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Chapter Text

The dragon's mighty wings beat the air, spattering you with its own blood as it intentionally dropped out of the sky on top of you, yet barely able to catch itself as it landed and you dove out of its way. As much as you would have loved to finish it off with Sunburst or even using a Power Word, you were fresh out of spell slots, and sorcery points – you couldn't even have cast a measly little Fireball. You were left with some cantrips, which were admittedly quite powerful at your level of expertise, but even the collection of spell scrolls and spell slot potions you'd brought on your trip were exhausted of their usefulness. Your powerful storm magic was tired within you, but the second origin of your sorcerous abilities crackled with excitement beneath your skin. You were a practiced wielder of your own magical powers and kept a tight rein on the wild magic within you, but you had planned this scenario carefully.

You knew, when you took the job, that it would be a challenge, even for you. A scholar at heart, people were often surprised at the level of innate magical ability you possessed without studying. Most expected you to be a wizard, based on the number of publications you had authored and the unknown magics with which you experimented. None knew that your exceptional natural power was a result of not one, but two sources of magic – the first known sorcerer that had contained, much less controlled, two fonts of power – they just knew you had an affinity for elemental magic and were one of the best duelers in your academy year, even against the barbarians and fighters of your cohort. You spent most of your time performing research at the academy, at which you were now a professor, but had taken on a life of occasional violence only because treasure seekers and monster hunters frequently came upon creatures and magic which had not been well-studied, and you intended to change that, one expedition at a time. Oh, and you needed cash.

At the moment, however, you were not on any kind of research trip for the academy. No, in this instance, you had a more selfish motive, if still scholastic in nature. In studying all that unknown magic, all those undocumented creatures and rituals, you were not only adding to the broader knowledge of magic and its use throughout history – you were also attempting to create and cast the first ever level ten spell, thereby becoming the world's only twenty-first level sorcerer. You knew based on the details of this contract that you would exhaust all of your known resources by the time the fight with the dragon was over. There had been a lot of treacherous territory to cover, and only enough time for a brief respite. You were traveling alone, and knew there was no help coming for you if you got in hot water.

You had no doubt in your ability to finish the dragon off. You weren't low on health yourself, and you could cast another cantrip or two and have it on its knees. Your goal, however, was to attempt to guide your font of wild magic, never used, carefully contained, desperate to escape, into a source of energy for one last, exceedingly powerful burst of storm sorcery. You hoped it would materialize as an electric explosion, and the chances of this were reasonable, given that lightning was your strongest and easiest magic to cast. And so, without the ability to cast nearly any of your other spells, you began to focus on your wild magic, carefully allowing it to rise to the surface without bounding out of control. Just as you began to struggle to keep the chaos magic within yourself, you immediately focused on shoving it back down, pushing back on the flow of power, closing the dam, and instead tried to pull your storm sorcery into its place, as though you were going to draw from it for a cantrip. You relaxed a bit on your suppression of the wild magic, attempting to pull from both sources, coaxing just a bit of the chaotic power to the forefront – and the wild magic instead surged away from you, giddily dragging you along with it and dropping you directly behind the dragon. You sighed – a known behavior of wild magic – and cast one last Ray of Frost at the dragon's belly, killing it instantly, before it could breathe fire at you again. You grunted in frustration. This had been a lot of work for a failed experiment.

You shook your head and moved toward the dragon – your client wanted the contents of its stomach, and at least they were paying handsomely. You slipped your dagger into its hide, preparing to cut, when you suddenly sensed enemy magic in the air surrounding you. You had been Silenced. You spun around, desperately trying to locate the source. Finding none, you began to sprint toward the outer radius of the spell, when a tall figure seized you from behind, one arm around your neck, piercing your abdomen with a dagger of their own, sliding the metal expertly between the segments of your armor. You felt not only a stabbing pain, but also a rapidly spreading paralysis, already traveling down your legs. Snarling, you pulled your second dagger from your boot, but by the time you had an expertly placed stab lined up, your arm had been paralyzed as well, hanging limp from your shoulder, your dagger clattering as it hit the ground, falling from your loose fingers. The man, for you now knew it was a man, stopped restraining you and picked you up, tossing you over his shoulder. You only maintained consciousness for a few more seconds, unable to do anything voluntarily but breathe.

