is eating away at you through the fabric of your clothes and armour, ripping at your flesh, tearing at your mind. You try to scream but water floods your mouth, choking you.

There are voices, shouts, but they sound distant and unfamiliar, and they grow farther away each passing second.

Get her out of there! … Gods damn it, hold this! … On the count of three!

Your limbs feel heavy and light all at once. You have the sensation of drifting, of crushing pressure closing in on your chest.

You think you feel arms around you, and a rush of stagnant air. Then that, too, also fades, as your world is lost to the darkness of screams.

~*~

Soundscape

“Let me help you…”

The voice is calm, soothing, entirely different to the shrieking from moments ago.

You open your eyes.

You’re lying in that familiar meadow, a gentle breeze caressing the grass and your exposed skin with it.

Before you is your night-visitor, their face drawn into a frown of concern.

You close your eyes again, taking a deep breath of the fresh, sweet-smelling air. You don’t have the energy to fight them.

Reading you like they always do, they reach out and run a finger down your shoulder. Warmth emanates from the touch, spreading slowly throughout your body, reinvigorating you. Your muscles loosen as the warmth travels, sending you into a serene place of peace.

You sigh, content.

“There we are,” the voice hums, close to your ear. “Good as new.”

“I don’t know what happened,” you admit.

A finger brushes your temples and tucks some hair behind your ear. The touch is intimate, loving, and you resist the temptation to open your eyes. If you try hard enough you can imagine a wine-warm gaze bearing down on you, lidded and flushed with longing, and a smile full of dangerous promise.

“A trifle. A fly in the ointment. You are protected now.”

“Can I wake up?”

“I will let you wake when you are ready. For now, lie against me and rest. I’ll take care of you.”

You’re pulled back into a comforting embrace. You couldn’t fight even if you wanted to. Everywhere your bodies touch feels like you’re being made anew, and soon the sensation overwhelms you, leaving you in little more than a trance. You doze off in exquisite harmony, the sound of birds and the grass in the breeze lulling you further to sleep.

Chapter Text

You know you’re alive because you feel like you want to die.

Everything hurts.

Not just your muscles, but your insides, your mouth, your eyes, your fingertips, your stomach - you feel as though someone has been trying to rearrange your organs but has given up half way through.

You roll onto your side trying to find comfort, then groan as bile rises in your throat.

Something cool is placed against your forehead - a cloth perhaps. You open your eyes, blinking slowly as the world starts to come into view.

A pair of dark brown eyes stare back at you, intense, soft, like the richest of chocolate.

They belong to Gale.

Relief floods you - you’ve never been so happy to see another human being.

“You’re alive,” he murmurs, his voice low, sombre.

You notice the familiar shapes of your camp beyond him, the shadows of your companions dancing across the floor to the firelight while they sleep in their beds. You never thought you’d be happy to wake up lying in the dirt.

You try to lift yourself up on your arm, but Gale reaches out and rests a hand on your shoulder, comforting.

“You need to rest,” he insists. “I’ll answer any questions you like, get you anything you need, but please - lie down.”

Lacking the strength to argue, you nod, and settle back down onto your bedroll.

“Thanks.” Your voice comes out like a croak, like it’s gone unused for days.

You can’t read his expression but he’s watching you like a hawk, as though he’s tuned in to every minute movement you make.

“What do you remember?” he asks at length.

Flashes return to you. The screaming, the laughter, the madness. It happened so fast, you didn’t have time to -

“Hey, shh, it’s okay.”

You’re trembling.

Gale kneels closer to you, placing a hand on your forehead with the cloth, holding your gaze and even offering the softest of smiles.

“Sorry I asked,” he jokes, and as he holds the cloth to you, his thumb pressing against your temple in a calming, gentle rhythm. “You’re safe now. It’s all right. Just breathe.”

You do as he suggests, taking a deep breath, then another, trying to force it down to the very bottom of your lungs. The anxiety around your mind loosens its grip, your thoughts becoming a little more clear.

“Why don’t I tell you what happened, instead?” he offers, and you nod in agreement. You think you can cope with that. “After you fell into the water, Astarion, Shadowheart and I worked quickly to get you out. It was deceptively deep, that stream, I think we’d all assumed it was much shallower than it was. We used a rope. Shadowheart was the anchor, and … Astarion dove in after you.”

