Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His steps carry him to where there is no one else. Away from any fire, any breathing, any heartbeat, any sound of his companions’ life. In the woods there is no one. Only the wind can be heard, shaking and rustling the leaves to a soft murmur. Heavy steps, one foot after the other, leads him to a small clearing, where the stars greet him with a cold light. A thin veil clouds the sky, only small patches reveal gleaming points of light around a white sliver of the moon. It’s barely there. He feels as though he can feel the weight of the entire sky on his shoulders. The openness of it is frightening, all of a sudden. He turns around and walks up to a tree instead, its thick trunk and large branches shielding him from the vastness above. He sinks down, between the roots. He aches. His teeth hurt, his stomach a ravenous void. When he closes his fists, his fingers barely meet his palms before weakness sets in. How long was it since he last fed? Ten days? A month? He forbade himself when Tav asked him. No blood from any thinking creature, it was. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that phrase used. But the first time hurt too much to think of so he only heard Tav’s words instead. Told himself that his orders had been replaced by the words of his new leader, his new hope. He wasn’t following Cazadors command, he’d found a new charge with new directives. And he’d chosen to follow them himself. But it hurt, to go back to drinking animal blood, to lesser creatures. He couldn’t stand the associations that came with it. But he aches. A shiver runs down his spine, from the cold or his fading strength, it’s hard to tell.

It washes over him like ice cold water, takes the ground out from beneath him, sends him falling upwards into a deep abyss, filled with specks of cold light like faint stars. He grasps the roots of the tree as the first sob tears his chest in two. He presses a hand to his heart, but it doesn’t beat like it should. The pumping is hollow, no true life runs in his veins. The breaths he takes are futile, the air doesn’t reach all the way in, and he chokes on his tears.

The looks in their eyes as they realized what he was haunts him. All of the others, but Tav especially. Contempt, suspicion and disgust. His own feelings, mirrored in the eyes of the person he’d come to admire, come to trust. It broke what little feeling of closeness and security he’d tried so hard to build with his new company, this strange companionship of theirs. And he felt only bitter and empty instead. A hungry and familiar sadness ripped him open, swept him in a smothering embrace and wouldn’t let go. What sound escaped his lips he tried to muffle with a fist in his mouth. His teeth sunk into his cold skin and he bit down, hard. Streams of tears mixed with his own blood and saliva as his hungry body tried to eat itself, to no avail, no satisfaction. Sobs and wounded noises shook him. His other fist beat the wood of the roots, repeated blows bruising his hand and sending sharp splinters into it. The sharp pain from biting himself and the dull aching of his other fist would help him calm down soon. It should. It usually did.

Though his heart didn’t hold true life, his blood still rushed in his ears and he didn’t distinguish between the sounds of the rustling leaves above from the rustling of feet walking up to him. Or maybe the druid simply moved that quietly. For when a warm hand grasped his beating fist and another closed around his other wrist he hadn’t noticed who had approached him. But Halsin suddenly sat there, on his knees, in front of him. Astarion recoiled with a start and pulled his hands back. Halsin’s grip was gentle and he let him go. The vampire elf crawled as far back into the tree trunk as he could, back pressed into it. His face was wet and he desperately tried to wipe it to hide the evidence of what he was doing, but only managed to smear his own blood all over it.

“Ah.” He said and tried to clear his voice. “Don’t mind me, I’m just… I’ll be fine, just go about your druid-y business.” He averted his eyes, staring into the darkness of the forest surrounding them. He didn’t want to see the look on Halsin’s face. Didn’t want to know what the druid must see him as. Weak, struggling, lesser. He heard the druid rise, heard him rustle with something. Just leave. He thought. Please leave. Forget you ever saw me.

But a soft fabric brushed his cheek and concerned eyes met his when he turned to ask what the in the hells Halsin was doing. But the words got stuck in his throat. The large druid elf had sunk down to sit criss-crossed in front of him, and was dabbing at his blood smeared face and tear soaked cheeks with a piece of cloth. The back of his head was already pressed into the tree trunk and he couldn’t pull back further.

“Stop.” He whispered. Please stop, he thought. “Leave.” He said low, but his voice cracked.

Halsin pulled back the cloth and leaned back from him, giving him space. But he didn’t move to get up and his voice was soft when he said:

“I don’t think I will. I would like to sit with you here, until you feel better. If you let me.”

Astarion blinked.

“And why in the world would you do that?”
His voice was raw from crying and he hated the sound of it.

“You’re wounded. Deeper than what I can see, I think. I don’t like to leave that which could use my help, especially when it’s been harmed in a way that isn’t natural.” The druid explained.

Isn’t natural. The words made the sadness flare in Astarion once again.

“You can’t help me, druid.” He started, and he meant to get up and leave. He meant to say something snarky and brush the large elf off. He meant to show strength, indifference and attractive bait to distract from his raw emotion. But a sharp, shaking inhale takes him instead. And the look in Halsin’s eyes is so warm. And he is so, so lost and inconsolable. Panic at what he’s showing has him looking around in desperation, but a big hand takes his bruised and splintered fist. Astarion snaps back, with shameful tears in his eyes, to stare at the druid once more.

“May I?” Halsin says and turns Astarion’s hand over in his. He carefully removed a splinter that had burrowed itself deep. The warmth of Halsin’s skin to his and the warmth of the action made it impossible to pull back, though Astarion’s head screamed with warning of accepting kindness, his heart yearned for it. He stared at the druid’s fingers instead, nimble in spite of their size, picking small pieces of wood from his skin. He barely notices it, but tears flow freely from his eyes. Halsin gently runs a thumb along the side of Astarion’s hand to check if anything is left, decides there isn’t, and reaches to take Astarion’s other bite-marked hand instead. But the vampire quickly pulls it to his chest, and Halsin looks up at him. A furrow forms in between his brows when he sees that Astarion is still crying. The vampire elf realizes it too and clears his throat but can’t manage to stop. He is exhausted and needs to weep, he has suppressed it for too long. He had somehow acquired freedom, but the hunger of his thirst still chains him and his companions won't let him satiate it without judgment. But why should it matter? Why does it hurt so badly, to know that he’ll never be seen as an equal because of what he has to do when darkness falls? It’s not new, it’s not like he hasn’t mourned it before. But in contrast to what he so so desperately wants and now has had a taste of, true freedom, true sovereignty over his own actions, the thirst for blood serves as a spiteful reminder of what he still is, what he’ll never overcome. And he is so thirsty. He slumps forward, clutching at his heart.

“Little elf.” Halsin says and leans forward. In the blur of Astarions vision, he can’t tell what the druid is doing until two arms hold him. Halsin moves to sit closer to him and pulls Astarion into a warm and strong embrace. The closeness, the warmth, the gentleness overwhelms Astarion, and it’s all he can do to keep from sobbing into the druid’s shoulder. A strong hand strokes his back. Halsin shushes him and a small whimper escapes Astarion after all.

“There, now. I won’t tell anyone. Just weep, little elf.” Halsin promises.

“If you do, I’ll kill you.” Astarion musters.

A deep chuckle rumbles the both of them. “I know that to be true.” Halsin says, but holds him still. Astarion shifts his head to lean on the druid's chest.

He breathes in the scent of earth and forest from the druid’s skin. It’s soothing, and helps him fall into an easier breathing, useless though the function is, it’s a habit he cannot stop. The druid's chest rises and falls like a guide to his own, and soon his tears slow to a trickle. His ragged breathing is steadier but the feeling of Halsin’s pulse beneath his warm skin makes the knot in his stomach twist hard and his teeth ache again. He writhes in Halsin’s embrace and pants harshly. The druid realizes what ails the vampire and lowers his arms. Suddenly fearing rejection and judgment, Astarion wipes his tears fast and gets ready for the druid to leave or to hear his words of disagreement.

“Are you hungry, little elf?” Halsin pulls back to look at him. Little elf. Is the druid mocking him, or are they words of endearment? Astarion doesn’t know what to answer. Yes, he is, but what words will make Halsin stay? He realizes with a pang of sorrow that that is what he wants. Don’t leave me.

As though Halsin can read his mind, he gently pulls Astarion back into an embrace and guides his head to rest close to his neck.

“Go ahead. I trust you to take only as much as you need.” He says quietly but with certainty. Astarion’s eyes are wide open at the disbelief.

“Are you sure?” He whispers into the druid’s long hair.

“I am.”

Carefully, as though he is still ready for Halsin to push him away and run at any moment, Astarion reaches up to brush Halsin’s hair to the side. His lips find the pulse of life on his neck and the feeling makes him lose all restraint. He latches on to Halsin with hands and teeth, cradling his head and pushing him towards himself. A moment's surprise from the druid at the pain passes, and he reaches up to hold Astarion to himself. A hand behind his head mimics how the vampire is holding him, but his thumb caresses Astarion’s temple as a sob of relief shakes the vampire at the warmth that fills his stomach. The richness of the blood running down his throat, the sweetness covering his mouth. Strength returning. He swallows greedily, feeding with the fervor reserved only for someone who has been starved for several ten-days.

“Astarion.” Halsin mumbles. But Astarion is too busy feeling the sensation of fullness, feeling life return to him, to hear.
“Astarion.” He says again, firmer this time. Astarion feels the druid tense under him and realizes what he’s doing. Fearing that he’s gone too far, that he’s ruined the trust given to him, he pulls back fast, wide-eyed and licking his lips.

“I- I’m sorry.” The tears from before have clumped his eyelashes, and his hair is ruffled. Both his own and Halsin’s blood cover his cheeks. The darkness does little to hide his shame, from someone with darkvision.

But Halsin only smiles. Because although a creeping fatigue of blood loss is numbing his limbs, Astarion has stopped crying. And what little color the vampire’s complexion holds has returned.

“Don’t worry. Whatever you can take from me instead of from some forest animal pleases me.”

“I don’t hold back from drinking from them out of the goodness of my heart.” Astarion has to defend his scrupulousness. The druid laughs.

“Whatever your reason, it aligns with my motive. Come to me, from now on, if you want.” He offers and Astarion cocks his head in suspicion and wonder.

“I might just take you up on that offer.” He says, and does his best to feign a carefree attitude.

Chapter Text

Hard, pelting rain suddenly bombards his tent. Sounds of laughter and shouts reach his envious ears, from his drunk and dancing companions. They’re celebrating their victory against the hag. Astarion doesn’t partake this warm evening. Even though the air of the swamp is easier to breathe now that the energy of the hag has dissipated, he still feels heavy and haunted from having stumbled into a vampire-hunter earlier in the day. Tav hadn’t allowed him to hurt the Gur at first, but the problems that could have arisen otherwise made sense even to Tav after a while, and permission had been given to Astarion to go in for the kill. Permission, permission. He always has to ask permission. A whooping Karlach interrupts his dark mind as she peaks her sizzling head inside his tent. The water droplets evaporate from her skin almost as fast as they hit it.

“Come out, Fangs! Rain’s wonderful, we’ve been needing a wash for a while.” She’s drunk, but not drunk enough to not notice his dull mood. Big eyes of kindness seek his. It makes him uncomfortable.
“Come on, soldier. Have some wine?” She says softly and reaches out a bottle to him. He doesn’t respond, but takes the bottle from her and swigs down a mouthful of the vinegary contents. He grimaces. Karlach belts out a loud laugh and offers an all-too hot hand to help him up from his pillows and bedroll. He sighs and takes it. No wallowing in self-pity for him this time, either. She leads him out of the tent into the pouring rain.

The summer rain is pleasantly cool and soothes his harsh emotions with soft droplets, running down his hair and neck. But he can’t bring himself to feel the same triumph as his camp-mates. Shadowheart has taken off her pants and is shouting with drunken glee, Wyll has sought giggling shelter under a blanket that is rapidly getting wetter and wetter while Gale is busy setting out jars and buckets to collect drinking water. Lae’zel has stripped off all her clothes and is performing an impressively quick cleaning routine that could only be of military origin. Their leader is splayed out on the ground, laying in wet mud and rain mixing with old blood running off of dirty skin in tendrils of red and brown water. So much for actually getting clean.

Astarion looks over his odd companionship and notices an absence.

“Where’s Halsin?” He asks Karlach, who is taking greedy swallows from her bottle. She pants and wipes her mouth.

“Aah, he went into the woods, there, before. Took a whole bottle Fireswill with him. Talking about nature stuff, something about ‘love of the roots’ and… I don’t know, he’ll be back soon, I guess. Druid stuff.” She shrugs and makes to join Lae’zel. Astarion had thought the druid didn’t like to drink. But he says nothing and feels too out of place to make use of the rain himself. He deems his attempt at socialization enough, and retreats back into his tent to towel his hair.

*

The rain doesn’t let up. Darker clouds roll in fast and night settles to make the sky even darker. They can’t light a fire, the wind and rain are too much for even Karlach’s tinder and Gale doesn’t want to waste a scroll. They can make do without a fire for one night, Tav figures, even though they’re all shivering from their earlier rain shower. Astarion is also cold, but he doesn’t complain with more than a sigh. And no one asks the vampire if he wants to share body warmth, so he retreats to his tent, to wrap himself in a blanket and stare into the dark. What a shit day.

His old master had sent a hunter after him to bring him back, and he’d sent a Gur at that. What a laugh he must’ve had when he came up with the idea. And what if he sends more? What if he already has, and they are tracking him now? His dagger is never far from his grip, and he holds it hard now, as he wraps the blanket harder around himself. He can’t lay down, it feels too vulnerable, so instead he sits up, gripping the knife and pulling the blanket tight. His unnaturally low body temperature does nothing to heat him. He tries to fall into a trance, but his mind is a dark room and in its corners shadows dance in and out of his vision. They come and go like apparitions fading out and blooming into existence. The hunter, his siblings, dark rooms with thick curtains, blood and chains. An endless array of innocent faces mixing with the most familiar. Most hated and feared.

Cazador. A crack of thunder sends him scurrying to get to his feet, fighting the blanket to get it off him. Such a frightened boy. A cold sweat has set in and he shifts the grip of the dagger in a clammy fist. He’s just imagining things. But to make sure, he peeks out of his tent. He can barely make out any shapes in the pouring rain. Halsin’s tent is opposite his, but he can’t tell if the druid ever came back before nightfall. Maybe he should check. No, why should he? What does he care for the druid? He couldn’t cure them of their brainworms, even after all the trouble they went through to find him, and only brought upon them the knowledge of having to traverse through cursed land to seek out Moonrise Towers, to the center of a cult that Tav didn’t want to make use of anyway. The druid had only brought more trouble. Well, he had offered Astarion his blood… and held him as he cried. Astarion was still conflicted about it. It was more of a kindness than the others or Tav had managed to show him combined. And it both scared and warmed him.

“Oh, for the love of all Gods in Faerún!” He exclaims under his breath. Would it hurt him to look for the druid? The only thing it could cost him is his pride, and there’s barely any left to take from, so what does it matter?

The rain pelts his face hard and thunder roars, drowning out his splashing steps as he runs over to the opposite tent. But it’s empty, save for Halsin’s backpack and an assortment of herbs hung from the tent rafters to dry. He goes inside to think of what to do. He doesn’t want the others to know that he went to look for the druid in the middle of the night, and he doesn’t want to wake them. The tent smells of the drying herbs, and of earth and forest. Like Halsin. Astarion curses himself for having gone to look for him. He knows he won’t get any rest until he knows the druid is safe. There could be hunters in the woods, after all. So he dashes out again, muddying his boots and drenching his clothes.

The woods are obscured by rain and darkness, but at least the latter isn’t too much of a hindrance. He sees the tree trunks and their roots well enough, but the rain has erased any footsteps in the dirt and there is no scent trail either. He walks in the direction Karlach had pointed out to him earlier, dagger in hand, and almost trips on his first lead. A boot. Halsin’s boot. A short distance away lies the other one. Well, it's not unlike the druid to go barefoot. But he would still hold on to his shoes. Astarion collects them and keeps going in the direction of the thrown footwear. Before long, he finds a vest and some gloves as well. He’s drenched by now and shivering. Stupid druid, stupid rain, stupid idiot of a vampire to go look for him. Thunder roars and he keeps trekking through the mud.

By the trunk of a tree lies what has to be Halsin’s trousers. Incredible, Astarion thinks drily and picks them up. And next to them lies an empty bottle of Chultan Fireswill, collected from none other than the hag of the swamp herself. Better not have been poisoned. He leaves the bottle. Astarion moves further into the woods, but finds no more clues of the lost healer. Just when he thinks that the druid must’ve decided to take a drunken bath in some muddy bog and drowned, he sets his hand on a great shape for support, taking it for a boulder. But when he lays his hand on it expecting a wet and cold stone surface, he gathers a handful of fur instead. Both the furry shape and Astarion recoil from each other and Astarion slips on a root as his backing foot finds false purchase. He falls backwards in the mud and hits his head hard against a tree. He blinks to see the eyes of a bear looking back at him.

“Shit.” He manages, and reaches for his dagger. But a great flash of light blinds him and he assumes that the lightning storm has disadvantaged his last move. Instead, the wild eyes of an elf meet his own when the light subsides. Halsin is drenched, his hair has come undone and he has absolutely no clothes on.

“Astarion!” He exclaims. “I - What are you doing here?” The druid is too stunned to move.

“I - I could ask the same!” Astarion says, annoyed, and struggles to get up. Everything is wet and slippery. This is what he gets for trying to reassure himself. Halsin remembers his elven form and reaches out to help Astarion up. A little flustered by the druid’s nakedness, Astarion accepts the warm hand and rises with the strength of it. He averts his gaze from Halsin’s body and lets go of the large hand. The large elf doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why - you’re not hunting now, are you? And you wouldn’t go out here to enjoy the weather…” Halsin gestures to the pouring rain. Astarion is quiet.

“Little elf, did you come looking for me?” He asks and his eyes are soft and wondering. Astarion doesn’t want to be honest.

“Put some clothes on for Gods’ sake.” He says instead and gathers up some of the drenched items that dropped to the ground when he fell. He holds them out to Halsin who suddenly realizes himself that he is, in fact, naked. The druid takes his clothes and has the courtesy to blush, at least, but Astarion doesn’t think that it's so much for the fact that he is naked rather than for the fact that he got so drunk that he undressed and turned into a bear and seemingly fell asleep in the woods. In the pouring rain. Astarion bites back a mean gibe. He has to keep a shiver from rattling his teeth as a water droplet runs down his back. He folds his arms around himself as Halsin gets into his wet trousers, one muddy bare foot at a time.

“I think I had a bit too much to drink.” Halsin admits.

“You think?” Astarion snaps back. He’s growing increasingly furious at the genuine worry he realizes he felt for the large shapeshifting elf, an idea that now seems ridiculous. He wants to go back and dry himself off and go to bed. Forget that he ever showed this weakness. An actual lightning bolt splits the sky open above the trees. Halsin squints up through the rain.

“We had better get out of here. It’s dangerous to be close to tall trees when lightning strikes.” He says and starts walking. Astarion makes to follow, when the ground suddenly turns to the side and he stumbles into Halsin, who turns to catch him under the arm. Astarion’s head pounds from where it hit the tree when he fell. He reaches back to touch it and his fingers come back bloody. He swears under his breath.

“You’re wounded. Here, let me…” Halsin reaches out to lay a hand on Astarion’s back, but he recoils from the touch as if his fingers were vipers. Astarion clears his throat.

“I’ll walk it off, dear, it’s quite alright.” He says, choosing sweet words to soften his bodily reaction. But his head is spinning. Halsin looks quizzical, but doesn’t insist. They start walking back the way Astarion came, but after a while it’s clear that Astarion can’t keep up and his steps falter. The druid turns to him once more.

“Won’t you let me heal you? It’s just a quick spell.” Halsin looks concerned. Astarion can’t stand it. The embarrassment of it all. But he can’t see straight and his head is probably concussed.

“Fine.” He says, exasperated.

Halsin lays a warm hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Te curo.” He mumbles, and a tingling goes through Astarion’s body, searching for ailment to cure. He feels the throbbing at the back of his head retreat to a dull reminder of an ache. He sighs as his vision returns to normal. But he can’t bring himself to say thanks just yet, and just keeps walking ahead.

They reach camp again, and the thunder has moved on, sounding more distant. The rain still pours, but the worst seems to be over. Their tents seem to offer little warmth or shelter to two already soaked companions, but they are a better alternative to staying soaked outside where the wind tugs at their wet clothes. Astarion starts walking to his tent, when Halsin reaches out to touch his wrist. Astarion spins. The druid didn’t grab him, he only wanted his attention. But Astarion is nervous when it comes to unexpected body contact and the look in his eyes must be harsher than he meant for it to be.

“Forgive me.” Halsin begins, noticing Astarion’s surprise. “Maybe I’m still a little drunk. I just wanted to thank you. For going through the trouble of looking for me. In this rain, nonetheless.” He says, and both his eyes and words are true. Astarion fumbles for a response. He settles on honesty, because all other explanations would sound dumber.

“I noticed you were gone. And then there was the rain and thunder and… well… I…” He doesn’t know how to say anything more. He could’ve just said “You’re welcome” and moved on.

“Well, I’m glad you did. Thunderstorms are perilous, even for a bear.” He smiles. And sees Astarion shiver.

“You must be cold, having been out in the rain for so long. Come into my tent, let me brew you some tea.”

Astarion hesitates.