You woke sometime later, lying prone on a low ledge in a cave that, based on the type of stone, you suspected was close to the dragon's lair, but you could fathomably be anywhere. Carefully, you squinted through your eyelids, checking your surroundings. You had been stripped down to your tunic and trousers, your armor, weapons, and pack nowhere to be seen. You tested your ability to move, your senses and reflexes dulled, but present once more. The wound in your belly was open and oozing, black tendrils spreading slowly across your abdomen, throbbing in pain. You were still Silenced, the sinister magic sizzling in the air. Your captor faced away from you, heating something over a small campfire in the center of the cave's first large room. He looked over his shoulder at you, and you quickly closed your eyes, feigning sleep.

“I know you're awake.” The voice was low and deadly. You didn't open your eyes, not yet. The man stood, bringing with him a white-hot brand. He remained just outside the barrier of his silencing spell. “I intended you to be, when I gave you the antidote to that poison. This wasn't my idea, but it's part of the process, and you, my dear, have to be awake for the whole thing.” Your insides squirmed at the implication. You tried to stand, but your body couldn't cooperate, and by the time you rose to your hands and knees, he was at your side, pushing you down and straddling your body with his thighs, his immense weight preventing you from moving further. He ripped your tunic down the center of your back, and you had no warning before a searing pain erupted between your shoulder blades. Air left your lungs through your ragged throat, but the scream made no noise in the midst of the spell. You reached for something – anything – to help you get out of this, but both of your magics were silent. In the pain and confusion of what was happening, it would only occur to you later that this was odd. Even a silenced and exhausted magic has power thrumming at its core, even if it could only summon enough energy for a cantrip – but yours were silent.

After uncountable seconds of agony, the brand was removed from your skin and tossed aside. The man flipped you over, ripping your tunic from your body and slamming your newly-branded back and cracking the base of your skull against the rough stone of the cave's ledge. A sob escaped you, soundlessly dissipating into the silencing spell. Your arms were slow to respond, but you pushed futilely against him, feeling as though you were wading through mud with every movement. Then he pulled down your trousers, slipping his off just enough to expose the full length of a full-blown erection. You didn't know what ritual he was supposedly performing, or to what end, but you knew what that meant. You reached, grabbed, clawed for your magic, only to find that it was no longer there for you to grasp. Panicking, you attempted to clamp your legs together, but he pulled them apart and slammed his hips down between them so there was no escape. You scrambled, dug deeper for your magic – was this an effect of the poison? He wrapped his hand around your throat and squeezed until your face was red and you had no air. Suddenly, as you flailed, you felt the tiniest tendril of your wild magic, flickering softly in a corner the recesses of your mind. Your assailant lined himself up with your entrance. You grabbed hold of your tiny magical tendril with everything you had, told it to set itself free – and it jumped gleefully, and did.

-------

You were flung from the sky in a bolt of lightning, the simultaneous explosion of thunder coinciding with your landing on the soil and the rumbling of the ground as the sound moved the earth. The commotion would have been exceptionally noticeable, given that there was a blanket of snow covering the earth, and more flakes were gently precipitating on a perfect countryside scene, far removed from the jungle heat of the cave and the dragon's lair in Chult. Your magic seemed to have been buried, for the rich flows of energy within you were completely dry. You were naked even of the torn clothes you'd had left before your transport, having been dumped under a tree, its leafless branches stretching toward the cold, white sky, its roots digging into your body and wounds as you lay there, fists grasping uselessly at the soil, attempting for a moment to understand what had happened.

Then, suddenly, as the adrenaline wore off, everything bubbled over into a bone-shattering yell, lasting for several seconds and echoing across the countryside, birds squawking in displeasure at the disruption. Breathing heavily, you shivered as a single tear slid down your cheek, and the cold wind caressed your body. You gingerly rolled over, attempting to stand again, but your legs still didn't have the strength or coordination to hold you up, even with the assistance of the tree, and you fell back over as soon as you took a step. Your knife wound screamed in pain, oozing blood, the tendrils of discoloration now approaching your thighs. You groaned, and set off at a slow crawl. The wet snow combined with the cold wind and your naked body was rapidly freezing you, which wasn't helping with what seemed to be a slow return of the poison's sedative effects.