You blink in surprise. “Running water still burns like acid,” he’d told you once when discussing some of his vampire traits. That he jumped into a rushing stream to save you fills you with more questions than answers.

Gale continues. “The main worry was you drowning, but I think we got you out quickly enough to avoid that. Once on the bank, however, you were thrashing around like a woman possessed. Shadowheart did her best to stabilise you and Astarion reminded me of a powerful sleeping draught that he just so happened to have the primary ingredient for. Between us we worked on a poultice to bring you into a deep sense of calm. It worked, for a time, and we were able to carry you back to camp in the meanwhile. That was three days ago.”

He removes the cloth temporarily, soaking it in a small bowl of water beside him and wringing it out so tightly his knuckles go white. Then, meticulously, he reapplies it to your forehead. The movements are so precise you wonder exactly how long he’s been doing it.

He must be tired. You can see it in the shadows under his eyes, in the slope of his shoulders. You try to reach out to still him in his ministrations.

“Gale, you don’t have to - ”

“Don’t you dare stop me.” There is a light touch of humour to his words, but beneath that they’re sharp as a dagger. He presses the cloth to your forehead again and you can’t deny that it eases some of your pain. “I’m just glad you’re all right. For a while we weren’t sure you would be.”

You let him work, the two of you falling into silence while he does. You try to fight off the rising shame within you as you lie there, all too conscious of your helplessness. You’re not used to relying on others, or needing someone to look after you. Grateful as you are to be alive, it leaves you with a bitter taste in your mouth.

Then again, perhaps that’s just the bile.

You’re weak, you realise, and it’s not long before you start to drift in and out of consciousness. Your body craves the rest and thankfully your dreams remain quiet while you do.

The next time you wake it’s in the early morning. Rays of sunshine press through the trees, dappling your camp in patches of light. You ache less and are able to sit up, to the delight of your allies, who ply you with healing potions, food, and the best humour they can muster.

Even Lae’zel gives you a courteous nod. “It is pleasing that you live. There is no place for weakness among us.”

You take that as a compliment.

By mid-morning the food has started to take effect and you feel strong enough to move around the camp. Wyll suggests it might be a good opportunity for some of them to spread out and explore, perhaps look into exactly what happened to you and why; you sense that he’s itching for action.

Gale, Shadowheart and Lae’zel join him, leaving you alone in the camp with Astarion. It goes unspoken but you suspect they are making sure there’s someone with you at all times. He hasn’t spoken to you much since you’ve woken, and as stillness settles on what remains of the camp, silence joins it too. It is not the comfortable silence of friends.

Astarion takes a stick and pokes at the remains of a long dead fire, you suspect just so he has something to do. He doesn’t look at you.

Deciding to break the tension, you say with a teasing smile, “I heard you saved my life.”

He pulls a predictable face. “I did no such thing. Please. Anything I did was for self preservation.”

Your smile widens. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely. It’s not like anyone else here would let me have a nibble at them, is it? And I hardly want to live on squirrels and wild boar for the rest of my time here.”

You both ignore the fact that he hasn’t come to you again since that first night. As you consider him you remember that in order to save your life, he would have taken a risk with his own - not from drowning, but from the water itself, searing his skin like acid. It would have hurt, and left lasting damage.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t make a big deal out of it.” He rolls his eyes, exaggerating for your amusement, then lowers himself into a theatrical bow. “You’re welcome. I suppose.”

You’re not sure how Astarion plunging into running water isn’t a big deal when, on the surface, he’s nothing but a selfish, callous man, but you let the matter drop. You suspect that acts of heroism offend him, that he likes to cling to his vampire-spawn image a little too much.

He could have let you die.

They all could have, realistically. You’ve been travelling for only a short time and really, besides the tadpole, there’s not a lot keeping the group of you together. Shared danger is certainly one reason to stick together in a world otherwise out to kill you, but you know you’ve been a thorn in more than one person’s side: insisting on finding a way to neutralise the conflict between the tieflings and the druids; settling arguments and squabbles in the grove that were nothing to do with you; delaying the visit to Lae’zel’s contacts.

To some of them, letting you die simply may have been easier.

Yet here you are. Surviving.

Astarion nudges you, drawing you away from your thoughts. “Darling, you look positively morose. Stop it, and drink this.”