“Thank you, but I prefer something with a heavier body.” He says, and realizes the mistake in his words as soon as they leave his mouth. He’d meant it as a dismissal, as a “thank you, but no thanks”, but considering Halsin’s reaction he’d taken it to mean something else. The druid was flustered.

“I- well, I could - “ He starts but Astarion interrupts him.

“No, no! I only meant, thank you, but I, ehm, I’m fine, thank you. I’ll just go dry off.” He stutters and curses his own tongue, starting to turn around again.

“At least let me tend your wound. I only healed the worst, the rest needs cleaning and a potion.” Halsin says, desperate to repay a favor Astarion never meant to give in the first place. He just wanted to see the druid safe and now curses his own softness. It never led to anything good. But he reached a hand to the back of his head, and it was very well still bleeding. Not even the rain could wash away the blood fast enough. He must’ve scraped it badly while sliding down the trunk. He sighs.

“Alright.” He says, and follows Halsin into his tent.

Chapter Text

Halsin lights a few candles using a small match box. Fascinated that the traditional druid would use such a modern invention, he opens his mouth to ask about it, but is shook by a harsh shiver instead.

“You should take off your clothes.” Halsin says, unbothered by any implication. “They won’t dry for a long time, and you will only get colder.” He was so casual about it. And of course, it was logical. Astarion supposes he can take his shoes and shirt off. But the prospect of Halsin seeing the scars on his back makes him uncomfortable. So he shifts to sit in a corner before doing so, with his back to the tent wall. Halsin has filled a pot with water and is muttering a simple spell to heat the metal enough to boil the water. He is making tea after all.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve had tea since… well, I can’t remember.” He says. He’s nervous. So he talks. The druid is busy with his hands and doesn’t answer.

“I didn’t realize you used matches. I don’t think I’ve seen you use them to light the campfire either. Did Gale give them to you?” Astarion asks, hoping his words will fill the awkward void he feels. There’s a second squirming in his chest, to match the one in his head, but this one is born of anxiety and not illithid insertion.

“He did not, in fact. I bought them from a tiefling trader in the grove. He needed the gold and I thought they could come to good use in a situation like this, when I don’t have a larger fire to use as a source for smaller means.” He responds comfortably, not sensing Astarion’s discomfort, or perhaps ignoring it. The druid is also shirtless, and in the dim light his muscles and size are intimidating in what seems like a small tent in comparison. Astarion swallows, and reminds himself of Halsin’s gentle nature. The elf doesn’t have any ill intent.

Halsin makes a herbal tea, changes into a dry pair of trousers in front of a flustered Astarion, and takes out a healing potion from his backpack as well as some cloth for cleaning Astarion’s head wound. The large elf gestures for Astarion to come and sit in front of him. The vampire elf swallows. There was no more hiding his scars if he didn’t want to put his wet and muddy shirt back on, which he didn’t. So he gets up and walks toward Halsin, who sits on his knees. The druid hands him the healing potion.

“Here, drink this, and sit down.” He says and it is not a command, but gentle instructions from a seasoned healer.

“Right.” Astarion says, nervous, and uncorks the potion bottle to drink deeply of the familiar draught. Except Halsin’s own brew is flavored with cinnamon and honey, masking the bitterness. That should be the new standard, Astarion thinks to himself. He hands back the empty bottle and steels himself mentally, before turning around and sitting down in front of Halsin, cross-legged. He takes a deep breath, expecting any manner of comment about his back. But Halsin remains silent, and holds a clean piece of cloth to his waterskin, to soak it. Gently, he begins dabbing at Astarion’s head wound, first cleaning the wound itself and then moving on to carefully rubbing strands of hair matted with blood between wet cloth, to clean his hair. Astarion’s dead heart beats fast. He hardly notices the pain. This type of kindness and caring never comes cheap. What was the druid expecting in return? Astarion had heard him professing about love and ‘natural instinct of affection’, whatever that meant. Does Halsin mean to ask this of him? Surely, the closeness of the situation seemed to imply something. And Astarion was not intending on creating a distance between them by denying the druid, if he did ask. Halsin had already given him too much and Astarion does need an ally in this group anyways. His advances on Tav hadn’t worked at all. So what was yet another fleeting exchange of his body to secure some safety? Besides, Halsin was truly kind and would likely be one of his more pleasant encounters.

“It’s already healing fast.” Halsin says. And Astarion makes himself ready to receive whatever touch or suggestion comes next. Prepares a flirty response.

But he is taken aback, when the druid only takes out a towel to start gently drying his hair, avoiding the site of the wound. Astarion is rendered speechless. It’s almost too much. He tenses.

“Are you alright?” Halsin asks and puts a reassuring hand on Astarion’s shoulder. He almost flinches. Was that it? The initiation? He forces himself to relax his muscles. Before he can answer, the druid elf continues:

“You know I- I don’t mean for this to sound disrespectful or as if you have implied something -” He starts. Here it comes, Astarion thinks.

“- but I don’t expect anything from you in return for this. Truly, I only wish to see you well and whole.” He finishes. Astarion lets out a held breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He stares into the tent wall in front of him. The rain falls lightly outside now, a soft patter on the canvas. Halsin makes to remove his hand from Astarion’s shoulder, but Astarion acts faster and reaches up to place his own on top of it, holding it in place. First, he doesn’t know why he does it. It feels instinctual. Then it dawns on him. He wants his hand there. It’s warm, and despite Halsin’s calloused skin, the touch is soft and gentle. There is no demand in it, no expectation. Only closeness, platonic touch. It’s soothing.

“Thank you.” Astarion says. He doesn’t know if the words are right, but he feels grateful. Bells of danger ring within, tolling at his expressing genuine feelings. He tries to ignore the sound.

Halsin keeps his hand in place but moves the towel to dab the moisture from Astarion’s shoulders and back, damp from wet clothes and rain. Gentle presses, over untouched and scarred skin alike. Astarion finally, actually, relaxes. A tiredness sets in quickly. His eyes grow heavy. So he closes them. Halsin dries his body and the heat radiating from his own is comforting. The wind creeps a cold finger in under the canvas, brushing against Astarion’s bare feet. He shudders.

“How aren’t you cold?” Astarion asks.

“Me? There are certain benefits of shifting into a bear. The heat lingers. And I would also assume that I am still, ah, burning alcohol.” He chuckles, and Astarion exhales a short laugh through his nose.

“There.” Halsin says. “You’re as dry as I can get you now.” He doesn’t tell Astarion to take off his soaked trousers, which he is grateful for. He turns around to face the druid. Halsin’s long hair is hanging in wet tendrils around his face, some clinging to his forehead and cheeks. The vampire elf finds resolve in himself through the druid’s kind eyes. Astarion carefully takes the towel from Halsin’s hand and reaches up to dry the large elf’s hair in turn. Not because he has to, but because he wants to. Halsin lowers his head for him, and Astarion can reach around to dry it around his neck as well. He finishes by gently combing out the tangled braids with his pale fingers, an act that feels strangely familiar and intimate. His fingers know how to find the ridges and gently glide through to separate the strands. The rest of Halsin is already dry from his own body heat.

A gust of wind sends a curtain of rain smattering down on the tent canvas. Astarion turns to look out. An unwelcoming muddy and wet camp, shrouded in rain and darkness makes it a sad thought to return to his own empty tent, where shadows and apparitions reside in his mind. He turns back to Halsin and looks down at his hands holding the towel.

“I suppose I should head back then.” Astarion says low and looks up at Halsin. “Thank you for… tending to me.” He means it. The druid lifts his eyebrows.

“You mean to go back now? You would only get wet again. The rain still falls. Stay, if you want to.” He suggests. There is no pressure in the words, but Astarion feels torn again. Now he knows that Halsin doesn’t want anything sexual from him. But he still feels a danger in staying, for his own integrity, his shield of faked indifference and polished surface. If he doesn’t stay for sex, what is he staying for? He doesn’t immediately answer.

The druid turns to his pot of herbal tea. He’d crushed some dried leaves in his hands earlier and sprinkled them in. The water is tinted green now and smells of some pleasant plant. Halsin procures two tin cups from his backpack and slowly pours tea into both of them, making sure to get as little of the crushed leaves in the cups as possible. He hands one to Astarion, who receives it with an unsure hand.

“It’s a calming tea. For rest.” Halsin offers, to still Astarion’s suspicion. The vampire sniffs the steaming brew. It smells pleasant enough. He takes a sip. It’s nothing special, but not bad. He takes a swallow. The heat is welcome, and spreads from his throat down his stomach and out to his limbs. He feels even more tired.

“There’s no sedative in this, is there?” He has to ask.

The druid laughs, also sounding tired. “No, little elf, you’re just relaxing.” And it was true. Astarion considered his pride again. What if he spent what little was left of the night here? Only to rest. Feeling calm. He didn’t know when he’d last felt this relaxed. Halsin drinks his tea in one sweep and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s time to rest. We’ve had quite the day and night, we should try to get what little respite we can, before the morrow.” Halsin takes out a blanket from his backpack, holding a seemingly endless supply of items.

Astarion is quiet for a moment.
“May I stay here then?” He asks, voice low.

“Yes, little elf, you’re welcome to stay.” He answers and gives Astarion a reassuring look. The druid moves toward his bedroll and Astarion moves out of the way. Halsin lays down with a sigh, clutching the blanket with one hand. He’s left some room to his side. Astarion hesitates.

“Come rest, Astarion.” Halsin says and closes his eyes. Astarion clears his throat and rises. He takes off his soaked trousers and dries his legs and feet with the towel. At least his underwear isn’t terribly damp. He takes a few steps toward the bedroll and sinks down on it, carefully lowering himself to sit next to Halsin. The large elf druid offers his arm as a headrest without opening his eyes. Astarion slowly lays down and rests his healed head on Halsin’s arm. It’s warm. Halsin pulls the blanket over himself but directs almost all of it to fall over Astarion. Grateful to have cover and growing more tired by the second, Astarion pulls the blanket around himself. It smells of earth and forest. He lays on his back for a moment before deciding to give into the pleasant warmth of Halsin’s body and turns in towards his chest, placing a nervous arm over the large elf’s torso. Halsin reaches up his own arm to place a reassuring hand over Astarion’s on his chest. Within moments, both elves drift off in a deep trance.

Chapter Text

The rays of the sun, muted by the thick tent canvas, tickle Astarion’s eyelids and make him break his trance. It is a strong morning sun, barely blocked by their shelter, still seeping in through the tightly woven threads, rays dancing on his face. A month earlier, and the sensation would’ve been unthinkable to him. Even more strange of a sensation, is the reassuringly heavy arm holding him close to an even more reassuring body. Halsin is still at rest, and the deep breaths of the archdruid are warm on his neck. Astarion couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up in someone’s embrace. If he ever had. His past lovers were never his for long. At the end of the night, they were always stolen away.

But to call them lovers is maybe too generous. He never knows what to label them in his mind. And Halsin isn’t a lover either. What is the label on two companions holding each other platonically through the night? He recalls the events of last night and furrows his brow. What a stupid thing to do, going after the druid. Not to mention all that followed. Now that he was warm and there was no night to hold the allure of things that can only be admitted in the dark, the whole idea felt foreign to him. He squirms in an attempt to ease out of Halsin’s grip. But the druid holds him tight. He’s too warm, and Astarion starts to feel suffocated and painfully aware of skin touching skin. Just as he’s about to shove Halsin off of him, the druid stirs.

“Ah… my apologies.” He lifts his arm, and Astarion rolls away, bare chest rising and falling quicker than he would like to show. He sits up and feigns indifference. He looks at the druid, a groggy morning mess. Halsin squints at the light and lifts a hand to his head, pushing his palm into his forehead. He groans. Astarion realizes that the century old archdruid, renowned healer and shapeshifting elf, is hungover. He can’t help himself but laugh.

“Ha! The Great Halsin, bested by a bottle of Fireswill. I almost feel bad for you.” He didn’t. It was sweet to know that Halsin had a weakness, and that Astarion wasn’t going to be walking out of this tent as the only one feeling shame. He gets up to look around for his clothes as the druid sits up with great effort, holding his smarting head. The candles from last night have all burned down to stumps. Astarion finds his garments as piles of still-wet filth. Not exactly inspiring to put on. But he doesn’t want to walk back to his own tent in his underwear, on display for the rest of the camp to speculate about why he was in Halsin’s tent. Not that they weren’t going to do that anyway, but he thinks it best to keep the fueling of gossip to a minimum. Unless… should he lean into it? Let them think he seduced the druid. Let them know he lays claim to their guide to Moonrise Towers. That way, they won’t be able to cast him out of camp for being a vampire. And perhaps they’d stop feeling threatened, knowing he now has a willing source of blood.

“What is on your mind, little elf?” Halsin asks, voice raspy and slow from the repercussions of overzealous alcohol consumption. What had compelled the druid to drink that much, anyway?

“Oh, I’m just pondering my prospects.” It wasn’t far from the truth. “Mud soaked trousers or bloody shirt? The options are thrilling.” He holds his trousers like the vilest of creatures. Unwillingly, he struggles to get into them. They're cold and damp, and chafe in all the wrong places. He keeps his shirt strategically thrown over his shoulder. Halsin is yawning and rummaging in his bag. For some headache remedy, to be sure.

“I’ll be heading back for a fresh change of clothes. You’ve been a most gracious host.” He bows low, theatrically. Halsin turns to him and Astarion feels the tugging of an unpleasant feeling at the thought of leaving his side. He shoves it down. The druid looks pitiful in his hungover state.

“I see. I will meet you when it’s time to leave for the road.” He says and shoves a handful of some root-looking scraps into his mouth, certainly with medicinal qualities judging by their un-inspiring presentation. Astarion gives him a scheming smile before making an exit.

“Indeed you will, my dear.”

*

Astarion had gotten what he wanted. Shadowheart had lifted a questioning eyebrow as he left Halsin’s tent, whistling and displaying a naked torso, though his shirt swung over his back covered any etchings. Gale gave him a polite greeting but his ever-curious eyes made note of his ruffled hair. Tav’s eyes darted from Astarion to Halsin’s tent, and back again. Lae’zel narrowed her eyes at his presence, as usual, though what this meant was cryptic as ever. Karlach was still sleeping and Wyll was too pure or stupid to make any connections. It didn’t matter, because those with executive power of the group had understood, and that was all he wanted.

A while later they are walking a steep road up a hill. Astarion is exercising his refined acting, by putting on a display of affection for his newfound conquest, to really drive home the point. He walks beside Halsin and makes sure to flash him devious smiles when others notice, pretends to be interested in the druid's teachings about their environment and even goes so far as to lie about having enjoyed gardening, once. Halsin seems unfazed or unsure of what to make of him. The druid is clearly not in his best condition after last night’s escapades, but it only adds to the believability of it all. It’s only when he actually asks the group to stop for a short rest that Astarion starts to suspect that something is worse than the druid wants to show. Has Astarion gone too far, or is something else awry?

They stop by a small grove of trees, clinging on to the hilly landscape. Karlach and Lae’zel walk off to secure the area. They’re still in goblin territory. The others find rocks and tree stubs to sit on, as Gale hands out supplies for a quick bite. Halsin sinks down by a tree trunk a few steps away and takes a long swig from his waterskin. The red scars and tattoos on his face stand out more than usual. Has he gone pale? Astarion goes to sit beside him on an old log.

“Did you overexert yourself that much last night?” He says, just loud enough that Shadowheart should be able to hear him from across their temporary retreat. But he can’t quite hide the note of concern in his voice.

“It is nothing to worry about. I need a moment, is all.” He says, eyes closed. He is pale.

“Don’t you have a sweet little healing potion to sip from? I thought you’d have an arsenal at the ready.” Astarion says, noticing Halsin’s hand shaking as he pushes his hair back. He never put it up again after last night.

“They were all needed during our fight against the hag of the swamp. I haven’t had the time to make more.” He says, weary. That means…

“The one from yesterday was the last one you had? And you gave it to me, for a small head wound?” Astarion says low, leaning in close, so the others can’t hear.

“It wasn’t a small wound, little elf. You needed it.” He opens his eyes to look at Astarion with a tired but warm gaze. His answers are shorter than usual. Astarion feels irrationally annoyed.

“Well that was awfully kind of you, but clearly you could have made better use of it now!” He lashes out and rises from the log. He turns to the rest of their companions and holds out his arms, questioning.

“Well, does anyone have a spare potion of healing left? Our druid seems to have misplaced his.” His voice is a little higher than he’d like.

Gale looks through his bag.

“Sadly, I only have a potion of speed left at our disposal. We haven’t collected any rogue’s morsels as of late and there haven’t been any well-supplied corpses for Lae’zel to loot in quite some time. I fear she’s growing restless.” He jokes. Astarion doesn’t feel amused. But Halsin leans forward and straightens his back.

“Truly, it’s alright. I just need a little rest and might chew on a licorice root. It quickens the heart.” He reassures them and holds out a small stick-looking root as a demonstration of this useless substitute. Astarion is irate, but holds his tongue.

They stay for maybe half an hour or so, and then begin their journey toward the mountain pass yet again. Halsin chews his root, and keeps up the act of being alright to all but Astarion, who sees the sweat and extra breaths it takes him to keep up.

*

As the afternoon nears evening, the companionship is moving at a significantly slower pace than its eager members would like. Lae’zel has muttered other-wordly insults all afternoon and Tav has been busy entertaining Karlach to keep her from running ahead. At last, Gale insists on stopping for the night. They haven’t even covered half of the distance they were hoping to put behind them, but Halsin promises to make up for it after a night’s rest. It’s unclear what ails him and he doesn’t talk much, only focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. Astarion put a stop to pretending at being Halsin’s lover and has instead been giving the druid space and worried looks from afar. He doesn’t know what to do, or how to help him, so he figures that instead he just won’t be underfoot.

They stop on level ground by a crevasse that offers protection from potential enemies, preventing an ambush from at least that direction. The Chionthar flows below, a swelling rapid of rumbling force. Astarion and Karlach help set up Halsin’s tent while the tired druid lights a campfire, but Astarion leaves as Tav comes by to check on the druid’s condition. Astarion has been avoiding Tav ever since he made the mistake of asking for blood. After Halsin has entered his tent, he doesn’t come out even as Gale announces dinner.

Astarion has stopped pretending to eat since they found out about his vampyrism and usually doesn’t join them around the campfire for supper anymore. But this time he sits on a pelt by the fire, listening to the others banter and bicker, only waiting for Halsin to emerge, strong and reinvigorated by his rest. But he doesn’t show. An unsettled, hollow feeling at his absence seems apparent to Astarion, just as the others seem oblivious to it. Having had enough, Astarion gets up and walks over to their camp cook.

“Gale.” Astarion starts, voice low and serious. He hasn’t approached the wizard directly like this before. Gale looks up, surprised.

“What can I do for you, my non-masticating friend?” He says. By the pointing out of Astarion’s lack of a need to chew food, he doubts the wizard actually deems him a friend. Nevertheless, he gives him a disarming smile and lets his voice drip with sweetness.

“Could I have a bowl of whatever delicious gruel you’ve put together? I seem to be famished.” He puts a dramatic hand over his stomach. The wizard doesn’t know what to make of him.

“I- Uh.. Sure. Here, be my guest.” He looks suspicious, but hands Astarion a bowl and spoon, indicating to the pot of whatever amalgamation of ingredients they’ve scavenged lately.

With a bowl of what actually seems to be a surprisingly decent meal of some meat and potatoes and other vegetables, Astarion walks up to Halsin’s tent and peaks inside. The druid is laying on his bedroll, blanket cast aside and breathing slow breaths. Muscular chest rising and falling heavily. His eyes are closed tight and there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow. Astarion, alarmed, walks in without saying anything and sinks down beside him. He sets the bowl down beside the bedroll. Quick at first, he reaches out a hand, but hesitates for a second. The druid looks so weak. Astarion swallows, and puts a hand to Halsin’s forehead. He’s burning up.

“You have a fever. A high one, at that.” He states and starts to remove his hand, but Halsin reaches up to grab his wrist and puts his hand back. Harsh breaths leave his pale lips, and he presses his eyes together, as if in pain.

“You’re cold.” He manages. Astarion’s body temperature always reveals his true nature, and the undead coolness must feel soothing on the druid’s feverish head.

“Yes, it comes with the territory of being dead, dear.” He answers, but doesn’t pull back his hand. Halsin’s skin is clammy with sweat. The interaction is new, with a tenderness that makes Astarion feel uncertain. He speaks out of nervosity.

“I brought you some food. You should eat.” He says, hurriedly. Halsin shakes his head and pushes Astarion’s hand away. He opens his mouth to insist, but the druid opens his glassy eyes and goes first.

“I know, I know. I’m nauseated.” He coughs slightly. “There’s a plant in my bag, of orange leaves and purple stem. If you would be so kind as to give it to me, I could make a tea. Then maybe I could eat.” His sentences are jagged. He tries to sit up, but Astarion puts a stopping hand on his chest and guides him back down.

“No, no, you rest. I’ll make the tea if you promise to eat. But, dear, do tell me what’s wrong. Surely, you must know.” His voice is soft. It feels unnatural, to use his persuasive tone of voice for a purpose he realizes is sincere. Halsin hesitates, but gives in with a sigh.

“Filth fever.” His eyes are serious. “My guess is it’s from the goblin dungeons. I was down there for quite some time.”

“Filth fever?” Astarion has never heard of a disease by that name. “As in, from dirt?” Disgust wrinkles his nose.

“As in from dirt entering a wound, or spreading from the bite of another creature. It is contagious through blood.” He realizes what he’s admitted just as Astarion does. Halsin’s eyes grow large, like Astarion’s own and he quickly continues before he can bombard him with questions.

“Don’t worry, little elf, it won’t affect you and it could in no way have come from you. It needs a… living host.” He explains and ends with a deep cough, covering his mouth with a large hand. Astarion is taken aback by the graveness in the druid’s voice. He doesn’t want to ask what the illness entails.

“So, what’s the cure? If you don’t have the strength then I’ll fetch Shadowheart, she’ll heal you.” He says and rises to do so. But Halsin protests.

“No, I don’t want her to waste a spell-…” He starts but Astarion cuts him off.

“If a healing potion can be wasted on me then a healing spell can be wasted on you, dear. Besides, she’ll rest soon and regain whatever power is lost. That’s more than we can say about your potions.” And without further word, he walks out to fetch their Sharran spellcaster.

Shadowheart doesn’t need much coaxing to come along. Astarion suspects it’s because she’s curious to know what ails the druid. And perhaps because she wants to know why Astarion suddenly cares for him. He tries to make it come off as a casual request, but he can tell he’s failing to convince anyone, and it frustrates him. A memory of Cazador catching him while trying to help his wounded sibling haunts his mind. Punishment was always second to any display of sympathy. Such a weak, sniveling boy. As they enter Halsin’s tent, Astarion straightens his back automatically at the sound of his master's voice in his head telling him not to slouch, and hates himself for it. Shadowheart squats down beside Halsin and questions him on his illness. She gets the same answers and says little in return but casts a curing spell. A doubtful look on her face is telling of the effects. Halsin’s condition doesn’t seem improved.

“Well? Did it work?” Astarion asks, feeling helpless and impatient. Shadowheart looks at him with disapproving eyes.

“Well, if he had any bruises or perhaps a scraped knee, he would feel better. But this goes deeper. I am not experienced enough to heal strong illnesses. He’ll have to let it take its course until we can brew a stronger healing potion.”

“‘Let it take its course’? And what exactly does that mean?” Astarion spits. Why was he so upset?

“It means he’ll have a fever and needs to rest, vampire. He’ll feel weak and will be useless in battle. I’ll ask Tav to keep a look-out for ingredients needed to make the medicine he needs. Gale surely has a book on the subject, whatever good that’ll do us. In the meantime, you’d do well to let him be.” Cynical as ever, Shadowheart looks at Astarion with disdain, as if to accuse him of being useless in the matter. Or of making it worse. He can only agree, but stays quiet. She gets up and leaves. Astarion walks over to Halsin’s bag, determined to at least make him some tea. The large elf sits up, leaning on a pillow and some rolled up fabrics. He has regained a little color from the healing spell, but still looks unwell. The sound of his heavy breathing and shivering mixes with the sound of Astarion’s aggravated quest to make him tea. He finds the plants and supplies, familiar with the process since last night. When pouring water in the pot he almost feels as though he could will it to boil with his own anger. Anger at Halsin for getting sick, at Shadowheart for not being able to do more and at himself for feeling anything about it at all. And for not being able to do anything about it. Pitiful wretch.

As he’s about to pick the pot up and leave the tent to boil the water over the fire, Halsin stirs.

“Wait.” He says and lifts a palm to mumble a spell. The pot turns red hot and the contents bubble angrily. Annoyed, Astarion shoots him a murderous gaze.

“Save your strength, druid. Don’t undo what I’m trying to mend.” The words come out harshly. He flinches at his own animosity and doesn’t want to see Halsin’s reaction. The druid doesn’t respond, so Astarion sprinkles in the leaves instead and stirs the water with a spoon, watching the color change to a deep orange, almost red. After a few moments, he pours it into a cup and moves to sit by Halsin’s side. The druid hoists himself up to sit properly, but not without hardship. He takes the cup from Astarion with an unsteady hand as his hair falls in front of his face, clinging to his skin. Too tired to sweep it away himself, he tries to angle the cup around the strands to put it to his lips. But Astarion can’t help himself, and swiftly moves the druid's hair out of the way, tucking it behind his ear. Halsin gives him a surprised but grateful look and drinks greedily, and the tea that should still be scalding is gone within moments. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Astarion takes the cup from him and switches it out for the bowl of stew that Gale had made. The druid looks at the bowl, defeated. Astarion sees his exhaustion.

“I did as agreed. Now, don’t hold back on your side of the bargain, darling.” He tries to soften his tone, to sound kinder. He looks down at his hands, picking the skin on his thumb. Halsin looks at him, and musters a tired smile.

“Thank you. I… will do my best.” He says and Astarion is unsure what to make of his own satisfied feeling when the druid indeed does his best to eat all there is. As Halsin puts the empty bowl down, he doesn’t say anything and it’s clear the effort cost him his last strength. Quiet, Astarion shifts his pillows for him so that he can lay down. As Halsin closes his eyes and comes to rest, he reaches out a hand. Instinctively, Astarion takes it. Shadowheart’s recommendations be damned. It seems he’ll stay another night in the druid’s tent.

Chapter Text

Darkness falls fast outside the tent, and the sounds of the companionship’s bustling to get ready for the night fade, leaving only the crackling of the campfire and the soft rumbling of the Chionthar in the chasm below. The moonlight shining through the tent canvas suggests that the night sky must be free of clouds. The tent entrance is rolled down and closed with its canvas flap, only letting in slivers of light from the slits on the sides. A white, cold illumination casts dark shadows over Halsin’s face, but the sheen of his sweat gleams evident to Astarion, the dark posing no challenge to his vision. The druid’s brow is furrowed in fevered distress. He labors to breathe. Astarion is locked in inner conflict, unable to act. Aiding others doesn’t come natural to him, it’s a trait that has been long suppressed and forced down to a near non-existent ability. But now he sits beside an ailing party-member, and can’t bring himself to neither leave nor assist. Pictures of a wounded Dalyria swim in his mind, her distorted screaming echoing from his past. Pleas for help. She deserved it. She deserved it. He can’t help her, she brought it upon herself. She should’ve obeyed, should’ve conformed. If he helps her he gets the same fate. The same punishment, if not worse. He wants them divided, pitted against each other. Competing for master’s favor. Cazador never let them help each other.

Halsin stirs, and Astarion looks down at his hands in the druid’s. Large, callous fingers grip his. The heat is significant, but a shiver runs through Halsin as his fever increases. He mumbles something.

“... the wall.” He mutters. It’s barely audible. Astarion leans closer.

“Don’t face them. Turn to the wall.” Halsin whispers. What was he talking about? Was the fever that bad already? Astarion lifts a hand to put it to his forehead again, but Halsin’s other hand comes flying up fast, gripping his wrist hard. His eyes are wide open, but unseeing. Fear is spelled across his face, and his eyes dart around the tent before landing on Astarions face. Astarion is startled.

“There now, there are no ghosts in here to haunt you, darling. Only a vampire.” He attempts to ease Halsin’s alarm. The shaky grip on Astarion’s wrist loosens, but Halsin’s face show only worry and confusion. The calmness and unyielding nature of the druid is nowhere to be found in his pale, harrowed expression. Astarion is at a loss for what to do or say. He can’t remember when he last had a fever himself, and cannot recall having been cared for while ill. What was he supposed to do in this situation? There’s nothing left but to ask.

“What do you need?” Astarion whispers. Halsin’s breath is shaky and he blinks a couple of times, bringing himself back to reality. He clears his throat.

“Water.” He manages.

“Right.” Astarion curses himself for his unfitness to assist someone like this. He gently pulls free from Halsin’s grip and moves to locate the druid’s waterskin. Luckily, it’s almost full. Cool water sloshes in the container as he hands it over. Halsin uncorks it with unsteady hands and drinks. Drops of water run down his chin and down his chest, mingling with sweat and disappearing into his vest. Astarion hears the pounding of Halsin’s heart. An unsteady, but fast beat. Something clearly haunt’s his thoughts and the fever must’ve worsened it. He hands back the waterskin and Astarion suddenly recalls a vision. Like the faintest sensation, a feeling of a damp cloth on hot skin, blessed coolness. He thinks of the cloth in Halsin’s backpack, the fabric he used to clean his wound last night. Astarion puts the waterskin down and moves over to the backpack again, to rummage for the cloth. He finds strips of muslin, neatly rolled and folded. Moving back to Halsin’s side, the druid has fallen back on his bedroll, eyes shut in unpleasant rest. Astarion presses a folded strip of muslin to the mouth of the waterskin and wets it thoroughly. He turns to the druid and hesitates. Lacking in wit and weak-minded as well, what a useless wretch you prove, Astarion. To hells with his master’s words.

He puts a hand to the druid’s face, gently, trying not to wake or startle him. Halsin only shifts slightly, eyes still closed. Astarion places the cloth to his forehead. A breath of relief escapes Halsin’s lips and the furrow between his brows becomes less apparent. Happy with this reaction, Astarion leaves the damp and cool cloth on his head and reaches for another one to wet. This time, he carefully wipes Halsin’s face with it, sweeping away sweat and soothing warm skin. He brushes the druid’s hair away from his neck and drags the cloth down over where he bit the druid some days back. There are no scars to show for it, as Halsin must’ve cured himself shortly after. He looks more at peace now, and Astarion suspects he has drifted off again. He continues to wipe down Halsin’s neck and shoulders but is hindered by his vest. The leather lacing going down the chest and stomach is drawn tight, but the drawstrings by the neck band could easily be undone, allowing Astarion to relieve Halsin of his warm attire and cool his torso. Considering if it would be inappropriate or indicate sexual interest, he hovers his fingers above the strings. Halsin is lost to oblivion and still radiates heat. Surely, he wouldn’t mind, if it’s in his best interest? He’s always casual about his nudity anyway.

Carefully, Astarion pulls the strings and loosens the tautness, one section at a time. He checks again to see if Halsin is noticing or being disturbed, but he remains at rest. Pulling the strings out of their holes, the vest opens up, allowing Astarion to pull it to the sides. Deciding that he doesn’t want to shift Halsin to completely pull it off him, he leaves it around his arms. As Astarion checks again for a reaction, he notices how the shadow he casts deepens the appearance of the scars on the druid's face, and recalls him telling Tav about a mishap with a bear. Halsin’s breaths are shaky, and he has never looked less like someone who could fight off a beast. His broad chest rises and falls in the faint moonlight as Astarion continues to gently cool his skin with the damp cloth. A faint memory of having this done to himself by someone flickers in his mind. He furrows his brow in thought, trying to remember when and who, as he continues down Halsin’s chest and muscular stomach. The size of the large elf isn’t so imposing when he trembles with fever chills. Astarion puts a cold hand to his chest to feel if the temperature is still scorching. Isn’t it a little better? The cloth isn’t very cold anymore however, so he moves back to the waterskin to wet it anew, when Halsin stirs. He blinks at Astarion and supports himself on an elbow to get into a sitting position. Astarion looks sheepish, unsure of what the druid will think of his attempt at cooling him down. Halsin looks down to see his exposed upper body and the folded cloth on his forehead falls down in his lap. He picks it up slowly, puzzled. Astarion puts the waterskin down, suddenly feeling terribly embarrassed and dumb. Why would he do such a thing?

“It’s… just to-...” He starts, but Halsin turns to look at him and interrupts.

“Did you do this for me?” His tired eyes are incredulous. Astarion detects no hostility.

“Caught red-handed.” He jokes low, and holds up two hands in the air. The druid seems shocked, but not angry. Did he do nothing wrong after all?

Halsin softens his expression, eyes returning to their usual warmth. Is there even gratitude?

“You surprise me, little elf.” He says and shrugs off the vest completely, throwing it to the side. His hair sticks to his face and neck from the sweat. He pushes it back, and sighs.

Feeling a little hurt at the implication, but understanding it, Astarion picks at a hang-nail while answering.

“I’m not entirely devoid of empathy, you know. Despite my otherwise dead-hearted nature.” He looks up at the end. Halsin meets his gaze and answers earnestly.

“That’s not what I meant, and I know you are not. Who taught you this method for reducing a fever?” He is genuinely curious. Again, Astarion has misunderstood Halsin’s directness. There doesn’t seem to be any undertones when the druid speaks.

“I… don’t remember. It must have been very long ago.” He answers, truthfully. A part of him believes it could have been his mother, but he can’t even recall what her face looked like, nor when it had happened.

“We live long lives. Some things are lost to the oblivion of time.” Halsin says and reaches for the waterskin once more. Astarion hands it to him.

“Most things from my… previous life are lost to me. Turns out that 200 years of servitude to a vampire master speeds up one's forgetfulness.” He does his best to sound vengeful, strong and cynical. But sadness pierces through and he averts his eyes, looking out of the gaps around the closed tent opening to the moonlit embers of the campfire instead. Halsin is quiet for a moment.

“That could leave its marks.” He too, sounds sad. “Either way, I am grateful to you.” He says and drinks deeply from the waterskin. Astarion thinks, but finds nothing clever to say. He settles on the obvious instead and turns back to look at Halsin.

“You’re welcome. How do feel?” He asks, feeling yet another tug of uncertainty at his true concern.

“The fever remains, but not as bad as before. This is a disease of the blood, it will take a long time for the body to process it without proper healing or leeching.” He puts the waterskin down and leans back on his improvised pillows. The hair on his chest lay slicked down from sweat and the damp from the cloth Astarion applied. Halsin raises a hand to his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Leeching?” Astarion wonders, yet again repelled by the druid’s words. “As in actual leeches?” He’d been called a leech many times, and their association was harsh to him. Halsin chuckles softly.

“Yes, actual leeches. They are placed on veins to draw out the sick blood. It quickens the healing process as the body doesn’t have to clean the bad blood itself.” He explains. The thought must strike them both simultaneously, as Halsin lowers his hand from his face and Astarion looks at him with skepticism.

“I will not be likened to a leech, thank you very much.” He says before Halsin can speak. The druid seems to fumble for words to assure Astarion, mind tired and feverish. So Astarion speaks again.

“But seeing as the others believe me incapable of assisting you in any meaningful manner, it would be most satisfying to prove them wrong with the same action that has their noses turned up and away from me.” He muses. It would truly be ironic and the thought scratches a vengeful itch. Halsin finds his tongue.

“I… don’t want to ask anything of you that you don’t wish to do. It would be unpleasant, I’m sure. For you, I mean.” Halsin looks troubled. Astarion opens and closes his mouth, surprised and unwillingly moved at his consideration. But it is his turn to be reassuring.

“Do give me the satisfaction of revenge, dear. The gods know I’m owed it.” He gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile and moves in closer. Halsin swallows and almost looks bothered. Astarion hesitates.

“We don’t have to, of course. I don’t mean to-...” Astarion is interrupted a second time.

“No, no, it’s for the best. If you don’t mind, I would be thankful.” He shifts closer and pushes his hair out of the way, exposing his neck. Astarion is amused.

“Darling, while I’m flattered at your intimate offer, your wrist will do just fine for this purpose.” Halsin looks hilariously embarrassed. Feeling a little guilty at making the druid feel flustered, he puts a remedying hand on his large upper arm and slides it down, gently gripping at Halsin’s wrist. The druid offers it up with bated breath. A shared moment of uncertainty in their meeting gazes pass, as Astarion leans forward and takes Halsin’s wrist in both hands, bringing his open lips to meet his skin. The familiar hunger grips his senses as he feels the pulse beneath. His teeth sink in fast, gliding through tissue with ease, and blood wells into his mouth. Halsin draws a sharp breath, and Astarion feels a pang of guilt. But it quickly subsides with the warmth in his throat. But… the taste is wrong. It’s tainted, bitter with what can only be disease. His thirst suddenly isn’t as intense. Unlike any other time, he pulls back to adjust to the unfamiliarity. Blood spills from the wound and drips to the ground. Halsin is still but guesses at the issue.

“Vile, isn’t it? I once bit into a deer affected with bloodmold. As a bear, I mean. It attacked me in its confusion…” He trails off as Astarion looks up at him, blood dripping from his mouth and chin.

“It’s not the best I’ve had, I’ll admit. But even this is better than feeding on rats.” He continues, and leans in again to close his lips around the bite mark. It is unpleasant, but the disease doesn’t affect anything other than the taste and the blood still satisfies him. He drinks several disagreeable mouthfuls before a purer, sweeter taste plays on his tongue. Clean blood. He can barely contain a new, raw greed as it slips past his throat and spreads in his limbs, making him feel warm and elated. With painful effort, honed over many years of denial, he pulls back, licking his lips and taking an unnecessary deep breath.

“There.” He says, voice thick with wanting. “It’s… pure now. I can tell.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood everywhere. When he looks up, Halsin's eyes have glassed over. Bloodloss and sickness proves too much for the large elf, and he slumps back on his bedroll. He closes his eyes, yielding to fatigue.

“... Thank you… Little elf…” He mumbles, as Astarion catches him from falling sideways onto him. The weight is significant and Astarion is glad for the strength given to him by the blood. He huffs to shove the elf back on his pillows and struggles to get him to lie down somewhat comfortably. As he shifts the druid's arm, he notices a significant drop in his body temperature. The skin on Halsin’s arms and chest is prickled and cold from worsened blood circulation. Astarion gets up to look for Halsin’s blanket in his backpack, when fingers brush his leg. He looks down at a delirious Halsin.

“... Don’t leave.” He whispers.

“Don’t worry, darling.” He says and gets out the blanket. He sits down beside Halsin and sweeps him into it, tucking in his arms and making sure it’s not letting in any cold air. He sits cross-legged beside the druid, feeling his forehead for a temperature.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

“Just take it, please.”

Halsin half-lays, half-sits on his bedroll, blanket draped over his shoulders, his bare chest bathing in early morning sunlight. Astarion holds the canvas tent opening to the side, ready to leave. At halsins direction, Astarion put on all of his gear, including an extra layer underneath his leather vest to combat the wind

“It’s not necessary. We’re going mushroom picking, for Gods’ sake,” Astarion argues, getting annoyed. The debated map lay beside Halsin’s backpack, purposefully discarded once the druid started insisting he bring it.

“It is; the lands here are unpredictable, there are chasms and caverns underfoot when you least expect it. You are not used to these wilds.” Halsin insists, voice tired but firm. Astarion feels a childish defiance growing, but spins around with a frustrated groan and snatches up the map. He looks at Halsin with theatrical sarcasm. The sight of the sick druid softens what would’ve been a sharp reply.

“Happy?” He asks, gentler, and tucks the map into the shoulder bag swung across his torso.

“Yes. You will need it.” Halsin seems to relax.

“I won’t need it - I know perfectly well how to orient myself.” Astarion retorts, but considers how nasty it would be to fall into a crevice, never to be found and never to die. He decides the map might come in handy after all. He makes for the tent opening once more, eager to take on his mission. Halsin opens and closes his dry mouth, cracked lips fumbling, but finds his voice when Astarion has one foot outside.

“Astarion. You do have… weapons?” He asks, awkwardly. Astarion grins to himself, feeling the cold of a secret knife in his boot and the pressing on his hips from the sheathed daggers in his belt. He presses a tongue to his fangs and doesn’t look back to answer.

“Never without, darling.” He steps out confidently, ready to strike up with an ever helpful Gale in a hunt for rogue’s morsels.

*

The wizard and the vampire traverse the sparse and windswept woods of the mountain pass, on a common mission to find medicinal mushrooms to brew into a healing potion. The silence between them is awkward as they trek across the treacherous landscape. The sun is flickering in and out of the clouds. Gale recalls the strange sight from this morning, as he had gone to check on their ailing druid, and discovered Astarion lost in meditation by Halsin’s side, cradling the large elf’s hand in his lap, a bite mark glaring red on his wrist. He did not wish to speak on it now, but could find scarce else to bring up.

Only their breaths, the crunching of their feet, and the tug of the wind can be heard before Gale settles on another subject.

“You know, should we be so lucky to find balsam rather than mushrooms, it would be in our utmost interest. The climate is just right for them to grow here. I read, in a certain collection of botany-...” Astarion purposefully releases a branch he was holding back to pass under and it snaps back in the wizard's face with a twang.

“Ah, my sincerest apology. You were saying?” Astarion pretends. His mind is with Halsin and he does not care for the wizard’s ramblings. His eyes are on the ground, occasionally flickering back to the map in his hand, which he quickly realized was indeed necessary. They had already had a close call with a sudden chasm that had Gale looking paler than Astarion’s vampiric complexion. The renowned wizard sputters out pine needles and straightens out his robe.

“... Balsam. Or jewelweed, depending on the region. It can be brewed into an even greater healing potion, which would certainly aid Halsin at an even greater capacity.” The wizard explains, rubbing his cheek. That catches Astarion’s attention.

“And they grow here? What do they look like?” He looks around for any signs of herbs, but the ground is only covered in pine needles and lichen. The clouds above move fast, making the shadows on the ground shift and sway, obscuring details and playing tricks on his eyes.

“Well, if the description in my book isn't faulty, they have long green leaves, a green stem and can be easily spotted by their purple flowers. They thrive in colder climates at high altitudes. The higher up the better.” He recites, and squints through the trees, up at what appears to be the cliffside of a mountain. Astarion’s mouth hangs open as he too sees the vertical obstacle. Gale sighs at the task ahead and seems to regret that he ever spoke.