He hands you a mug and you’re immediately overwhelmed with a strong waft of alcohol - rum, you think, lightly spiced.

You look at him incredulously. “You’re not seriously giving this to someone who’s just had a brush with death? Not to mention it’s not even noon!”

He shrugs, taking a swig from his own glass. “Since when has that changed anything? But suit yourself.”

You stare down into the amber liquid.

You have no idea what happened to you, no idea if you’ve any lingering side effects, no idea if rum is the answer to anything, but for once in your life you want to be a bit reckless. Throw caution to the wind. Isn’t that what living is all about?

So you bring the mug to your lips and take a long, warming draught. It burns on the way down but it’s not unpleasant, and in some ways reminds you of home. Almost immediately the warmth spreads, making you lightheaded.

Astarion’s eyes gleam. “Good girl.”

You lick your lips, savouring the sweet spices and his words on your tongue as you hold his gaze.

His eyes dip to your lips momentarily. His signature smirk pulls at one corner of his mouth, an almost tantalising invitation if you didn’t know him better.

“To life?” You tilt your glass out to him in a toast.

He raises his cup, and his fangs glint in the mid-morning sun. “To life, my dear. To life.”

~*~

Some hours later, when the rum has gone, you hear the tell-tale snapping of twigs as your party returns from their excursions. You were sleeping, you think, or at least resting somehow, your head supported against something … soft?

You squint up into the daylight sun, mildly alarmed when Astarion looks down at you. Are you lying against him?

You stagger to your feet, face flushed but filled with warmth, although the movement leaves you a little lightheaded. As familiar faces push their way through the undergrowth you turn and exclaim, “Friends!”

You’re met with surprised blinking and an exchange of looks you don’t understand. You spread your arms wide. “Welcome! It’s not a house, but it’s home sort of, isn’t it? A shit home, but a home!”

From beside you, Astarion sniggers, now also on his feet.

Gale steps forward. “What the devil? What did you do?”

“Foxed, I’m afraid,” Astarion replies. You glance at him to catch him inspecting his nails, an amused smile playing on his mouth. “Utterly foxed. Nothing to do with me.”

There’s a tense pause.

“You irresponsible little cretin. You were supposed to look after her, not get her drunk!”

“I did!” Astarion defends, giving a half-hearted shrug. “It’s not my fault the pretty thing can’t hold her rum.”

“We are talking. Now.” To your surprise, the normally mild-mannered wizard storms past you, grabbing Astarion by the arm and pulling him over to some distant corner of the camp, much to Astarion’s protestations. Gale ignores him and starts animating his speech angrily with his hands. You can’t make out exactly what’s being said, but from Astarion’s bored face you suspect it isn’t good.

You watch for a moment more, then look back to the others. Lae’zel has already abandoned the group and taken up respite near her tent, loosening her armour and removing her blade from her back.

Wyll looks like he wants to be left out of it. “Glad you’re feeling better,” he says in passing, tapping you on the shoulder gingerly. “Maybe … have something to eat, yeah?”

That leaves Shadowheart. She approaches you, but not before going into the supplies and bringing out a loaf of bread. She breaks a piece off, offering it to you.

You take it, dropping your gaze, not sure why you’re feeling embarrassed. It was just rum, for pity’s sake.

“Don’t mind them,” she says at length, nodding to where Gale is still verbally ripping into Astarion. “Fools, both of them. I think we were just surprised, that’s all - not like you to drink during the day. But after what happened to you, I can’t say I blame you really.”

You bite down on the bread, grateful for Shadowheart’s companionship. It’s unexpected, although not at all unpleasant.

Your head does swim a little, but it’s with cheer rather than anything more sinister. You’re not much beyond tipsy, you assess, maybe a little more prone to outbursts than normal, but nothing of concern.

Then again, you suppose you don’t really know what happened to you, so perhaps there’s a risk of unknowns interfering with one another.

“You went back to the ruins, yes?” you ask carefully, picking at more of the bread.

Shadowheart nods. “Thought we could maybe find some clues about what that well was for, or what happened to you. We were careful not to go back into the cave, but hoped maybe there might be some notes on the desks, or something.”

“And?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Well not exactly.” She shakes her head. “Not much help to you, I know. Gale has some theories but you’d probably have to talk to him about it. How are you feeling, by the way? Any more … problems?”