“Well. It is not for me to meddle in your affinity for the druid, but if we could just keep to level ground and find the morsels, I’m sure that he wouldn’t mind-...” He trails off. Astarion already doubled his speed and set his mind on being useful, even if it means climbing a mountain side.

*

By the time they get back to the campsite, it is late in the afternoon and rain threatens to spill from above once again. The two are bruised, dirty, and wind-torn, but their shoulder bags are filled to the brim with balsam herbs and morsels. Astarion’s fingers and nails are frayed and bloodied, but, in truth, the feeling of accomplishment trumps any of his discomfort. He cannot recall ever having done something so strenuous for another person. In awe at his determination, yet combating the urge to keep up an unbothered and uncaring appearance, he does his best to act like it doesn’t affect him. But that won’t stop him from complaining.

“Urgh, my shirt got ripped. And not by the seam either, this will be hell to patch.” He mutters, fiddling with a torn hole in his shirt sleeve. It must’ve gotten caught on some rocks.

Astarion's diligence with the brew's preparation perplexed Gale just about as much as his behavior on their morning excursion did. The willing unwillingness of the vampire is confounding. They sit by the campfire, and the wizard picks the mushrooms apart while red eyes keep a hawk-like watch. Astarion had peered into Halsin’s tent earlier at their return, but the druid was in a deep trance, so he made the difficult decision to not disturb him. Instead, he now stares at the wizard’s fingers pulling apart a mushroom hat from its stem, willing him to work faster.

“Can’t you just throw them in? Do they have to be in pieces?” He inquires, impatient. Gale doesn’t look up.

“It is not their sundering that’s the important part, it’s the checking for unwanted worms. I’m sure neither you nor Halsin would appreciate a worm infestation in your bellies. We have enough of those already.” He says dryly. Astarion doesn’t respond but dutifully picks up a scaly mushroom to look for pests. The reminder of what lurks behind his eyeball brings up even more conflicting feelings; the tadpole serves as both protection from the sun and his master’s power over him. He’d take more worms any day if it meant keeping Cazador at bay and the sun warming his skin. But his companions want to get rid of their inhabitants, more than anything. He hadn’t dared to voice his oppositional stance for fear of them casting him out even more. At least Halsin is free of a tadpoled brain. Astarion bites at a tattered thumbnail in thought.

Gale grinds the balsam stems and leaves into a paste and heats the flower petals in a bubbling solution over the fire. A familiar bitter scent fills the air as he scrapes the paste and mushrooms into the concoction and stirs it with a wooden spoon. It takes on its familiar red color after a couple of whisks. Gale throws an eye at a recipe book and hums appreciatively. After a bit of simmering, he finally pours the thick red liquid into a flask and corks it. An expectant Astarion reaches out a hand, but Gale hesitates to hand it over.

“Astarion, if I might air a concern...” He starts seriously and turns to look at the vampire. His tone sends warning signals all through Astarion’s body and the vampire pulls his hand back. Gale continues to voice a thought he must’ve carried all day.

“Lest my eyes betrayed me this morning, I believe I saw fresh bite marks on Halsin’s arm. Now, I don’t mean to impose on any agreement between the two of you, as it is truly none of my business, but I can’t help but feel that one in Halsin’s condition shouldn’t be sapped of blood.” He says and takes in Astarion’s reaction. The cold feeling of being found out, as well as an annoyance at the suspicion directed toward him, makes Astarion’s response shaky but harsh.

“Correct, it’s really none of your business.” Astarion starts fast, but to get Gale to hand over the flask and ease his suspicion, he decides to elaborate. “But if it were, you would know that I did it to rid him of his sick blood, to speed up the healing process. On his request.” He adds, uncomfortable about having to confess any of it. Gale’s expression lightens and he raises both eyebrows with sudden understanding.

“Ah! Why bloodletting, of course! That certainly could help, but I must admit I haven’t read much on the subject. A blind spot in my studies. Forgive me the intrusion.” He says, the distrust erased from his eyes. He hands over the flask to Astarion who reaches out again to take it. The round glass bottle is still warm from the brewing of its contents. Astarion lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed he held and squeezes the bottle for comfort.

“I… yes, thank you.” He says, realizing that the only appropriate following response to give would be one of gratitude. A mental battle between the fact that it is in Gale’s and everyone else’s best interest to keep their guide through the mountain pass in best health, loses to the fact that Gale has also indulged Astarion in scaling a cliffside in search for a stronger herb, certainly prolonging their stay here and potentially risking injury. He straightens his back and tries to regain some composure. Unwillingly, but earnestly, he repeats himself.

“And thank you. For helping me find these ingredients.” He can manage no more sincerity. Gale smiles, surprised at the honesty.

“It was certainly an adventure, my friend. I’ll be sure to record the details of our findings in my journal.” He looks pleased with this thought and turns to portion out the rest of the brew into flasks, replenishing their stock. Gale had been noting down their findings all day; unusual plants, odd rock-formations and a hot spring not so far off, one that they hadn’t seen on the map. Astarion holds his warm flask to his chest, a day's struggle comes to fruition as the evening approaches, and sets off once more, to Halsin’s tent.

The druid is miles away in trance as Astarion enters, though his color has almost returned to normal and only a light fever remains on his brow. The now familiar scent of Halsin’s herbs fill Astarion’s senses as he settles down by the druid to carefully feel his forehead. Halsin groans lightly and blinks up at the vampire through sticky eyelashes. Astarion retracts his hand. The druid brings up a heavy fist to rub the grit from his eyes and labors to sit upright, his blanket falling from his shoulders to reveal a bare torso.

“Astarion,” The name sounded like a sigh of relief from Halsin’s lips, unusual to Astarion’s ears.

“I-,” Suddenly he’s at a loss for words. Why does he always lose his train of thought when the druid speaks his name? He holds out the warm flask instead.

“Here, this should help.”

Halsin takes it from him with a grateful look and uncorks the bottle with a slight tremble to his fingers. He brings it to his mouth, but sniffs it first. With a furrowed brow, he turns to Astarion.

“Jewelweed? Where did you…” His face opens in shock. Concerned eyes dart over Astarion’s body, searching, and settle on his hands. The vampire shifts uncomfortably, but a large and quick hand reaches out to grab his before he can react. Halsin turns Astarion’s hand over in his own, large callused fingers carefully feeling at Astarion’s dirty and torn skin, his expression one of confusion and worry. Astarion pulls his hand back, ashamed at the filth. An echo of a voice mocking his appearance threatens to invade his mind. But Halsin’s voice drowns it out.

“You were supposed to look for only rogue’s morsels, but you must have scaled cliffs for this.” Halsin mumbles, looking back at the flask. Astarion battles between boasting and being humble.

“I can’t say it was an easy find, but Gale wouldn’t stop yapping about ‘great healing capacity’, so I didn't have much of a choice now, did I?” Close enough to the truth, and far enough to save his pride.

Halsin gives him a look that makes Astarion want to melt into a puddle or bolt up and run, the intensity and warmth of it taking him wholly by surprise. It passes in a second, as Halsin tilts the flask up to drain its contents. He makes quick work of the bitter solution and exhales deeply as he pulls it away, but there’s still a bit left when he hands the flask back to Astarion.

“Have the rest, little elf.” He presses it gently into Astarion’s palm. Astarion opens his mouth to argue, but falls short of words yet again, as the druid looks at him with a gaze he can’t place. So he lifts the bottle to his mouth, pressing his lips to where Halsin’s just left the surface, drinking down the last mouthfuls of the healing potion. Warmth spreads through his chest and arms, blissfully soothing the pain in his fingertips and aches in his muscles. Halsin seems content and turns to slump down on his bedroll once again, rumbling a deep sigh. His hair is a tangled mess of days worth of sweat and restless trance and Astarion has to keep from reaching out and attempting to comb his fingers through it.

A sadness grips him, as he realizes that this is it. They are even now, Halsin’s kindness to him has been repaid and Astarion has no reason to stay. He clears his throat and makes to rise. The sounds of the camp outside speak of dinner being cooked and another day coming to an end. A rumbling laugh from Karlach has Halsin looking out of the tent entrance, a pensive gleam in his eyes. Astarion stands quick, suddenly in a hurry.

“Well. I suppose I’ll leave you to recover. Gale will announce supper in a moment, I’m sure.”

Not baring to stay a moment longer, he makes an exit before Halsin can utter a word.

Chapter Text

The night passes in fits of restlessness and odd feelings of sadness and melancholy, leaving Astarion irritated and fatigued as the sun rises to heat his tent. It casts a red tint through the crimson canvas, dyeing all his belongings in a rich shade. He rises groggily to a turmoil of thoughts. The events of the last few days have him locked in inner conflict, fighting the urge of introspection yet unable to leave it alone. Instead, he replays scenes from inside Halsin’s tent over and over in his mind, going over every detail until he’s sure he must’ve added some of his own by mistake. Did Halsin want him to leave yesterday evening, had he been pestering him too much? Had he had enough of Astarion’s presence? Was Halsin’s sigh one of annoyance as he sank down to rest again? And why did it even matter to Astarion at all? But then, Don’t leave, Halsin had said, in his feverish delirium the night prior. Had it only been the fever talking?

As he dresses and combs his hair through, feeling for strands out of place, he can’t help but think of Halsin’s hair, tangled and unbraided, as he lay in feverish trance, sweat gleaming on his forehead and bare chest. When he laces his boots, images of unlacing Halsin’s vest appear like a tantalizing mirage, leaving him fumbling with the strings. The dirt under his nails makes him pick at them furiously in a useless attempt at not recalling the ridiculous lengths he went to acquire the balsam. Was he that desperate for Halsin’s approval? No, it was just to make sure they all take a liking to him, find him useful, and want him to stay as a part of the group. He’d proven them all wrong yesterday —that had been the true purpose—to not have them think him a heartless or useless creature. Hadn’t it?

He washes out the dryness of the night from his mouth with water but it only leaves him thinking of Halsin’s blood wetting his tongue, making him wonder if he really just needs to feed. Thankful for the logical thought, he wonders if that’s why he can’t get Halsin off his mind, since it was his blood he drank last. Or could the druid’s blood be magic, could it be addictive, somewhat like Gale’s affliction? But no, as he sets his hand to his stomach it isn’t in pain, his fangs don’t ache, and the only hollow feeling is coming from his chest. And there is no lingering sense of the arcane. It’s all terribly frustrating.

In a furious last attempt at dispelling his unsettled mind, he stomps out of the tent to ask them all to get going already. He can’t stand to be in this place any longer, it holds too many recent memories, he needs to get on the move. But when he reaches the campfire and looks around, he finds them all gone. He had not heard them leave with the loudness of his mind crashing his thoughts around, like angry waves thrashing against a battered shore. Only the dog that Tav insists they keep around, to the unfathomable delight of them all, roams the campgrounds, sniffing for scraps around the dead fireplace. Astarion stands stunned for a moment, taking in the silence. But their tents are still here, so they had not truly abandoned him with only Scratch as company. They intended on coming back. They had just left without him.

Looking up at the sun, he tries to discern if he’d truly rested for so long that his supposed traveling companions had lost their patience waiting for him. But the ability to tell the time by the way the sun moves and sits is an ability he has not yet mastered, no matter how many times Gale points and Lae’zel explains about its placements on the sky in relation to north and south. Besides, if he had truly overslept, why hadn’t they come to wake him from his trance? Were they that intent on freezing him out? Had his efforts from yesterday done nothing?

He walks a lap around the camp, fruitlessly checking if anyone remains in their tent, coming to a deliberate last stop at Halsin’s. He takes a breath before peeking inside, even though he knows that the emptiness that meets his eyes is to be expected. Even the druid had left him behind. That must be it then. Astarion had overstepped with his attempt at doing him a favor yesterday and Halsin must no longer see a reason in keeping him around. Do you not see? It matters little how much you try to make use of that puny little mind of yours, spawn. You are only as useful as your body is fetching.

But even that had failed. And Halsin hadn’t made use of him that way, even though he very well could have, that night when they slept together - only slept, when Halsin could have had his way with him had he wished. And Astarion would have let him. It would have been a reassurance after him going out in the woods to fetch the druid back from his drunken stupor, to have Halsin at least find his attractiveness useful. It would have been predictable. The druid would probably have been one of his better encounters too, gentle though his constitution suggests otherwise. So why hadn’t he?

As his mind wages a war of uncertainty, Astarion finds himself entering Halsin’s vacant tent and sitting down in the same spot he sat in the evening before. The shade and calm of the herbal scents soothe him a little, and the memory of Halsin’s warm touch stills his mind for a moment. A discarded sleeveless undershirt lays thrown in a corner and Astarion absentmindedly picks it up. It’s ripped in a few places and shows earlier rough stitching and patching of holes and tears. The work is hastily done and with little care. It seems Halsin is no man for careful needlework. Astarion fingers the loose threads and brings the shirt up close to inspect a beginning tear at the neck, as the scent of the shirt hits him.

Forest, dirt, sweat and… Halsin. In a thoughtless move and a need for familiarity, Astarion brings the shirt close to his face to smell it properly. A swirl of unruly emotions spin like a hurricane inside him, and he closes his eyes, to be alone with his sense of smell, to only experience the now that could be Halsin, that could be closeness, that could be…

He springs to his feet, heart pounding and eyes flickering. What was he doing? They’ve all left him, everyone has left, Cazador has sent hunters for him, he has a tadpole in his head, he’s alone in the wilderness, he can’t even navigate by the sun, what in all of the gods’s names is he doing smelling the shirt of a man whom he so pathetically sought safety in? The tent walls seem to suddenly press in on him. Out, get me out, oh please let me out.

He runs out of the tent to the sound of his useless heart pounding in his ears. Clouds have rolled in over the sky and the entire world feels like a giant box, closing him in on all sides. He needs out, but where? He is out already. But there’s no end to it still. His legs won’t stop moving, the adrenaline and feeling of being pursued and caged is overpowering as he runs out of camp. The haunting silence of only the wind in the mountain pass landscape, bereft of voices or movement of people drives him anywhere else. His desperate feet lead him into the woods, where at least the birds sing and the rustle of leaves help somewhat. Images of darkness flash before his eyes, the silence of the tomb, the unrelenting stone walls, helpless, hungry, alone. An entire year of confinement.

Anyone, please anyone, anything, I’ll do anything, let it end, let me die

He throws himself behind a large tree trunk, yet another panicked episode sending him to rock back and forth. He raises his hand to bite it but -

He’s still holding onto Halsin’s shirt. The tears roll down his cheeks before he can stop them, stinging his eyes like painful needles, warm tendrils of shame and sorrow, hurt and anguish dropping onto what was once white fabric. Astarion presses his face into the shirt. He cannot help it, the little comfort it brings is all he needs right now, it smells of safety and of someone, an unrelenting rock in the crashing waves of his heart, something to hold on to. He takes deep breaths of Halsin’s scent, breathes it like it's the only oxygen he’ll ever need, though his lungs could truly not care less of the habit. Memories of what he seeks float to the surface. Halsin giving him a smile, a touch, an arm to rest on. Halsin drying his hair, patting his skin with a towel. Halsin holding him as he sobs. Halsin offering him his blood, without judgment or resentment. Halsin letting him be of use, letting him help.

He’s forced to come to his senses again as a branch snaps in the distance. He stills his harsh breathing with some effort, the ragged breaths of crying are harder to seize than regular respiration. He stops it all together and sharpens his senses. The trees and undergrowth are sparse in these windswept mountains and offer little protection from potential predators, or worse - hunters. But he does his best to rise slowly in the shadow of the tree, letting Halsin’s shirt drop from his hands, pulling a dagger from his boot and pressing his back tinto the trunk. Another branch snaps, and footsteps belonging to someone on two legs become clear. Astarion braces himself as they approach, placing his dagger close to his chest, ready to lash out at whoever passes by the tree.

But the footsteps stop just on the other side. And a rustling of something can be heard, like someone fiddling with a bag, searching for something. Astarion holds his breath and listens. A repetitive quick scratching, and a burst of small flame. Someone lighting a match. If this person is comfortable enough to make a fire, they won’t be expecting him to be there, behind the tree. Astarion decides that it's better to be on the offense, finds better footing and gets ready to jump out.

A twist of his heal, a sure grip on his dagger and -

“Astarion. It is only me.”

The deep voice, the reassurance and the tone. Astarion almost drops his dagger. It’s Halsin. He wouldn’t have thought it, the footsteps were so light. But then again, the druid was surprisingly nimble for his unusual size.

Astarion closes his eyes and draws a breath, but regrets it immediately as it catches and skips, his body betraying him. Why did it have to be Halsin, now, as he’s been sitting here thinking only of him, in shambles - crying, like a small child missing its mother. He clears his throat, wipes his face with his sleeve and hopes that his state won’t be too apparent. But he still can’t bring himself to step out and face the druid. Weakling.

A smoke of some kind drifts by the tree, smelling of tobacco and something… sweet.

“Are you… smoking?” Astarion asks hoarsely, still not stepping out. It’s a stupid and redundant question, it couldn't be anything else.

“Yes. It calms the nerves.” Halsin takes a long draft. Sounds of clothes and leaves rustling near, a deep sigh. Astarion assumes the druid sat down on the other side of the trunk. Halsin takes deep breaths, and puffs on what has to be a pipe. Without thinking, Astarion mimics the druid’s breathing rhythm and sinks down again to sit on the opposite side of the trunk. He lets go of the dagger and sinks his head into his hands, the throes of adrenalin leaving his limbs numb. What was he doing?

“It’s good isn’t it? The sounds of nature.” The druid says. Astarion doesn’t know what to respond. The birds chirp. The leaves rustle. A wind carries the scent of Halsin’s tobacco to him yet again, a strong blend of herbs tickling his nose. These sounds, this scent, compared to the loud pumping of blood in his ears and the fight or flight sensation of imagined pressing walls, is pleasant.

“Well. Yes.” He’s tired. The hollowness left behind after these episodes was always hard to overcome, and this one would prove very difficult to suppress if his fears and concerns weren’t disproved or put to rest. But, as was beginning to feel like a pattern when speaking with Halsin, he couldn’t find the words to ask or say anything meaningful. But Halsin speaks again.

“Did you rest well?”

The question was innocent. A perfectly normal thing to ask, perfectly polite. Yet it stirs the bubbling pot of emotions so hard inside Astarion’s chest that it spills over the edges, searing in the fire.

“Did I rest well? Oh, wonderfully, thank you so much for asking. So well, in fact, that it would seem no one felt it right to wake or in any way alert me that every last one of you set out on some excursion.” He spits it into the ground. Staring at a black little bug, its wings shifting faintly in a metallic green from the dim light under the sparse canopy, the cloudy skies doing nothing to illuminate the colors that could be.

“I didn’t think it justified to rouse you, no. After all you did for me yesterday, I thought it better to let you rest.”

The bug spreads its wings and flutters away. Astarion lifts his head to follow its flight and glares with eyes full of misguided hurt into the foliage. He opens his mouth, but closes it again, afraid that his words will seek the confirmation he should not ask for.

“I left you a note,” Halsin continues. “On your tent canopy, did you not read it?”

A note? No, he had not seen it. He hadn’t thought to look, after seeing that everyone had gone, he’d simply lost all logical thinking.

“I - no. I must have missed it.” He admits. “Where did you go?” His tone of accusation is not entirely concealed despite his best efforts, and he hopes Halsin will miss it.

“To the springs that you and Gale found, when you so laboriously sought the jewelweed. They were not on the map, and I had to see them for myself. We are likely to move camp there today. Everyone is in need of a bath and by Silvanus’s grace we’re blessed with warm waters.”

It mattered little to him in this moment, where they were moving on to or what was to be found there. But to know that his and Gale’s discoveries meant something to them all, satisfied a small piece of him.

“I see. I suppose I could use a rinse myself. These travels prove distastefully unhygienic.” He complains, content to hear a rumbling chuckle on the other side of the trunk.

“Ah, distastefully unhygienic. Tell me, is that why you ran off with my distasteful clothing? To wash it?” Halsin’s tone is light and amused, though there is genuine curiosity as well. Well-founded, too.

A cold wave of being found out rushes over Astarion, like having a bucket of ice tipped onto his head. Followed by the warmth of embarrassment, a flush so strong that it would’ve colored any living creature a bright red.

“Wh- I, well, it - there were tears in it! I went looking for you, it - I was going to mend it. There are holes in my own shirt too, I thought I might as well…” He trails off, staring at the evidence at his feet, wishing it would self-immolate and disappear into the Hells. He hears Halsin get up behind and thinks that this is it. He’s overstepped yet another time and Halsin will walk away, having had enough of his unwanted advances and unsolicited favors. He braces to hear footsteps fade, as Halsin speaks.

“Can I come to your side of the tree?”

Astarion is taken aback yet again.

“It is not as if I have bought tickets to this seat, dear. The tree roots are yours as much as they are mine.” He manages, slowly coming back to himself after a regretfully eventful morning.

“Indeed.” Halsin says and takes a step around the trunk to look down at Astarion with kind, warm eyes.

“But sometimes, the trees are the only protection we’re offered. And as I have noticed, we both seek their shelter when we feel there is none to be had elsewhere.”

Astarion meets his gaze and furrows his brow.

“‘We both’? For what reason do you seek to hide in the woods, druid?”

Halsin smiles and lowers himself to sit on the ground next to Astarion. He hopes that the small distance Halsin leaves between them isn’t a marker of ill feeling.

“Oh, I too feel the effects of this travel. And of missions past.” He says low, and looks out over the inconspicuous scene of low bushes, wily trees and pine needles. Astarion beholds him as he lifts his wooden pipe to his lips and draws a long breath of smoke. It escapes his lips and nostrils as he breathes out, smoke swirling in tendrils around his hair, hastily tied back in a knot, half up - half down. There are no new braids since Astarion undid them that night in the tent, the night when Halsin had gone drunk into the woods. To seek refuge, then, he supposed. From hauntings that plagued the druid, from past events he did not know. Astarion considered the druid's words.

“Why did you drink so much that night?” He didn’t have to specify further. Halsin lets a burst of smoke out from his nose and turns to look at him. His stature is much taller than Astarion’s, even sitting down, and the druid has to tilt his head slightly down to meet Astarion’s eyes. The swirl of his red tattoos matches the dancing smoke from his pipe.

“In truth, I rarely imbibe. As you could tell, I handle it poorly. But we are headed to Moonrise Towers, and by no wish of my own do we have to travel through the Shadow-Cursed Lands. I have… unpleasant memories of this curse. I suppose I wanted to dull them, but my methods were foolish.” He shakes his head at his past actions. Astarion is both amused at the druid handling alcohol poorly and concerned at the implications of peril ahead.

“Come now, what could be so bad about the curse that an archdruid such as your sizeable self turns to the bottle?” He hopes that Halsin will match his nonchalance and humor, but is instead met with harried eyes and a grim answer.

“The curse cares not for rank or title, nor size. It smothers life and will, wilts all that grows and brings only death and shadow. I have as much to fear in it as anyone else. Perhaps more.” He looks away again. “It is not natural.”

Not wanting to upset Halsin further or unsettle himself any more, Astarion attempts to mend his misstep.

“Well! With Tav as our hero I am certain we’ll… Well, get through it.” He kicks himself mentally for not being better at comfort or encouragement. It certainly doesn’t come naturally to him.

“Yes, they’ve proven very capable.” He also seems to want to change the subject and clears his throat. He takes a draw from his pipe and turns to Astarion, offering the pipe to him. Astonished, Astarion only stares at it at first. Halsin speaks, bemused.

“It’s only tobacco. And well, jewelweed.” At this, Astarion pulls back to glare at him properly.

“Jewelweed?! You’re smoking what I climbed actual mountains to collect for you?! For what, the taste?!” He is theatrically outraged, but in truth astounded that Halsin would let the precious herb go to waste this way. But the druid only laughs.

“Try it, little elf, and see that it is not for nought. Like I said, it calms the nerves and soothes the mind.”

Steaming, and eager to prove the druid wrong, with nerves truly on edge from a most arduous morning, Astarion grabs the pipe and sets his lips to the mouthpiece and inhales. The smoke is cool from having traveled through the long stem, but the temperature of it does nothing to prevent his throat and lungs' fierce reaction to its intrusion. Coughing with eyes watering, he sputters.

“Wh- why would you even… Ah, how is this calming?” He wipes his eyes and swallows the bitter taste. But a feeling like being swept in a heavy blanket envelopes him, makes him sink down further into the ground and lean back on the tree. A moment passes and he barely notices Halsin observing him.

“How do you feel?” He asks, and takes the pipe from Astarion, who didn’t even realize he was still holding it up.

Astarion thinks for a little while, but the moment seems to stretch and he loses his train of thought to the tune of a bird singing in a nearby tree. When he finds Halsin’s question in his mind again, the druid is taking yet another puff himself.

“Quiet. My head is quiet.” He mumbles. Halsin nods.

“The dosage of this is perhaps a little strong for you. Like you said before, my size does allow for some… advantages. Or disadvantages, depending on how you look at it. Sometimes it is as though people think I cannot be hurt at all, not by words nor foe. But I am not unlike anyone else in these regards.” He says earnestly, and Astarion hears him, but as though he is far away.

“Does this last very long?” The vampire asks, feeling a little unsettled at the dullness of his senses.

“Not at all. You should be feeling like you did just before, in a little while.” Halsin reassures him.

“Oh, I should hope not.” Astarion mumbles, not entirely willing to go back to the woes of his mind. He slumps to the side and Halsin catches him with sure hands, inching closer and letting the vampire elf lean on his arm. Astarion can’t be bothered to analyze their closeness and simply enjoys the warmth of the druid's skin to his cheek. Halsin smells just like his shirt. Astarion drinks deeply of his scent and sinks into the moment. He can’t tell how much or how little time passes. They just watch the leaves, pine needles and plants, and breathe.

“Halsin, darling. I’m beginning to understand this fascination with nature of yours.” Astarion manages after a while. The druid chuckles.

“There is much more unity to be felt with nature than what this… substance can offer. But I am glad to be enjoying it with you.” He says and there is only truth in his words. Astarion feels a rush, despite the dulling effects of the drug. If Halsin was looking, he’d see that a smile is playing on Astarion’s lips.

“Darling, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He flirts, feeling more back to his usual self than he had for a while, despite any substance. Shouting can be heard in the distance, a familiar tone belonging to Karlach.

“The others are back.” Astarion observes.

“We should go aid them. We have to move camp.” The archdruid responds dutifully.

“Oh, they don’t know we’re here, do they? Surely we can stay a little longer. Unless you want to carry me out of here, I see not how I’m supposed to navigate with a mind this… slow.” Astarion pleads his case.

Halsin turns to him, a playful smile on his lips.

“What was it that you said, as you unlocked my cell in the goblin dungeons?” He asks. Astarion looks at him with confusion. Halsin leans in closer.

“Hardly a challenge.”

Chapter Text

Laughing and leaning on each other for support, the two elves emerge from the woods, clearly affected by something. Astarion feels light and heavy at the same time. He’s slightly unsettled by not being fully in control of himself due to the jewelweed but also feeling as though it doesn’t matter. It’s a strange combination of feelings, but the positives seem to outweigh the negatives. Halsin seems as calm as ever, but an amused smile plays on his lips and he is shaken by small ripples of laughter as he supports Astarion’s unsure steps forward. As they get closer to camp and their companions notice both their giggly mood and surprising closeness, Astarion does feel the need to distance himself from Halsin’s arm. Regretfully, he lets go of it and straightens out his shirt, clearing his throat.

“Well!” He turns to look at Halsin. “If you’ll excuse me, I will…” He trails off, his thought seeming to escape him on the way from his brain to his lips. He can hardly remember what he was going to say. A giggle of nervosity shakes him, he’s not used to not being able to collect his thoughts. He swallows. This substance has to wear off soon, lest he is going to embarrass himself entirely. But Halsin comes to his rescue and fills in his missing words.

“...Go to disassemble your tent, I’m sure. I shall do the same. We’ll meet up with all the others soon to move camp to the springs.” He says and his eyes are warm with kindness. Astarion swears he could stare into them all day and still not determine exactly what color they are. A steady shift of blue and amber, a hint of gold gleaming around the pupil. But the sunlight seems to play with the coloration and sometimes they just seem a pale green.

“Yes.” He answers, unsure, really, of what he was agreeing to. Halsin gives him a smile.

“Normally, I would tell you to eat and drink something to get the effects to wear off faster. But in your case I am not so sure. It will wear off soon either way, so just do as you normally would.” He says reassuringly. Astarion remembers to blink.

“Right.” He manages and turns around, remembering his objective, readying to stumble away.

Disassembling his tent seemed first an incredible feat of complexity as his consciousness was still floating in and out of its altered state. But slowly he manages to pack his belongings, and as he is wrapping up the crimson canvas and strapping it to his backpack he finally starts to feel back to his normal self. But he almost misses the cushioning effects the drug had had on his mind. Everything had felt less… severe. Less serious. Unlike alcohol, which often just seemed to double the severity of what he was already feeling, only mudding the details. He sighs. In truth, no substance is a good enough distraction to ever rid him of all that whirls in his mind. He doesn’t believe that anything ever could. Besides, this substance has brought with it an increased and unwanted need. A growing sensation in his stomach and a familiar ache in his teeth reminds him of all that has been and all that ever will be. An incurable condition, an unnatural state between life and death. Fueled by the life source of others. Gods’ dammit. He has to feed again.

The day passes in a blur, walking across arid landscapes and sparse woods in the mountains. With no incident or unwanted goblin encounter to satiate his hunger. Not even a lone wolf or unruly boar. He can go long without feeding, even as the hunger starts, but knowing that they are staying at the springs for at least a day to let Halsin rest after his sickness and let everyone bathe and recover, makes him nervous as to when he’s going to be able to sink his teeth into something again. The druid and the rest of his companions seem only eager to reach their pleasant destination, there's an almost uncharacteristically giddy atmosphere prominent among them.

They reach the hot springs as the sun begins to set. Astarion recognizes the scenery from his and Gale’s hunt for jewelweed. He shares a secret smile with the fresh evening air and wonders how the wizard would react if he knew that he and Halsin smoked the fruits of their labor. The heat and source of water has made the otherwise sparse and parched vegetation flourish with thick brush and leafy trees. The lichen grows thicker on the cliffs and intermingles with moss, making the rock seem less inhospitable. Steam rises from the warm water to meet the cold air of the late afternoon and the pools of water are ablaze with light from the sunset. Even Lae’zel seems appreciative of the scenery, muttering less of wasting time and more of potential hatching grounds. Astarion’s mood also lightens, as the prospects of the thicker and more habitable nature around them suggests possible prey for him, with which to stave off his hunger. Tav’s restrictions be damned.

Shadowheart and Karlach gratefully sink down to sit on the soft moss and admire the view. The dark haired half-elf presses her hand to the pillowy green carpet and exclaims with unusual excitement; “It’s… warm! The rock underneath must be heated.” Karlach laughs, not very impressed by the heat, but always ready to be happy for any given reason. Astarion adjusts his backpack and can’t help but squat down to touch the warm rock himself. It’s very pleasantly heated, like the lingering warmth on a stone floor next to an open hearth fire. As he begins to rise, he sees Halsin to his left, hurriedly taking his boots off to feel the heat on his bare soles. The druid sighs happily as his feet meet the ground and turns to give him a smile so content that Astarion forgets his movement, loses his footing and stumbles back. Halsin reflexively reaches out an arm to catch him, but Astarion thankfully regains his balance on his own.

“Ah!” He exclaims and wishes he’d fallen down a precipice. He feels as if he has, or as though he is still falling, as Halsin looks him over.
“Heavy backpack.” Astarion explains. Halsin nods and turns back to look out over their new campgrounds. Without a word he sets off, likely to pick out a location for his tent.

Astarion wonders if the air is warm from the hot springs or if the hot flush of embarrassment really is that strong, as he is taken aback by his own unusual clumsiness and reaction to Halsin simply smiling at him. He frowns at the ground and follows the druid to find a spot for himself as well.

The companionship set up their tents on top of the most moss-covered areas on the cliffside, taking advantage of the warm cushioning vegetation to serve as luxurious foundations for their bedrolls. The thought of sleeping on a soft heated surface even makes Astarion look forward to tonight’s rest, as he secures the last knot of his tent canvas. The past nights have been uneasy, plagued with anxious and constantly interrupted trance. Perhaps this night he can be soothed by the warmth. But first he must feed. And to do that he must hunt - successfully, at that. He sighs as he ducks into his tent to deposit his backpack and get ready to make for the woods.

His quick fingers are busy re-lacing, tightening and tying pretty knots on each boot as footsteps approach his tent. Astarion perks up as a large shadow is cast over the tent opening, disrupting the low sunset. He knows who it is before his visitor speaks. He can tell from the footsteps that should make more sound than they do, considering how large of a shadow is cast. But Halsin walks with uncannily quiet steps for his size, like someone who has learned to not disturb their surroundings, or wants to make themselves seem smaller than they are. Astarion speaks before the druid can announce himself.

“My favorite mountain-pass guide! What can I do for you, dear?” He says and gets up, gracefully this time. Halsin peeks his head inside the tent, but hesitates for a moment, eyes taking in the crimson surroundings. Astarion steps aside and realizes that for all the time he’s spent in Halsin’s tent, the large elf has never been inside his.

“Do come in.” He says with a half-smile. Confident in his own personal territory, he beckons Halsin inside, to his living quarters. Well, quarter.

“Thank you.” The druid ducks inside, almost folding over double just to pass through the opening. Well inside, he seems to gather courage before meeting Astarion’s eyes. A tendril of nervosity travels down Astarion’s back as he meets Halsin’s gaze. His eyes seem to gleam more golden in the red hue from the tent canvas.

“I was wondering…” Halsin starts, but pauses to swallow. What has the druid so tongue-tied?

“Yes…?” Astarion offers, tilting his head slightly to the side, with a quizzical expression. Halsin breaks their eye contact to shake his head and look at the ground, seemingly laughing at himself. He puts both hands on his hips.

“By Silvanus…” He looks at Astarion with a smile once more, and this time with resolve. “I was wondering. If you wanted to come with me to the springs?”

Astarion loses any and all displays of confidence in a moment's passing. His head feels empty yet full at the same time - but why, at such a simple question, such an innocent request? The implications are there, in the nervousness of Halsin’s invitation, sure, he’s no fool, he sees them, but they should not make him feel this way. He should be able to put on a seductive smile, cock his head to the side and suggest that whatever Halsin wishes to do would be nothing compared to what Astarion’s capable of. He should make use of this, to shield himself, to ensure he’s useful - wanted and desirable.

But he cannot bring himself to do it. Even if he wanted to, and a large part of him does, he cannot force the mask of flirting and suggestiveness on. Not with Halsin. Instead, he first fumbles to find a reason to decline, unsure why, as the words leave his mouth.

“I… the others, are they not there now?” He feels a stab of disappointment in the both of them as he asks, and a twist of the knife as Halsin’s expression grows uncertain at his apprehensiveness. But the druid has an answer prepared.

“I know of a more secluded place. I made note of it yesterday, as we were scouting. The others have gone to the main spring. There are smaller ones, away from the main spring but not too far away from here.” His voice still holds hope that Astarion will agree. His eyes seek something from the vampire’s, his own expectant and sincere. Astarion can sense his high pulse - can practically see Halsin’s heart beating at double pace.

That dispels any uncertainty about the druid’s intentions. He wants to be alone with Astarion, in a secluded hot spring, far away from the others. What else could he want, other than intimacy? Astarion’s mind falters for just a moment, just long enough for a vile voice to force him a step forward toward the druid.

It is the sole thing you are good for, boy. Now, be sweet, and bring home a beautiful guest for me, hm?

A smile, painful at first, but ever so well-practiced and bewitching, adorns Astarion’s face. And with a perfectly secretive tone, he says low,

“Alright. I’ll meet you outside, in just a moment, dear.”

The druid leaves with a mention of towels, striding away to his tent to fetch some. And once more with a rising panic in his throat, Astarion is left alone. Deep breaths and pacing around the cramped tent space does little to help. He wants desperately to flee out into the woods again. But it will do him no good. He has done this hundreds, countless times before. Slept with someone, let himself be used and utilized like a toy or tool for the pleasure of others - all to lure them back to Cazador. But there is no Cazador to lure Halsin back to now, and the mere thought of doing so makes his stomach twist in anguish. No, he would be doing this out of his own free will. Because he has already agreed. So why then, does he not feel like it was entirely his decision, and entirely like he wants to?

“Damn it!” He hisses, and slams a fist down on his thigh, hard enough to cause a clarifying wave of pain. He lets out a shaky breath and stills a second fist mid-air. Bruises or marks will do him no favours now, as the peaceful past few days leave him with no battle to blame them on. If he is going to bathe naked in a hot spring, all will be revealed. Best to keep his tantrum contained, just until the night is over. Just a little longer. He’s good at that. Holding out, enduring - just a little longer.

He steps out of his tent with resolve, paired with over two hundred years of endurance fresh on his mind. The weight of it unseen and unknown by anyone, lest they should see an unexplained clenched fist or hear how he tosses and turns at night.

Astarion meets up with Halsin outside of his tent, where he stands at the ready, a smaller rucksack slung over one shoulder. He has changed out of his travel clothes and wears looser trousers, a plain vest and leather armbands high up on his biceps. The armbands seem to serve no other function than decoration to emphasise his muscles, and Astarion smirks at the thought of the druid indulging in petty vanity. They suit him, nonetheless. As he strides up to Halsin, he smells the lingering notes of recently smoked jewelweed. The druid is visibly more relaxed now than when he ventured into Astarion’s tent. Another aspect that amuses the vampire. He holds back a quip about it. Halsin gives Astarion a smile and leads the way. The two elf’s stride into the woods, onto a narrow dirt path, trampled by whatever animals dwell there - through bushes and low trees.

The evening sun seems to disappear quickly in these mountains, almost as though hastily swallowed by the bottomless ravines or obscured by engrossing ridges. Long shadows fall from the trees and the dark silhouette from Halsin’s impressive frame mingles with the shade cast by the tree trunks, his limbs appearing as large as the trunks themselves. Birds above sing the day farewell in trilling melodies. They say nothing, and a nervousness is evident in them both, like a shared thread between their minds, growing more taut at every step. Astarion is painfully aware of Halsin’s heartbeat, its persistent thumping a constant reminder of the growing ache in his teeth and the hollowness in his stomach and chest. A familiar yet haunting sensation of need increases rapidly and he starts to wonder whether he will be able to enjoy anything the night might entail while feeling like this. A pent up sigh escapes him and the druid turns his head for a moment, noticing Astarion’s discomfort before he can compose himself.

“Are you alright?” Halsin asks carefully, facing front and continuing walking. Astarion kicks himself mentally and forces a light tone.

“Of course!” He tries to think of anything to say to lighten the mood, but falls short of anything with substance. “We’re getting a clear night. No rain.” His face is a cringing grimace at Halsin’s back. Is he really bringing up the weather?

“Yes, so it would seem. We’ll be blessed with stars.” But then it’s Halsin’s turn to let out a sigh. “Tell me. Earlier, you seemed… hesitant, at coming with me. Did you rather wish to rest?”

Astarion opens and closes his mouth. He thinks of denying it all-together, that there was no hesitation, but realizes that he has a strong aversion to lying to Halsin at all.

“I… No, not to rest. In truth, I was thinking of going for a hunt. I really need to feed - and these woods seem like they might hold some better prey than where we were before.”

He has no time to continue, as Halsin stops in his tracks, almost causing Astarion to walk right into him. The vampire stumbles back and Halsin looks at him with concern and… hurt? Did Astarion imagine it? It was there for a second and left as soon as it appeared.

“For how long?” Halsin asks. Serious eyes look down into Astarion’s.

“What?” Astarion is taken aback by the reaction.

“For how long did you need to feed?” He clarifies. Astarion thinks back. In truth, it is strange for the sensation to be so strong after only so little time.

“Well, really only since noon. Actually, since after we turned that arduous herb into smoke.” He reflects on the fact that he felt thirsty so soon after having drunk the druid’s blood only days before. It had been tainted with sickness, yes, but it had not been less filling. Halsin’s expression lightens as he realizes something.

“Ah,” He exclaims. “It is not strange. One of the effects of the jewelweed is increased appetite. I had not anticipated its effects on you. I apologize, I should’ve offered my assistance.”

“Well, that’s alright - I suppose you haven’t studied the effects of materia medica on vampires before. Besides, there’s little you could’ve done about it.” He looks up at Halsin, who yet again furrows his brow.

“I suppose I… could’ve offered… help?” The druid stumbles a little on his words, seeming unsure of how to phrase himself.

“Help? With what - hunting?” Astarion is confused. Though the druid could probably point him to the right tracks to follow, it seemed unlikely that he should approve of Astarion’s murderous intent on the unsuspecting inhabitants of the woods. It was, after all, unnatural.

“No, with your hunger. Your thirst, I mean. I could provide you with blood.” The druid’s expression looks for recognition in Astarion. “I have told you before, have I not? That you could come to me, should you need it?”

Astarion first scoffs out of incredulousness but his expression quickly becomes apprehensive from uncertainty.

“Yes, you have. But I thought it was merely out of politeness or… pity.” He searches the druid’s eyes, but sees no jesting, no harm or ill intent. Again, Halsin is being genuine with him. Astarion continues, his words chopped up by hesitation.

“You’re saying you would, willingly, give your blood for me to drink, if I ask?”

A songbird gives a lonesome call as the last rays of the sun light Halsin’s face from the side, his eyes glowing with gold and eyelashes casting long shadows.

“It is as I have said. If you need it, I would gladly give it to you. You have my trust.”

A breeze rustles Halsin’s hair, his chestnut strands glowing with golden sunlight. His words are sincere, but hard for Astarion to believe, and he can only stare at the druid for a few moments, silent in disbelief. But Halsin doesn’t let him think, but instead offers out a large hand to the vampire. A gentle smile opens his face as he speaks again,

“Come. We are close to the spring. I want you to see it before the sun sets.”

Astarion lifts his own pale hand with uncertainty, but settles on letting himself enjoy what seems like a harmless interaction, and takes Halsin’s hand. It’s warm, and almost fully encloses his own, with gentle certainty. He can sense Halsin’s pulse through his warm skin, and feels a pang of thirst. He lets himself be led forward, as the druid guides him carefully through the nature that he so loves.