You’re grateful for the question. Between Gale fawning over you and Astarion making light of the situation, she’s the first person who’s actually asked how you are.

“Nothing some rum couldn’t fix,” you joke, your mood much more muted than before.

Shadowheart’s mouth remains in a line. “That’s good. We’ll have to remain careful, though, until we know what happened. Who knows if there’ll be side effects.”

You watch Gale and Astarion, noting that the rogue now seems angry himself, rather than just bored. Guilt lances through you. As if you all don’t have enough to worry about, now there’s an added potential of some nasty magics involved with your life, and you don’t even know why.

Turning back to Shadowheart, you ask, “I assume none of you …?” You gesture vaguely to your head.

“No. Just you, and your apparent good luck. I’ll thank you not to let any of that rub off on me.”

She smiles at you then and you return it, glad to feel for the first time that maybe you do have a friend here. Shadowheart certainly has her motives, but from what you can tell they’re nothing to do with you at all - all she wants from you is a way to deal with the tadpole. Her own troubles, she keeps to herself.

At first you disliked how guarded she was. But given Astarion’s interest in you as a meal, and Gale’s need for magical items from you, it’s nice to be able to talk without it being weighted by agenda.

“I’ll do my best.”

Still feeling light-headed from the rum, you eat the last of your bread and stretch out your shoulders. The elation from the alcohol has burned off a little now, but you have enough liquid courage within you to approach the arguing men and see if you can put a stop to it.

Their voices are, thankfully, still low, but as you approach you hear them talking over one another.

“...not a child. She can make her own decisions. You’re just being prissy because I was the one who - ”

“... Haven’t listened to a word I - ”

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” you butt in. “Sorry to spoil the mood, but I thought we could talk about what happened in the crypt.” You round on Gale, your tone clipped. “Shadowheart said you have some theories - care to share?”

He has the decency to look a little shame-faced; Astarion, however, resumes his disapproving sneer.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, and stalks away before either you or Gale can say anything, clearly glad to have the excuse.

Gale pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mystra preserve me. Far be it from me to question your judgement, but that man is a menace.”

“He’s one of us, and a good bloody rogue.”

Gale looks up, and to your surprise there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Pun unintended, I presume?”

The two of you dissolve into a shared laugh, caught quite unawares, and it relieves the mild tension you previously walked in on. Wiping a stray tear from your eye, you invite him to tell you what he learned from the crypt, and he gestures you over towards his tent. Once settled, he begins.

He’s clear that it’s only a theory, based on his own scattered knowledge and remnants of memorised research - he’d need a library to be able to look into it further. However, he suspects the well itself is something like a summoning portal, enchanted to invite some celestial being or fiend’s favour. He can’t say which, or to what end, but the fact that it was absent yet active is cause for concern.

The water itself, he has no idea about.

You recount to him what you heard in your mind, how it felt while under the influence, your Illithid dream. He takes notes while you speak, writing frantically.

“It could be possession,” he muses almost idly, tapping the tip of his pencil to his lips. “Or a failed attempt, at the least. Maybe because of the tadpole? You say it said you're protected now?”

It’s a grim thought, and doesn’t exactly fill you with joy. You say as much.

“It’s just a guess,” Gale says, by way of comfort. “We’ll likely learn more over time.”

“So you don’t think we’re out of the woods just yet?”

“I’d find that highly unlikely. You were affected by strong magic. One doesn’t simply walk away from that unscathed. No, were I a betting man I would say we’ve not seen the last of its effects. Not by a long mile.”

His eyes are concerned as they consider you.

The thought sobers you more than any bread could have. While you don’t appreciate Gale’s ham-fisted response to his return to camp, you realise it was borne from worry rather than a desire to be superior.

It had been irresponsible - it just wasn’t Astarion’s fault.

“Thank you,” you say at last. “You’re a great asset, Gale. We’d be lost without you.”

He visibly perks up. “Well, true as that may be, the same could be said of you. Mind-eating tadpoles are one way to bring a group together, but so is saving an ally. A friend.”

His smile reaches his eyes, and it warms you. You had been unkind to reduce Gale’s motives to self-interest alone.

“A friend,” you repeat, and exit his tent in companionable silence.

As you make your way back to your own tent, you look around the camp. Whatever lies ahead of you will be made easier by having these people by your side.

You hope, anyway.