The trees get sparser as the landscape opens up to reveal their destination. The spring is made up and surrounded by a mossy and rocky series of cliffs, each a level beneath the next, creating small waterfalls and passageways for the warm water to flow through. It fills the evening air with rising mist and the calming sound of running water. Small splashes and droplets ripple the surface, causing the rays of the sun to bounce off the waves and reflect on the rocks, as well as the cliffs and all surroundings. Woods and trees enclose it all, creating a secluded space for this natural spectacle to take place in. Like a secret sanctuary, the cascading water sings a beckoning song of safety.

“This is stunning.” Astarion breathes.

Halsin nods. “It is, isn’t it? I wanted to bring you here, to see it.”

Astarion is entranced by the beauty, and completely forgets his thirst and his hand in Halsin’s, before the druid tugs at it to make him follow a few steps away to a large, flat rock. Halsin lets go of Astarion and sits down, gesturing for him to do the same. He does as instructed, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back on his arms, taking in the view. The druid lets his shoulder bag slide off him, and places it to the side. He takes a slow, deep breath and turns to Astarion. But as he looks at him, the druid seems to say something unplanned.

“You - when the sun shines through your hair, it looks like gold and silver.” He states hastily, and seems surprised at his own words. Astarion can’t help but laugh, and feel flattered at Halsin’s reaction. Though he wishes he was above it, compliments fuel his ego like little else. He has often been called beautiful, and as it is hard for him to confirm it himself, he likes to be reminded. He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side.

“Did you bring me all the way here to comment on my hair?” He pokes fun at Halsin’s attraction to him. It does, in truth, make him feel good to know that he can make such a secure man forget what he was supposed to say.

Halsin blinks forcefully a few times, as if to clear his eyes from an illusion and laughs nervously.

“No, no.” He looks down at his hands in his lap as he folds them. “How are you feeling?”

“I suppose you’re alluding to my affliction.” Astarion starts and beholds the druid. Halsin turns to look at him, hazel eyes tinted with gold in the sunlight. If Astarion didn’t bite his lip he’s not sure he could hold back from commenting on them either. Like crucibles of melted gold and amber, they seem to see through him, see inside him.

“Well, I…” Astarion swallows. “I won’t lie, I could… use your help.”

Halsin shifts, turning his torso to face Astarion better. The vampire pushes himself to sit upright, unfolding his legs and inching closer to the druid. The scent of Halsin, jewelweed mixed with forest and earth, but also weeks of travel, shouldn’t be this appealing. But Astarion can sense his pulse, can imagine Halsin’s blood on his tongue but also… his embrace. In the moment it takes for Halsin to lift his arm as an offering, Astarion has already swung a leg over the druid’s lap, effectively straddling him. Halsin is forced to lean back slightly, supporting himself on one arm. But he let’s Astarion stay on top of him, and the vampire leans forward, confident yet careful, looking into Halsin’s eyes for consent.

“You’ll have to stop me, if I drink too deeply. Just say the word, and I will have no more.” Astarion promises, hoping he’ll be able to keep it. Just being this close to Halsin, while his body screams for relief, for vitalization and nourishment, is driving him near mad.

Halsin keeps his gaze steady, and nods.

“I will let you know.”

A shiver runs down Astarion’s spine as he adjusts himself. His eyes run across Halsin’s neck as he reaches up a hand to push the druid’s hair to the side, revealing the tanned and bare skin underneath. The faintest hint of a vein running beneath makes his mouth water, and the warmth of Halsin’s skin feels like a promise of the blood that’s about to flow. Astarion leans in, and Halsin accommodates him by leaning his head to the side, giving Astarion ample room for a bite. Wishing he had the restraint to savour the moment, he stops only an inch away from Halsin’s skin. The druid holds his breath. Astarion breathes in the scent of forest, earth, of life, before putting his lips to Halsin’s skin. The druid shivers, and as much as Astarion wants to make it enjoyable for him, he has no more restraint and no other choice than to hold Halsin’s head with one hand as he sinks his teeth deep into his flesh.

Halsin inhales sharply through his nose, but his hand finds its way up Astarion’s back, holding him securely in place as the vampire makes his incision and begins to drink. It is an instant bliss and intoxicating madness as the blood meets Astarion’s tongue. It covers the inside of his mouth and runs down his throat like smooth velvet. The thick, rich and addictive liquid sweeps him into a trance. He sees nothing, hears nothing and thinks of nothing, as it fills his stomach, and quenches an animalistic need. He swallows mouthful after mouthful, finally relieved of the ache in his teeth and the hollowness inside. But relief is only half of it, once the harsh thirst is gone - greed remains. It is a feeling akin to an instinct, to consume until there is nothing left. To leave no life behind to tell of the crime that has been committed, of the unnatural exchange that has taken place. It is only when Halsin’s hand travels up his back, when his fingers tangle in Astarion’s locks that awareness of his surroundings return to him.

“Little elf.” Halsin murmurs. Astarion removes his lips from the druid’s neck, his senses tinted with red. He wants to keep drinking. Blood runs from two puncture wounds, two tendrils meeting and forming a stream, collecting in a pool in the hollow of Halsin’s collarbone, before dripping down and disappearing underneath his vest. He has never tasted anything as delicious.

“... more.” He whispers, voice thick with blood. He leans in for a second time.

“No.” Halsin answers, low. Astarion realises that the fingers in his hair are not just there to caress him, but to grip and pull back if the need arises. He pushes down a growl before it can escape him, surprised at the rage that fills him. As though Halsin feels him tensing, he lifts his hand out of his hair and lays his palm flat on it instead. His thumb moves up and down in soothing strokes. Reality returns to Astarion with frightening speed. Thoughts of apologising mingle with gratefulness and the embarrassment of having lost control. He clears his throat and leans back, straightening his back and looking Halsin in the eyes. The druid’s hand moves down to support the small of his back.

“Thank you.” Astarion breathes, before his eyes dart back to the still leaking wound on Halsin’s neck. Out of greed, and an innate inability of letting valuable things go to waste, he reaches to wipe and collect some of the blood on his fore- and middle finger, before bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean. Expecting a response or reaction from Halsin, Astarion looks up to assess his silence.

He finds the druid's eyes glazed over with a haze of bewilderment and wild want. Halsin seems to have forgotten his otherwise calm and assertive composure, and to have accidentally replaced it with something that Astarion has only ever known to describe as desire. He can’t help but chuckle.

“Excuse my table manners.” He starts, and swings a leg back to get off Halsin and rises to stand up in front of him. “But I seem to have spilled blood all over you.”

Halsin seems to collect his mind as he shifts to sit upright. Astarion reaches out a hand to help him rise. Not that he could ever pull the large elf to his feet, but the gesture seems appropriate. As Halsin accepts his assistance, a coy smile spreads across his face. But still, he remains silent.

“Dazed, darling?” Astarion tilts his head to the side. “Don’t worry, it’ll pass.”

Halsin rights himself up and feels at his neck. His fingers come off bloody and he beholds them for a moment before answering.

“Yes, well…” He looks up at Astarion. “Luckily, the mess is not a problem.” He says contently, crossing his arms to reach under his vest and pull it off in one swift movement. It is Astarion’s turn to be taken aback, staring at the druid’s large muscles, the hair on his chest and the divots and valleys on his hard stomach. At the blood that has run down past his collarbone. Halsin tosses his vest onto the flat rock and turns around to unlace and take off his trousers. A hard ball of panic rises in Astarion’s throat and he fumbles with the hem of his own shirt, unsure of the druid’s intentions. Surely, undressing this unceremoniously is not meant to instigate intimacy? If so, it is terribly up front. But Halsin seems relaxed and as unbothered as ever, slipping out of his underwear and tossing that too onto his pile of clothes. Astarion can’t help but smirk at the naked large man, so content to be only himself under the heavens. The sun has disappeared behind a distant mountain ridge, and all that remains is a dusky sky - it's visage a wondrous blend of hungry dark blues and a deep orange, chased away by the second. Halsin turns to walk to the spring, eager like a child. Astarion doesn’t need to fight an urge to be prude, as in all honesty, it’s not in his nature. He does not turn his head, does not avert his gaze, because he doesn’t want to - and because Halsin clearly invites admiration. The druid smiles at him, eyes glimmering with excitement, as he takes a step down into the water. He sighs with pleasure.

“Oh, blessed be.” He strides out into the water, head tilted back and eyes closed in delight. The water quickly reaches his stomach, as the spring proves surprisingly deep.

“Won’t you join me, Astarion?” He beckons. Halsin waits for Astarion’s response, but there is only silence, so he turns around to look at him. His mouth falls slightly open and all the air seems to leave his lungs, as the vampire has quickly shed his clothes. They lay neatly folded on the rock, and Astarion stands with his hands on his hips. The druid’s eyes are transfixed. Astarion beholds the deep blue water, its ripples barely showing any orange now, as the night swallows the world. He knows that his pale, almost white skin makes a stark contrast to the darkness behind him, and he knows that his body is worthy of admiration. He gives the druid a sly half-smile.

“I’ll be right there, darling.”

Chapter Text

The whispers of a breeze rustle the leaves as Astarion approaches the edge of the spring, the warmth of the heated moss inviting the soles of his feet to tread comfortably. When has the prospect of a hot bath ever been this inviting and simultaneously anxiety-inducing before? Though he is comfortable in his nudity, and appreciative of the druid’s gaze, the possible indication of joining Halsin in the water seems daunting. But having just fed, and having just been given the favor of drinking directly from Halsin, he does not feel as though he has the option to leave. So like many times before, he braces for whatever interaction is to come. A part of him even wants it. A careful foot breaches the surface of the water. It is wonderfully warm. He cannot help but hum in reaction.

“Mm. This could not have come any sooner.” He says, and means it. It’s as though he can feel the woes and strain of weeks of travel melt away from his feet, ankles and thighs as he descends down the flat rocks. The bottom is somewhat slippery, but the water is so clear that the moonlight and dusk guides him perfectly down, until water reaches his stomach. Halsin has waded to the center of the pool and stands turned around to look at the dark sky. On a whim, certainly increased by the welcoming warmth of the water, Astarion throws himself forward and dives beneath the surface. The rush of water fills his ears, the warmth soothes his body, and seems to reach his core. He takes a strong swimming stroke forward underneath the water, grateful for the muscle memory that somehow still lingers.

He breaches the surface in front of the druid, and comes up reinvigorated. Blinking water out of his eyes, he pushes his wet hair out of the way.

“Ah! Now that - is almost worth a perilous trek and life-threatening combat.” He smiles at Halsin. “Almost.” He repeats, and strides forward, placing a hand on the druid's strong arm. His own hand radiates steam from the lingering spring water, the temperature a stark contrast to the increasingly cool air. Halsin looks down at him and reaches up a hand of his own, but seems unsure of what to do with it. Not unused to having to guide his previous lovers, Astarion grabs the druid’s hand without thinking and places it on the back of his own head. Inviting Halsin to pull him in. But the druid only brings it to the front again, brushing away a wet strand of hair that clung to Astarion’s forehead. Astarion seeks Halsin’s eyes.

“My dear, do as you please. It’s the least I can do for you.” He assures him, figuring that Halsin needs some encouragement. He has almost completely come to terms with what is to come. But the druid looks at him with questioning eyes. The realization of Astarion’s suggestion dawns on his face just as the realization dawns on Astarion’s own, that Halsin might truly not have had anything else in mind, other than sharing a bath and a nice view. The druid’s mouth falls open at a loss for words, and Astarion retracts his hand and takes a hurried step back, water splashing around him.

“I-I’m sorry.” He stammers, heat flushing his face, warmer than any spring water. “I thought…” He fumbles. But Halsin has such a mortified look on his face that he has to laugh. Whether from embarrassment, or as an attempt to smooth over his mistake, he cannot tell, but a confused chuckle escapes him as he turns around, not bearing to look at the druid for a second longer. He puts his hands to his face, breathing in their heat.

“Aha - I apologize. This is rare… I, I have misread you. Please, I didn’t mean to overstep.” He stares down at the water, the surface reflecting only light, as if he wasn’t there. Were it only so. He should leave. He should never speak again. How could he have misjudged the situation so? It was not as if he hadn’t been rejected before, but to have entirely misread every interaction up until this point… he cant’t recall if it had ever happened this badly. Just as he is about to turn and make up some excuse - feeling tired perhaps, or needing to leap off a cliff and plummet into the ravine below - a warm hand lands on his shoulder. He whips around quickly, looking up at an embarrassed Halsin.

“Astarion, it’s alright. I am the one who should apologize.” He begins, and Astarion wishes he didn't exist. He doesn’t know how to deal with this, and wants least of all for the druid to try and take responsibility - though there is a small part of him that begins to feel irritated. Had he really misread Halsin completely? Or was it the druid that lacked sensibility? But Halsin continues.

“I understand. I should have been more clear. I might have gotten the same idea. I - I might have had the same idea.” He tries to explain, and his eyes seeks the water just as Astarion’s, as if the spring holds the answer on how to resolve this.

“What do you mean?” Astarion asks, not entirely being able to hold back the edge from his voice. Another emotion threatens his already overloaded mind. Hurt. Though he can find no justification for it.

Halsin sighs and rubs his brow with a thumb and forefinger before giving Astarion a look of almost pleading.
“It is not that I do not want to - it is that I did not think you wanted to. And please, whatever you meant with it being the least you could do is… is not right.”

Astarion takes it in, frustration growing in his chest.

“Well, what is that supposed to mean? Is it that you wanted to, but changed your mind? When? And I only wanted to return the favor!” He finishes, his voice increasing in volume, carrying across the calm waters. He hates the sound of it, and makes to walk past Halsin and get out of there.

But Halsin grabs his shoulders as he tries to walk past, and holds him in place. Astarion struggles before turning to face the druid yet again.

“What-” He begins, but Halsin reaches up a hand to his face, a gentle palm cradling his cheek and jaw. Astarion is stunned to silence by two calm, yet pleading eyes. The moonlight casts a shadow over the druids brow, yet the amber shines in his gaze,

“Please. I am sorry. Would you let me explain?” He asks low. And it is a true request, with a choice. Astarion knows it. If he chose to, he could just leave. But there’s a note in Halsin’s voice, a depth, that goes beyond the words he says and travels far beyond the touch of his hand on his face. Astarion stays.

“Alright.” He says, in an almost whisper. But there is a caution between them now. Or perhaps it is just in him, but he feels it, nonetheless.

“Thank you.” Halsin breathes and lowers his hand from Astarion’s face. Instead, he takes Astarion’s hand in both of his own, turning it over so that the palm faces the sky. He places one of his hands on top of Astarion’s, pressing his palm flat over it. He looks down at Astarion’s face, seeking his eyes again. Astarion meets his gaze, uncertain.

“When I give you something, be it a favor, an item, or the blood from my body - “ He begins, and Astarion feels a tingle in his palm, prompting him to look down. A golden shine lights up between the druid’s hand and his own.

“- It is yours. It is a gift.” He withdraws his hand, revealing a white flower in the palm of Astarion’s hand, conjured by Halsin’s magic. Astarion touches it with his thumb, and a golden shimmer reveals the fabric of the arcane creation. The petals are smooth, it’s form resembling a lotus.

“I do not expect anything back. There is no exchange, nothing -” He reaches up to close Astarion’s fingers over the flower, disintegrating it, a golden rain of shimmering magic falling from the gaps between Astarion’s fingers.

“Nothing owed.” He finishes. Astarion let’s his hand fall to his side and looks up at Halsin. He does not really know what to make of this explanation. He understands it well enough, hears it, sees the principle. But he cannot believe it. He sighs.

“How… altruistic.” He manages. A part of him wishes that the flower had been real.

“You don’t believe me?” Halsin asks, a smile softening his concerned face.

“It is not as much that I don’t believe you as… as I…” He struggles for words. Embarrassed yet again, he throws his hands out in a nonchalant gesture.

“I’m just not used to that kind of… behaviour.” He finishes, and feels out of place. Then he remembers.

“But you said you did want it. Why not just let it happen, then?” He asks, genuinely not understanding.

“I did not think it was the right time. I want to, believe me. I want to share all of me, with you. But you do not seem to be in a place where that is… right. Not right now, at least.”

An unexpected wave of relief washes over Astarion. Halsin still wants to. Nothing was ruined. But confusion followed, gnawing at any reassurance.

“I’m ‘not in a place where it is right’? You’re confusing me, druid. You’re the one who put a stop to it.” He exclaims, looking down, frustration tugging at his voice again. Halsin once again reaches up to hold his face in his large, warm hand. Astarion resists the urge to pull away.

“I don’t want to pry. But past… experiences seem to bother you. Past expectations. It is familiar, to me.”

“Oh? You make a habit of rehabilitating broken spirits, do you?” Astarion spits, and regrets the harsh words as soon as they leave his mouth. But Halsin seems unfazed, and only smiles slightly, before turning solemn.

“Maybe. But that is not what I meant. I believe we share some burdens, things of the past, that have happened to the both of us.” He seems to consider his next words. Astarion seeks them in his eyes, as memories cast a haunting shadow over the druid’s face.

“I was enslaved once, too.” He says. Astarion is stunned.

“Oh.” Was all he can say, at a loss for words. Halsin does not seem bothered at Astarion’s surprise, nor at having mentioned it.

“It was a long time ago, in my youth.” He continues. “It took me quite some time to come to terms with, and in some ways I don’t entirely believe I have. Some things stay with us.” His thumb strokes Astarion’s cheek.

“Some things need time to heal. In both body and soul.”

Astarion considers scoffing at his words, soulless by nature of being a vampire as he is. But instead, his fingers seeks the druid's neck, where dried blood still pools by his collarbone.

“Time.” Astarion repeats, letting his thumb graze the wound where his teeth had punctured Halsin’s neck.

“We don’t seem to have it in abundance, you know. Those of us with mind flayer larvae in our brains, that is.” He clarifies. Halsin nods.

“I know. But in my years I have learned that few good things come from rushing that which is not ready to be done. And I, for one, am not in a hurry for much other than returning order to that which has been disturbed by the shadow curse. It is a blight that has haunted those lands long enough. Little else requires fast action, save for remedying your parasites, of course.” He adds.

“So, when it comes to you, and what you are… ready for, I am more than ready to wait, for when the time is ever right. If you want me to.” He continues.

There is a sincerity, and an unwavering certainty in his words, that does something to Astarion’s worries - that stills the rushing thoughts of his mind. Again, there is a true choice for him. And he feels no threat of repercussion, should he choose to tell Halsin to simply leave him be and forget it all. It is so strange. It is not as if they have known each other for very long and not as if there is a promise of anything to be truly gained for Halsin should Astarion choose to ask him to wait. Whatever that entails. It is a profound concept. He reaches to trace the red line of the tattoo that begins on Halsin’s neck and reaches up to his jaw and cheek, but stops as his finger reaches the line that leads up to the druid’s lips.

“Alright.” Astarion responds, after a moment’s contemplation. There is a vagueness to any definition of whatever this means, that somehow appeals to him. The freedom of not having to make a decision, at least not right now, feels good. For once, he trusts his intuition. A new wave of relief washes over him. It almost takes his breath away. The tension that he has felt, all evening, all afternoon, leaves him, as he breathes out. He looks down, and notices with annoyance that his eyes are stinging. Tears, coaxed to leave with little resistance due to the water on his face, fall freely down into the hot spring. Perhaps because he is angry at his loss of composure, or frustrated with the lack of a true resolution to all that he had anticipated would happen, or perhaps because he craves comfort, he lets the tears flow. And for the same reasons, or for neither of them, he looks up and reaches up both hands to the druid's face and hastily, angrily, closes the distance between them both and brings his lips to Halsin’s in a desperate kiss. Hard at first, pressing his lips to the druid’s with fervor, and then gently, as Halsin responds carefully, bringing Astarion into a secure embrace, with one hand on the small of his back and the other cradling his head and wet locks.

Halsin’s lips are soft, a contrast to his rough hands and weathered skin, and his tongue warm and unhurried, carefully meeting Astarion’s at his own prompting. There is a tenderness and soothing way to how Halsin kissea, as if every touch is meant to console. Astarion takes all of it, needs all of it. But that is all. He doesn't want more, doesn't need more, and Halsin doesn't push, only gives of himself just what Astarion craves. As he pulls back, Astarion feels the taste of salt from his own tears on his lips, and knows that Halsin tastes the same. Astarion breathes shakily, shoulders heaving a little from the effort of holding back more tears. He doesn't want to cry more, does not want to expose more of himself just now.
Sensing his struggle, Halsin kisses the tears on both of his cheeks and strokes his hair.

“There is no hurry.” He promises low. Astarion nods, and feeling embarrassed at the increased closeness and sincerity, he brings a hand down to the water and up to his face, scooping some of it’s content to splash himself and wash the tears away. A nervous laugh escapes him as he rubs at his eyes.

“Rarely do I feel out of place like this, dear.” He admits. Halsin laughs with him, like a low rumble.

“Worry not. I cannot say I am used to it either.” He smiles, as he too scoops up some water, but does not bring it to his own face, but pours it quickly onto Astarion’s head and hair, causing droplets to run down into his eyes, truly only inconveniencing his effort at seeing better. Astarion sputters as Halsin chuckles. Realizing the druid is actually being playful, Astarion looks up at him with a scowl that does not fit his smile that threatens to turn to laughter. Feeling vindictive, he brings his hand down fast in the water, splashing all of Halsin’s torso and face in response. The druid puts his hands up to shield himself, but the fight has begun.

The culmination of having kissed and the relief of their agreement has the two centuries-old elves playing like children in the warm water, and it is not until Astarion has properly drenched Halsin’s hair completely that he feels that he has had his revenge.

“There!” He laughs, as Halsin pushes his wet hair out of the way and wipes his smiling face to rid himself of the worst wetness.

“Now wash that hair properly, and I might feel kind enough to braid it for you tomorrow.” He promises, and feels light at the thought of a new day, for the first time in… a long time.

Halsin dips himself completely beneath the surface in response and comes up squeezing the strands of his hair to the best of his ability, trying to detangle the wet knots, but clearly failing.

“Come here.” Astarion beckons, and wades up to a flat rock, heaving himself up to sit on it and indicating for Halsin to follow. The druid swims up to him and turns around, allowing for Astarion to carefully brush his fingers through his hair, separating the strands. He works with ease, having helped his siblings wash so many times that this felt like a routine. After a short while, Halsin reaches up to grab one of Astarion’s hands and brings it around to his face, gently pressing his lips to the palm.

“Thank you.” Astarion says, surprising himself. Halsin turns his head around, looking up at him for a change.

“For what, little elf?” He asks. Astarion thinks for a moment.

“For this. This night. It is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Chapter Text

The ground seems to sizzle under Astarion’s feet as he follows Halsin back to camp in the bright moonlight. The white shine is dappled on the ground from the sparse canopy above. Soft moss and hard rock gives way for pine needles and dirt that feel impossibly porous and light, as though he weighs several stone less now than he did when he first tread here - just a while ago. The wind is cool in his damp hair, a soft breath through his locks, like a slight push to walk forward. Halsin’s broad back is a comfort in front of him on the narrow path, the muscles playing around his shoulders as his arms gently sway with his sure stride. The druid hadn’t put his vest or shoes back on after their bath, and wanders barefoot and bare chested in the night with the confidence of one who has walked these woods many times before. Water droplets from his long hair trickle down between his shoulder blades. Astarion can’t help but wonder if the warmth of the water lingers on Halsin’s skin the way it does on his own. His limbs feel loose - aches and bruises soothed by the spring water, forgotten as Halsin washed beside him, splashed him with water, laughed as he wiped it from his eyes. As he kissed him. Astarion drinks in the evening air. A lone owl calls out, and Halsin turns his head while walking.

“Everything alright, my heart?” He wonders low. “You’re quiet.”

Astarion’s reply catches in his throat at the affectionate choice of labeling.

“I- Yes.” Is all he can say. He had been lost in what was now a calm mind. Halsin was ever so attentive. Could he ever get used to it? Astarion contemplates the ease of Halsin’s affection and care as they keep walking in silence.

“Here we are.” Halsin says, as they reach their campgrounds, where the fire is burning low and their tents are colored white by the light of the moon. He steps aside to let Astarion pass out of the trees and onto the mossy flat rocks. Astarin stops in his tracks. The air seems suddenly colder. A shiver makes its way down his back along with a droplet of water, trickling down the collar of his shirt. He turns to Halsin, who looks at him with a gaze that’s hard to read.

“I will see you in the morning.” Halsin says after a moment of silence. It almost seemed as though he wished to say something else, and Astarion thought could see it in his eyes. But he also chose not to prolong their company any further.

“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Astarion replies, and though a part of him wishes to reach out for the druid, or that Halsin would reach out for him, neither of them move toward each other.

“Sweet dreams, dear.” Astarion adds before he turns around, tearing his eyes from Halsin’s with great effort. He walks away, past the fire as it crackles low, and has to keep himself from looking back over his shoulder before he enters his tent. A strange and empty sensation hollows out his chest in the absence of Halsin’s company - yet Astarion can’t place why he doesn’t mind it. Inside the tent he gets ready to curl up and rest on his bedroll, comfortably heated by the warm moss and the volcanic earth underneath. As he lays down, images from the night come flooding into his mind, warm and tinted white with moonlight. He figures that sleep is likely leagues away, with the way his body seems to be in a state of buzzing excitement. He feels foolish for it, like he’s some smitten teenager. As he pulls the blanket over himself however, it takes only a few minutes before he is fast and soundly asleep, better and deeper than he has been for weeks. For the first time in a long time, his rest is free from apparitions of his past.

……………………….

With heavy steps, the companionship traverses the mountain back up to the crossroads at Trielta Crags, this time taking a different route down the mountain pass. It turned out that Astarion really came to need that sleep, as the past few days have proved to be unexpectedly eventful and demanding. And lonely. He barely had time to look Halsin’s way other than in battle, and outside it, Halsin was busy leading their way - always in front, always in the company of others. Astarion surprised himself by not wanting to be in the way, and he didn’t want to seem too eager to seek out Halsin privately either. He had a hard time making up his mind about what had happened the other night in the hot springs, and the constant perils weren’t helpful to his contemplations.

The creche, that Tav and Lae’zel were so intent on finding, proved to be located in a massive decrepit monastery dedicated to the morninglord Lathander - complete with traps, hardly navigable terrain and all manners of combative pests. And that was before they even entered the Githyanki camp, where they were dragged into the astral plane and then marked for death by Vlaakith herself. They had to fight for their lives to leave. Astarion, like the others, felt a huge relief when they wandered battered out of there, still not free of the tadpoles but perhaps one religious fanatic lesser - as poor Lae’zel had her faith tested to a breaking point by both her military betters and her goddess. Astarion has never found any gods to be responsive and therefore cares little for religion or its devotees, but it makes him uneasy to see Lae’zel’s ironwill falter. He himself is not a stranger to having one's worldview turned upside down. Her being so suddenly forsaken makes him consider his own volatile situation, and he keeps to himself and his increasingly troubled thoughts as they travel back up the mountain.

Halsin’s navigation is well needed as the roads leading down the western side of the mountain are downtrodden and ill maintained, proving to be more of a precarious descent than they had anticipated. They keep at it for most of the day, but as late afternoon approaches, the companionship stops on a hillside leading to a flat plateau for a well-needed break. Gale and Karlach collapse on the slope, Karlach spreading out wide on her back, singing the modest grass around her and groaning. The wizard complains of blisters, and Wyll agrees, rubbing his own sore feet through his boots. Shadowheart drains her waterskin, and Tav distributes bread while chewing on a piece of dried meat. Lae’zel sits quietly on a rock by the edge of the plateau, the air of abandonment tangible around her as she stares out over the foggy expanse below. They’re all exhausted and overwhelmed. Astarion stops by Tav, but his gaze follows Halsin as the druid walks further away, seating himself on a fallen tree trunk with a heavy sigh. Astarion holds out a hand to receive a piece of bread from Tav, inclining his head to Halsin as his reason. Without question from anyone this time, he is handed a nice fresh bun, recently looted from the Githyanki. Astarion slips it into his sleeve, thinking that this is the best excuse he’s had in days to talk to Halsin alone.

His aching feet carry him over to the druid. As he approaches, Halsin looks up at him, but to Astarion’s surprise, he receives no smile. Just a nod of acknowledgment.

“Now, now - what have I done to deserve your indifference, dear?” Astarion inquires as he comes to a stop in front of the druid, doing his best to keep a light tone and to seem nonchalant, masking his twinge of anxiousness. Halsin shakes his head and lifts a hand to his face, pinching his nose bridge between thumb and forefinger.

“Forgive me.” He mumbles with eyes closed. Something is clearly weighing on his mind. Astarion slips out the bun from his sleeve and holds it out.

“Here.” He says quickly, feeling uncomfortable.

Halsin opens his eyes and looks at the bread for a second, his mind in delay. Then he comes to and grabs it, his fingers brushing against Astarion for a moment longer than needed. The touch is all Astarion needs to feel some semblance of reassurance that his presence isn’t unwanted.

“Thank you.” Halsin says, and glances up at a discerning Astarion. It becomes apparent to Astarion then, just how tired the druid is. His hair is a knotted mess, dark circles color his under eyes blue, his lips are a tight thin line and the furrow between his brows seems to be permanent. Worry and exhaustion are spelled out all across his face. Astarion considers what to do for a moment, feeling out of place. The druid’s hair truly is a sorry sight. Astarion steps over the log and stands behind Halsin as he starts to pick apart the bread. Astarion tuts as he takes a look at the bird’s nest that’s supposed to resemble his hair. Halsin had, by the looks of it, tried his best to collect it in a bun and tied it with a string, but it had partially come loose and was now terribly knotted and tangled. Astarion never did have time to braid it the day after their bath. Carefully, he reaches to feel a tangled strand.

“May I?” He asks, twinning it between his fingers. Halsin gives a silent nod, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

Taking care not to pull or tug, Astarion gently undoes the leather string barely holding Halsin’s hair together and lets the mess fall over the druid’s shoulders. He starts to work in sections, raking his fingers through where possible and carefully separating and pulling apart knots. Halsin seems to slightly relax, the tension in his shoulders easing up a bit, as Astarion’s fingers flutter around his head. He wishes to ask him what’s wrong, but finds it oddly difficult to pose the question.

“You look terrible.” He blurts out instead, unable to settle on anything subtler. A quiet chuckle shakes Halsin’s shoulders. But it’s devoid of his usual heartiness.

“I imagine so.” He says, and picks at the bread, but doesn’t eat. Astarion doesn’t know whether to pry or remain quiet, so instead he tackles a particularly matted section at the base of Halsin’s neck.

“We’re getting closer now.” Halsin mumbles, and for a second Astarion misinterprets him, thinking he’s talking about their relationship, and he freezes. Then he understands, feeling dumb, and tries to hide it by quickly picking up a new section to rake through.

“Right,” He says, unsure what that entails other than them reaching their goal of getting closer to Moonrise. He knows that Halsin wishes to cure the Shadow-Cursed Lands of the, well, Shadow Curse, but realizes that he hasn’t questioned it since he first heard Halsin speak of it as they were celebrating with the tieflings before their departure from the Grove. He’d tucked it away in his mind as druid business.

“Tell me darling, what horrors await us ahead, that have you in such a sorry state?” Astarion asks, though he’s not sure he wishes to know. He lets some broken strands fall from his fingers to the ground. Halsin is quiet for a moment.

“The curse has plagued the whole region around Moonrise Towers with darkness and despair for more than one hundred years now. Those who remained there when it… fell, are now shadow-cursed. Stuck in a never-ending limbo, doomed to drag everything alive into the curse’s grasp with them. If you don't die at their hands, then you become one of them simply by being there.” He takes a deep breath, and Astarion feels a chill creeping down his back. Halsin’s words are heavy, as if he has repeated them many times, ruminated their derivation and carried it alone.

“And why, dear, do I sense that you somehow feel responsible for this… blight?” Astarion asks, stilling his fingers. Halsin’s shoulders slump forward.

“Well…” He starts, and Astarion feels the sorrow emanating from his very being. “There's hardly anyone left to share the responsibility with. Few who witnessed the fall of Moonrise still draw breath. I didn’t do enough to stop it before it happened. And I haven’t been able to do enough since.” He says, his words grim, punishing. It is clear that he, for some reason, blames himself for this. Astarion puts a tentative hand on his shoulder, certain that he should be saying something comforting, but unsure how to do it. Comfort wasn’t something he’d had much practice with at all.

“But now… there’s a chance?” He tries anyway, carefully. Even as the words leave his mouth, he feels their naïvite.

“Yes.” Halsin responds despite Astarion’s dubitable confidence, and straightens himself slightly under Astarion’s hand. “The curse is not something that nature can undo by itself. I must do what I can, and with everyone’s help, there is - with the Oakfather’s blessing - a chance.” He concludes, and some of the dejection seems to have left his voice. Astarion gathers the druid’s hair, now free from tangles but sure to quickly get messy again if it’s not properly bound or braided. So he sections it up, mindlessly doing what his fingers seem to know out of old habit. Where it comes from, he’s not sure.

“Well, I think we owe it to you to help out, for getting us here.” Astarion supposes pensively, and though he sees the justness of it, he does not look forward to the unknown horrors of these lands. But he sees no other way forward. And then there’s this new and nagging part of him, that no matter how much he tries to suppress, won’t quiet. A part that wishes to help Halsin, to defeat whatever proverbial foe that threatens to shake the boulder that otherwise wouldn’t yield to even an earthquake. But what a foe it must be, and what an idiot Astarion must be, to think himself suitable or strong enough to have anything to do with such evil. Heroism and selfless antics are better left to those with little regard for self preservation.

“And far be it from Tav to leave evil unchecked.” He adds in a mutter, bitterness clear in his voice, recalling how his undead nature and need for blood to sustain himself seemed to bother Tav so when they first found out. As if he could help it.

Halsin seems to be too lost in his own concerns to hear Astarion’s tone or understand what he means.

“It’s more than evil. The shadow-curse is a mockery of life, a blasphemy of the sacredness that created these lands, a forced rejection of what Silvanus teaches us to uphold. Nothing can grow, nothing can be restored or preserved where it festers. None of my attempts have been fruitful, none of them have come near to even clear as much as a foot. Or to rescue any of those who fell to its darkness.” Halsin breathed out, the pain of his failures so evident that Astarion is taken aback by how deeply the druid must care about this cause. He’s yet again at a loss for words.

“It’s unnatural. Tainted. Balance needs to be restored.” Halsin mumbles, but then he straightens again and reaches up with a hand over his shoulder, gently interrupting one of Astarion’s braiding hands to hold it.

“But I’m glad for the aid given so willingly by everyone here. For the company and common purpose.” Halsin caresses the back of Astarion’s hand. Astarion feels his heart sink and beat at a doubled pace. For the first time, the druid's words unsettle him.
“But mostly, for you.” Halsin adds low, and turns his head back to look up at Astarion who knows that the look on his face is not what the druid expects.

A feeling like being found out in the midst of a complicated lie ambushes him, and he scrambles to think of something to say, to defend himself or to uphold it. But he can’t even put his finger on why he feels like a fraud. The druid’s words makes Astarion wonder if Halsin truly thinks that he wants to be here, that he wants to pursue a cure for the parasites in their minds or that he wants to work with the others to overthrow goblin leaders or save refugees. That he wants to right balances or care for innocents lost to curses. He doesn’t. He never has and he has never expressed otherwise. Sure, he hasn’t explicitly stated the opposite out loud, since he’s figured that brandishing his unwillingness to help those in need isn’t exactly tasteful or smart in a company that, for the most part, holds different values. But he hasn’t been quiet about his displeasure either. Surely, Halsin hasn’t gotten the idea that he is somehow doing all of this out of the goodness of his heart? He can’t even convince himself that he wants to be rid of the mind flayer parasite, since he’d lose the ability to walk in sunlight and his resistance to Cazador’s command. In truth, he only travels with the others because it offers protection, and because he wants to know more about the creature buried in his brain. And what powers it might offer him. But now, in Halsin’s company, this makes him feel like an impostor.

“I- I don’t…” He stammers, unsure and caught off-guard. Halsin’s eyes go from grateful and warm to concerned and questioning. Astarion feels forced to look away and pulls his hand back.

“Listen, I don’t know what you expect or think of me.” He starts, and takes a step back. He looks out over the others, seeing them eat and laugh their exhaustion away, seeing Wyll carefully making his way down to Lae’zel to offer her something to eat, knowing full well she’ll only hiss insults at him. Astarion steels himself and turns back to look at Halsin.

“You say the Shadow-Cursed Lands are unnatural, something dead making mockery of the living, a blight and blasphemy to nature itself.” Astarion gestures to himself.

“And what am I?”

He sees Halsin’s eyes widen before he tries to respond, but Astarion interrupts him before he can start.

“I need you to know that I’m not doing this because I wish to rid myself of the worm in my head like the others, or because I’m on a righteous path to cleanse the lands from evil. Not necessarily, anyways,” he adds, not wanting to sound cruel.

“I’ll do it if it has to be done, and I’ll follow the others because there is safety in numbers. But like what you say about the Cursed Lands, I too am tainted. I’m unnatural - dead but living. And I care little for samaritan behaviours - I think you know this. I-...” Astarion trails off, unsure how to continue. How to not sound ungrateful or heartless. With anyone else he wouldn’t care, and even that confuses him.

“For centuries I’ve had to look out for myself, and myself only. All cooperation was punished. I was to lure people back to Cazador, and in between I tried my best not to catch his attention. I know how to do little else. All I want is to be free of my master, free of anyone telling me what or what not to do. I’ve dragged hundreds to their deaths. Please,” Astarion continues, closing his eyes in a pained expression.

“Please, don’t confuse my actions for chivalry or beneficence. I assure you, I know nothing of the sort.” He finishes, exasperated, opening his eyes, half-expecting Halsin to be gone or to glare at him with disappointment or disgust. Instead he is met with understanding. Halsin’s eyes are deep blue and gold wells of patience.

“And yet, you bring me bread and braid my hair.” Halsin says, and offers Astarion a tired half-smile. It’s almost infuriating. Astarion opens and closes his mouth, but Halsin continues before he can find his words.
“I see you, Astarion. I have seen you especially these past few days. How you look to me in battle, how you have my back in danger. I’ve seen you envy the closeness of the others, seen you feel despair with Lae’zel. How you’ve kept quiet when you need to feed, complaining only of scratches to hide deeper injuries. I’ve seen you fall behind and keep your worries to yourself to not affect anyone else. I regret that you had to seek me out now, and that I did not come to you first, earlier. For that, I am sorry.” Halsin apologizes, and Astarion cannot wrap his mind around why. The druid turns back and gestures out over the others.

“Look,” he says and inclines over to Wyll and Karlach. “Take them, for example.”

Astarion looks at the two horned companions as Karlach laughs at Wyll’s defeated face as he returns from his attempts at offering Lae’zel food, clearly having failed. Karlach gives him an uncalculated pat on the back and apologizes profusely as she nearly burns a hole through his tunic. Astarion snorts, confused, but Halsin goes on.

“Wyll has been tricked into a contract with a devil on false terms, and has paid a price for being merciful. Karlach was enlisted to fight in a war in the Hells against her will, sold as a mercenary without an option to leave.” Halsin inclines his head to the others.
“And then there’s Gale, who has a concentrated force of the weave in his chest, ready to explode at the whim of his goddess. Lae’zel was promised ascension to the highest rank for her kind, only to find out that she was being deceived for her service. Shadowheart knows little of herself at all, her memories and self sacrificed for her goddess.”

Astarion looks at them all and back at Halsin, nonplussed.

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad - your point being?” He says, annoyed at the time it’s taking Halsin to reach a conclusion. Or for how long it's taking himself to understand it.
“In the little time I have known you and everyone here, it’s become clear to me - we’ve all been used before. Not one of us is clean, or untainted by previous actions - everyone has been utilized for something, be it for the way they are or for an ability they possess. To further someone else’s cause.”

Astarion furrows his brow, seeing that the druid’s words are true, but not understanding entirely how they relate to him or the point he was trying to make. Halsin sees his confusion. He thinks for a moment and looks out over the treacherous and mountainous landscape stretching far and wide before them.

“I know you are not keen on my religious philosophies, but Silvanus teaches us to not see a difference in anyone or anything based on the beings’ past or present. A young lynx, newly groomed by its mother, has no more or less value than the old mud soaked boar. And neither is the lynx’s soul deemed lesser because it would kill the boar, nor is the boar's soul lesser because he would outrun his pack to save himself from the lynx. They are doing what their nature tells them, and that is all as it should be. Balanced.” Halsin gestures to their companions yet again. “As people, we do what we can to survive and move forward in the circumstances we are in - we do what our nature tells us is right. And when we cannot do that, we strive to right the balance.”

Astarion realizes that he doesn’t want to see the point, but it dawns on him still, as Halsin carries on.

“I see you not for the darkness that haunts your heart or for the deeds you have done. I see you for the person you are, trying your utmost to bring balance to what has been off-set. You and I are very alike in this, Astarion.” Halsin concludes, and brings a hand up to his hair, feeling at Astarion’s unfinished work.

“Do you see what I mean?” Halsin asks and looks up behind himself at a conflicted Astarion. Regrettably, Astarion does see what he means. Though ‘Trying to bring balance to what has been off-set’ is a very roundabout way of saying that he wishes to be free of his slave master and to take revenge for years of confinement and torture. But he’ll accept it.

“I guess.” He answers, begrudgingly, and steps forward again, taking the hair out of Halsin’s hand. He braids a section in silence, his fingers moving almost as quick as his mind, before the druid speaks again.

“We will move a little further down the mountain before we make camp. But we need a night’s rest before we set off into these lands.” Halsin declares, his voice calm and less haggard now. Astarion hums in acknowledgement, still overtaken by the druid’s aggravatingly well thought-out metaphor and reassuring words. He finishes the last braid and ties the upper section of Halsin’s hair together with the leather string, completing his attempt at keeping the druid’s hair out of his face and from tangling up. He is quite pleased with the results.

“There.” He says triumphantly, and fidgets a little with a loose strand, tucking it in.
“That should keep until the next opportunity for a bath presents itself.” He says, and steps over the log to sit down beside Halsin, finally getting to rest his legs. Halsin reaches up to feel the braids.

“Thank you, little elf.” He says, and Astarion pretends to not be affected by what has become his favorite denomination.

The druid eats his bread, and Astarion takes a moment to breathe. The wind sweeps over them and down to their companions, rustling old leaves and blowing them over the edge of the cliffside.

“Will you come to my tent tonight?” Halsin asks out of the blue, brushing crumbs from his trousers.
“There is something I want to tell you.”

Astarion feels his heart skip a beat, and tries to suppress any excitement. But unlike last time when Halsin asked for his company, he doesn’t feel any dread mixed in with the anticipation. He looks at Halsin, still brushing crumbs off his trousers, and realizes that there aren’t any left. The druid is trying to hide his own nervousness by not looking at him and by keeping his hands busy. Astarion tries his best not to laugh.

“Only if you promise not to talk about lynxes and boars.” He jests, and Halsin looks at him with a smile.

“I can promise that.” He laughs.

Chapter Text

The campground they chose at the end of the day is precariously situated at the side of the mountain, where different elevations of flat rocks and sloping cliffs makes navigation harder than Astarion feels is warranted. A strong, cold night wind blows over the jagged and arid landscape, kicking up dust and sweeping it over the edge into the ravine below. Wishing they would’ve picked a nicer spot, Astarion takes careful steps down a slope and supports himself on his thighs, leaning back to help his tired muscles descend. Since the mountainside is nestled deep between two higher peaks, the sun disappears much quicker than usual. The shadows feel deeper than they should, and Astarion wonders if it’s because they’re nearing the cursed lands. Darkness approaches rapidly and, though Astarion sees well at night, something makes this darkness unnaturally thick. He curses as he misses a rock jutting out underfoot and almost stumbles forward to what could have been an awfully far drop to his demise. Why did the druid set his tent up so close to the ravine? Astarion’s foul words are carried away by the wind as he slows his pace the last bit, coming to a grateful stop on level ground in front of Halsin’s tent. The canopy flaps and shudders in the wind. He straightens and takes a deep breath, and tries to tell himself that his nervosity is only lingering vertigo. And that if it isn’t, there is still no need to feel nervous. Irritatingly enough, he can’t seem to convince himself. He clears his throat.

“May I come in?” He asks, and waits for a reply. But there is none. Astarion assumes the wind stole his words. He pulls the tent flap gently to the side and peeks in. The scent of drying herbs hits his senses with an accompanying memory of warmth. Halsin sits in the half-dark, cross legged on a fur pelt and gives him a tired smile. The light from a single candle in a holder in front of him casts deep and trembling shadows over his face.

“Can I come in?” Astarion repeats. Halsin looks up at him.

“Please.” He replies huskily.

Simply hearing his voice, tired though it is, sends a lightning bolt through Astarion’s nerves. Grateful, yet nervous, he ducks inside the tent to escape the wind and sinks down beside Halsin. He unconsciously mimics the druid and sits criss-cross. Halsin fiddles with something small in his hands, twisting and turning it mindlessly. It glints in the light of the candle, appearing to be some sort of silver medallion. An apprehensive silence stretches between them. All that can be heard is the harsh mountain gusts, tugging at the tent canopy and setting the candle flame into an agitated dance. Cowering, it tries to avoid the persistent tendrils of icy wind that sneak their way in, uninvited. Astarion shifts along the candle’s unease.

“Well?” He asks after a while, and Halsin looks up at him with a puzzled expression. Astarion raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t tell me I almost tumbled down the mountainside just to sit here in silence.” He complains, and his dramatics elicit an amused smile from the druid. The air shifts.

“My apologies. I did say that I wanted to tell you something, didn’t I?” Halsin starts low, looking down at his fingers and the medallion. Astarion still gets the feeling that he’s stalling.

“That you did. Now please, though I technically have all of eternity – I’d rather not spend it in anticipation.”

Halsin nods and takes a deep breath, but doesn’t look up. Suddenly Astarion regrets his impatience.

“There is something that I’ve been wanting to tell you – Waiting to tell you, in fact.” Halsin says, and Astarion can tell that the words are rehearsed. But still, there’s a hesitation in the way he speaks them. An uncharacteristic uncertainty. He fidgets with the medallion. Astarion refrains from urging him on, feeling his own nerves sharpen, fearing that Halsin is going to break their… recent closeness – or whatever it can be called – off. Or that this is some confession of love. He can’t tell which would be worse. He steels himself.

Halsin keeps his eyes on the candle.

“Ever since I learned of your… history, I have felt that I should tell you about this. But I have had a difficult time understanding why even I want to. At first, I thought that I ought to wait until I’ve fulfilled my duty – until I’ve cleared the Curse from these lands. But lately, with every reminder that you give me, it weighs heavier and heavier on my mind, and I fear that I cannot stay focused on the task at hand if I don’t share this with you.” He looks up at Astarion, and his eyes are solemn and sincere, his expression a plea for allowance. Astarion nods slowly, despite feeling a rush of ice cold adrenaline.

“I’m listening.” He murmurs quietly. Halsin looks away into the tall, flickering shadows on the canopy wall. The tent rustles.

“This took place a long time ago. Which is part of the reason why it felt so strange to find the memory of it resurfacing now – for it to affect me this way. Anyway,” He tries to begin, but interrupts himself and looks down at the small medallion in his hand. He brushes his thumb over it. Astarion can see a decision form in his mind and Halsin suddenly holds the medallion out to him. He receives it with an open palm and turns it over to run a finger along its silver ridges, inspecting it. Despite the medallion having been held by the druid’s warm hands, it’s strangely cold. Astarion turns it over to inspect the emblem. Engraved and raised into the metal is an image of two sharp arrows crossing each other, with what appears to be strands of spider web hanging between them, creating a striking symbol. It reminds him of a spider web tattoo he’d seen on the neck of the female drow they’d defeated at the goblin camp. Distant tales of territorial and bloodthirsty wars in Menzoberranzan swim into his mind.

“This is a drow house insignia.” He states with surprise, both at recognizing the imagery and at holding it in his hand.

“Yes.” Halsin confirms solemnly. “It used to be fitted into a collar, which in turn was fitted onto me.”

Astarion looks up at the druid with a mix of shock and confusion. Halsin snorts joylessly and rubs his forehead with thumb and forefinger. Whatever he’s about to say pains him. Or is he embarrassed? Astarion finds it hard to discern. Halsin’s eyes are closed, as if he’s remembering something far away in his mind. He speaks slowly, choosing his words with care.

“As a youth I was a foolhardy newly anointed druid, intent on exploring and seeing everything nature had to offer. I travelled anywhere and everywhere, wherever I felt like the Oakfather was guiding me. But I must have let my eagerness and curiosity outrule any divine guidance when I decided that I had to see the glow of the Underdark for myself.” He sighs and looks up at Astarion with tired eyes. The druid attempts an apologetic smile, as if excusing his former self. Astarion realizes that it’s not embarrassment that pains Halsin, but disappointment in his past.

“I was careless, and tread too close to what I didn’t realize was the bloodsoaked battlegrounds of Menzoberranzan ambition. Before I knew it, I was knocked out by a drow poison arrow and woke up a prisoner… in their House.” He indicates the insignia in Astarion’s hand with his head. His expression darkens as he speaks. A cold tendril sweeps over the tent floor.

“What became of me after I caught the house matron’s eye was an outcome of luck. Or so I thought – until recently. Had the events transpired any differently, I could have been put to a lifetime’s work in the mines, or become drider fodder.”

He passes his hand over the candle flame, and then shields it from the irking wind, helping it regain its strength. The gold in his eyes shimmer in the light, but the glint that usually shines with warmth is replaced with cold scorn.

“What do you mean ‘caught her eye’? Who was she?” Astarion asks carefully, but he’s heard enough tales of drow customs to suspect that the answer wouldn’t be pleasant no matter how lucky Halsin had gotten. The druid stares at the flame.

“I would rather not say her name.” He replies after a moment’s thought, and Astarion doesn't question it. Halsin continues.

“But she, along with the house patron, took me into their bedchamber. And I was chained there. For nigh on three years.”

Astarion holds his breath. Suddenly, the cold gleam of the insignia in his hand seems insidious. He closes his fist around it, as if to suffocate its energy, but doesn’t know what to say. Halsin glances at him, checking his reaction. A note of worry creeps into his voice.

“Like I said, I thought myself lucky. I was upgraded from prisoner to guest – or consort. It might not have been optimal, but it wasn’t without benefits. I did what I had to, to keep their interest. And sometimes mine.” He snorts. “You made me think of it differently, though.” He adds, eyeing Astarion’s closed fist.

Astarion frowns. He hadn’t expected any of this.

“Differently how?”

“Please, I mean no offence.” Halsin turns to him and holds up a hand in apology.
“I know a mere three years cannot compare to… the torture you’ve been subjected to. The pain. The mind games.” Halsin looks around the tent for more words.
“I did fear for my life, and wished for freedom, but I did not suffer like you have.”

Astarion tilts his head and frowns, disconcerted by the comparison.

“I don’t wish to compare tragedies, darling. I have no doubt it was awful enough.” He says low.

The tent canopy shakes in the wind, and Halsin quickly puts his hands around the candle to shield it from the intruding air. He seems to consider Astarion’s words, and his shoulders relax somewhat. Astarion opens his fist to look at the emblem again, glaring at it as if to curse its origin. Halsin speaks again, carefully.

“It was not… a favourable position to be in. I was subjected to much that I would never have thought myself capable of, or willing to endure. In truth, I loathed most encounters.” He admits, and Astarion can tell that the recollection pains him. He recognizes the contempt, feels it deep in his own marrow.

“How did you escape?” He asks, hexing the arrows on the emblem in his mind, to always miss their targets.

“My noble possessors worshipped Lolth, and were subjects of envy and betrayal like most of their rank. We were attacked in full one night, without warning. It… was chaos. I took the first chance I got to flee. I never learned who attacked my hosts or what became of them. All I remember is the blood I couldn’t see, and the cold rock beneath my feet as I ran and never looked back.” Halsin looks at the shaking tent canopy, as if the shadows mimic the dark memories playing in his mind.

“When I reached the surface I simply considered myself fortunate to have survived. And quickly after that the Shadow Curse suffocated all opportunity for reflection. I could not allow myself to think much about what had happened, and I allowed it to fade to nothingness. Or so I thought.” He shakes his head.

“But when I see now, how the torment that you've been through affects you, I realise how little I allowed it to affect me. How small of an incident I have let time make it, and how I have labeled it as nothing more than a youthful mishap in my memory. I even laugh at it, sometimes. But I understand now that I do so because I don’t know how to handle the thought of feeling anything other for it than misplaced nostalgia.” He looks at Astarion, who’s frown won’t soften. Halsin continues hurriedly.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean that I want to suffer or want to feel as haunted as you do. But perhaps it would be the natural order of things. To let myself feel the effects of… what happened.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Slavery, dear. Nothing more or less.” Astarion says bluntly, unable to soften the harsh words even if he wants to.
“Whatever comfort or pleasure you experienced could never negate the collar you had around your neck. Or the mind control I’ve experienced. They’re one and the same.” Astarion says, hoping Halsin can see that what he’s saying is not meant to harm but to confirm the pain Halsin seeks to understand. The druid looks defeated. Astarion wishes he knew how to

Feeling suddenly repulsed by the medallion in his hand, Astarion quickly holds it out to Halsin, who picks it up with careful fingers. Astarion studies his face. The rawness of what he’s just confessed is spelled there, a vulnerability that Astarion has never seen in him before. He wants to add something, to smooth out the sharp edges of what he just said, to ease the hurt and warm the gold in Halsin’s eyes again. But he’s not good at comforting. He too looks around the tent for words, as Halsin looks down at the medallion, lost in the turmoil of coming to terms with his past.

“I’m sorry. That you had to go through that.” Astarion starts slowly. “And there is no way for me to say that I am glad to have made you realise the severity of it without sounding sinister – and in a way I am not glad about it. But it doesn’t sound to me as though it was good for this… experience to lay dormant within you.” Astarion tries, and hopes that what he says is true. A conflict rages inside him, a creeping realization that stings in his chest.

Halsin looks up at him with gratitude, and tucks the medallion away in a pocket, freeing them both from its presence.

“Thank you. And no, it wasn’t good - but it was not dormant either. More of a festering wound, dressed in silk and perfumed to hide the rot. I am glad to have uncovered it.” Halsin sighs, relief evident in his relaxing shoulders. His words hit Astarion like a kick to the stomach and he struggles to hide his reaction.

Halsin shifts himself, turning his body to face Astarion, and reaches out a tentative hand, but lets it fall again, as if changing his mind. Astarion’s heart skips a beat, and the lightning bolt that he felt when entering the tent shoots a sharp current through his stomach. He curses himself for feeling this way, but wishes for nothing more than for Halsin to take his hand.

“Astarion, I… have not had a true confidant for some time.” Halsin says low, and Astarion sees with a pang in his chest, that the warmth in his eyes is back. The molten gold reflects in the light of the candle, and Astarion wishes he could bathe in it. The druid continues.

“I have lost many friends and allies to the Curse. The weight of the responsibility to clear it, along with the loss of so many lives…” Halsin loses his words, and blinks a few times. It’s clear that he’s exhausted. A sorrow he never shows seems to be close to the surface.

“I just want to say that I feel fortunate to have your counsel. It was sorely needed.” He confesses.

Astarion opens and closes his mouth. He’s barely said anything. He aches to reach out and grab the hand that never took his, aches to take the medallion from Halsin’s pocket and throw it off the mountainside, aches to vow to Halsin that they’ll defeat all who dare call themselves their masters - gut and gore them until there is nothing left. Instead he looks away. Stands up quickly. Without looking at Halsin, he speaks.

“It was my pleasure – if it’s not too crude to say. I’ll take my leave then. You should get some rest.” Astarion blurts, a little too fast, almost jumbling the words. He takes a step and turns to open the tent flap, when a warm grip closes around his wrist. The lightning in Astarion stomach shoots out to meet the touch, and he lets himself scrunch his face as if in pain, knowing Halsin can’t see it

“Astarion. Please, have I offended you?” Halsin asks, voice near a plea. Astarion feels his throat close up, and curses his emotions. He turns around. Halsin holds on to his wrist, gentle but firm.

“Not at all, darling.” Astarion responds, his voice a pitch too high. “It’s late, is all – I… I should go.” He says and forces himself to soften his face, to look Halsin in the eyes, to lie, to lie, to lie. He offers the druid a smile, hoping it’s convincing. Halsins’s eyes are a plea, searching Astarion’s face for where it went wrong. The druid sits on his knees, his fingers still in a tight grip around Astarion’s wrist. The image makes Astarion want to leap off the cliff himself.

“I thought you would stay. It is late – won’t you stay?” Halsin urges, unusually adamant. But he lets go of Astarion’s wrist and tries to take his hand instead. Panicked, Astarion quickly withdraws it. The confusion in Halsin’s eyes tears his chest in two. Astarion can’t keep the lie on his face.

“I think it’s for the best that I leave.” He says, barely hiding the sadness he feels. Halsin furrows his brow.

“For what reason? Please, if I said something wrong – I apologize.” Halsin tries again, and Astarion loses his resolve.

“Can’t you see that all I’ll do is bring you misery?” He almost shouts, and struggles to lower his breaking voice. Halsin looks at him in shock. He opens his mouth, but Astarion interrupts him before he can start.

“I can’t be a reminder of the suffering you’ve gone through, enough to make you waver in your life’s mission. Don’t you see that I am the festering wound, like you said, ‘dressed in silk and perfumed to hide the rot’? By your words, I’m a walking disease!” Astarion lashes, aware that his words are unfair, but too hurt by his own conviction of their truth to hold back. Tears sting at his eyes, and he angrily blinks them away.

“No, you are not!” Halsin rises to stand, his voice firm. He has to duck to not hit his head in the tent ceiling. “You wear your pain on your sleeve, Astarion – no matter how perfumed – and it’s what makes me admire you. Makes me trust you. If it were not for the honesty of your struggle, I would think you callous and hard. But you are not. And that is not to say that you are weak – far from it. You are true to yourself, and that makes me want to be the same.”

“True to myself? Do you not see how much I wish to not be what I am?” Astarion’s voice breaks.

“Yes, I do! I do see it.” Halsin takes a careful step toward him. “It’s evident, and that makes you honest. I admire you for that, and even if you don’t understand what makes you admirable it doesn’t change the fact that I do. It makes me want to be who I am with you – not an archdruid, not a righter of wrongs… not a slave. But a friend, a companion… just, someone for you. Please. Let me be that for you.” He finishes, and Astarion hears the unspoken words he left out – to not come on too strong. But he shakes his head, unable to see the reason the druid seems to find so clear.

“How could you want to be with someone who cannot stand themselves? I’m not even my own person.” He says, the last words barely above a whisper.

“But you are. And so am I. After what I’ve told you now, would you say that I am not my own?”

“No – but your slavers are dead.”

“They could be, but I have no way of knowing if that is true. And as I told you, I am not free of them in thought. Does this make you think of me as less than my own person?”

Astarion considers it for a moment, but the answer is obvious.

“No.”

Halsin nods, and reaches out a hand again, gently placing it on Astarion’s upper arm. His warmth radiates through Astarion’s shirt and his eyes burn into Astarion’s with blazing conviction.

“So long as you lay claim to your freedom, you remain your own person. Whether that freedom is realized or not does not change the truth – your spirit has never truly been broken. You’re bound to your master by magic, not by right or volition. If your will were surrendered, it would be different – but it’s not.” Halsin finishes, sealing the matter with terrifying certainty, as he’s done many times before. The finality forces the tears out of Astarion’s eyes, hot and angry, and he wipes them in a flustered rush, embarrassed.

A rough shake to the tent hides the hurried steps. The wind conceals a deep sigh of relief, the rustle of clothes muffle the sound of rapid heartbeats. Astarion disappears in an embrace that seems to envelop the whole world, and Halsin buries his face in his hair.

“Little elf.” He murmurs. His breath is hot against Astarion’s head, his embrace warm and steady. Astarion allows himself a moment of comfort before he curses himself again.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and pulls away slightly. Halsin’s arms remain around him, his hands resting on the small of Astarion’s back.

“For what?” Halsin wonders, and reaches up a hand to touch Astarion’s cheek. There’s no longer an excuse of tears to wipe away – as they stain the druid’s vest– but Astarion allows him to stroke his undereye with a thumb anyway.

“I’m terrible at being of any comfort to you.” Astarion admits, leaning into Halsin’s hand, closing his eyes as the druid’s fingers travel to his ear, gently caressing the length of it. He shudders, and pretends not to notice that Halsin leans in – he allows himself to be lost in the moment of warmth, to not pull away, to not think of it as a transaction.

Halsin’s breath meets his, and the druid lightly shakes his head.

“Not at all.” He murmurs, and tilts his head before closing the space between their lips.

His kiss is gentle, questioning and inviting. Nothing like the harsh and desperate kiss they shared at the hot spring. Astarion leans into it, answering by tilting his head as well to accommodate more. Halsin seems relieved and pulls him closer, his hand at Astarion’s back, drawing him in.

The earth and sweat of many days travel fill Astarion’s senses, bringing him into the world that is Halsin. A strong and undeniable pull off need molds their bodies together. The want for comfort, closeness and touch overtakes them. Astarion’s hands travel over Halsin’s chest, up around his neck and into his hair. Halsin’s breathing and hurried pauses for air urge Astarion to give more, as it’s easier for him to ignore his own need to breathe. He surprises Halsin by playfully biting his lower lip, not to draw blood, just to tease. It elicits a low hum of appreciation, and Astarion wants nothing more than to hear more of that approval, but Halsin pulls his head back with a groan.

“My heart.” He murmurs, and Astarin forgets to be disappointed about their kiss being interrupted.

“What?” He asks, looking up at Halsin’s flushed face, his hands still tangled in the druid’s hair.

“Will you stay?” He asks again. Astarion can’t help but laugh.

“Yes, I think you’ve convinced me.” He grins.

“Then will you forgive me, if all I'm able to do is rest?” Halsin asks, and Astarion is reminded of the immense tiredness he’s seen in Halsin over the past few days. He can only imagine how multiplied it must be now, when a weight has been lifted from his heart and allowed for him to relax. If only a little. The druid’s eyes are a mix of fatigued apology and barely held back desire.

“Of course.” Astarion mumbles, surprising himself by feeling slightly let down, though he understands. And staying the night with Halsin, if only to rest together, still makes him feel like a current is running through his body.

Halsin takes a step back from their embrace and kneels before the candle, gently blowing it out. The candle smoke is carried away by an invisible windstream, dissolved like the knot in Astarion’s chest. In the darkness, it takes a moment for him to make out the shapes, but he sees Halsin gesturing to his bedroll.

“Come, lie down with me.”

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice. He lets Halsin get comfortable first, before kneeling down beside him and lying down, allowing Halsin to extend his arm under his head. Halsin rolls on his side, and they lie face to face for a moment, breathing quietly. Astarion feels Halsin’s pulse beating under his ear, a warm quick current of tired nervosity and excitement. A cold wind rustles the tent and creeps inside, and Halsin reaches for the blanket, pulling it mostly over Astarion and then drawing him in close under it. With a deep sigh, Astarion can hear many days of tension and uncertainty leave Halsin’s body and mind, if only for this night. Astarion moves in closer, and Halsin gives him a last kiss on the forehead, before quickly slipping away into a deep trance.

Astarion lies awake for a while, listening to Halsin’s deep breathing, and lets his brain and heart slow down from the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings he experienced all evening.

A small voice in the back of his head still screams to be careful of anything deeper than fleeting touch, but it grows more distant with every breath from the druid, as if Halsin is breathing in Astarion’s apprehensiveness and breathing out safety. Assurance. Warding. Even against Astarion’s own doubts. Eventually, he lets himself close his eyes, get comfortable, and once more, lets his guard down under Halsin’s protection.