Inch after agonizing inch, you forced yourself forward, although you didn't know which way “forward” was. You had no idea where you were, actually, but you knew you couldn't stay here. Not that you'd make it very far out of “here,” having barely succeeded in moving a hundred yards away from the tree. A glance behind you let you know that you were leaving a trail of blood for whatever predator wanted an easy meal once you froze to death or succumbed to the poison, whichever came first. Raising your head and looking in front of you, you were surprised to notice a horse-drawn wagon, halted a quarter mile in the distance. A figure was moving toward you at surprising speed. They were wearing navy blue winter formal attire, with a thick red cape. Perhaps more interesting was the figure's hair – it was nearly as white as the surrounding snow. You didn't have it left in you to be afraid, only hoped that the stranger was either benevolent, or would kill you quickly and mercifully, as you stopped trying to crawl and collapsed into the snow. How had this gone so terribly, terribly wrong?

You were barely maintaining consciousness when the figure finally came to stand over you, crouching next to you. You reached out toward him, your arm quickly drooping, snowflakes no longer melting as they dropped onto your skin.

“What's happened here, darling?”

You could barely make out his words, which sounded as though he was underwater. Regardless, you didn't have the ability to respond. He turned you over and gasped, presumably at your wound. You lacked the strength to be embarrassed at your nudity, but he removed his cloak and wrapped it around you. He must have been exceptionally strong, because he then picked you up, seemingly effortlessly, and cradled you in his arms, somehow avoiding jostling you as he ran back toward the carriage.

The last thing you saw before passing out again was a blurry face looking down at you. You couldn't make out many details, but you could tell that he had skin as pale as the cloudy sky, hair white as snow, and beautiful, deep red eyes.

-----

Your consciousness floated in and out, never close enough to the surface for waking, never close enough to the bottom for death. There were periods where you could hear voices speaking over you, but they were muffled, to the point where you had no chance of understanding what was said. There were periods of pain so great that, had you been awake, would have elicited a scream that would awaken all those in a mile radius, but instead, you were left writhing internally, useless against the pain. There were periods where you were suddenly warm, as though you had been placed on a slab of stone heated by the sun; these periods often followed the pain, and the heat helped to lessen the sensation. But mostly, you were unconscious, in a dreamless, silent darkness.

You surprised yourself when you awoke. Your eyes flew open, and you had to force yourself not to gasp for lungfuls of air - you didn't know who, or what, might be watching or listening.

You were in a large room with a fireplace, wardrobe, writing desk, sofa, and dining table. Windows were noticeably absent, the walls covered in tasteful wallpaper and fine art. You were laying in a huge four-poster bed. The mattress was supremely soft, the comforter and pillows made of down and wrapped in luxurious silk sheets, the color of red wine. You were clothed in a simple shift, the light satin held in place by thin straps over your shoulders and doing very little to provide coverage or warmth. Your first sensation was that of extreme cold, the likes of which you had never felt before. You yanked your arms, previously laid on top of the comforter, toward your head and shoved them under the comforter, not finding much more warmth beneath it, your body barely above room temperature.

An ice spike embedded itself into your heart at that moment in time, completely separate from your temperature. If you felt cold, that meant your magic - your storm sorcery, one of the most powerful magics this side of the Nine Hells - was gone. Your magic - that effortlessly and without input, borrowed from the blazing inferno of the sun to keep you warm, or that skimmed from the cold fury of a blizzard to keep you cool, that allowed you to wear any clothing or armor and stay comfortable no matter the weather - was gone. Panicking, you cast around in your mind to find your magic, sweeping the deepest recesses, the tiniest crevices, and finding… nothing. Not a single drop of power, just dry, dead, withered, dusty emptiness. Your wild magic was gone without a trace as well, leaving your mind deathly quiet. You drew your focus outward and attempted to pull up a shocking grasp, whispering the spell, concentrating on your palm, telling yourself that your magic would surely come when it was called, but the electricity failed to erupt from your skin as it always had before.

At this, you lost control and loosed a sob. You didn't know where you were, or under whose control. You had no access to magic to defend yourself or procure money or rations, and you were only moderately proficient in daggers and crossbows, unable to wield a sword or bow. You were going to die, if you could even escape this place to start with.

A cat, which you hadn't seen before, sitting on the sofa, looking for all the world like a decorative pillow, raised its head and yawned at the noise, standing and stretching, and jumping down from its perch. You watched as it trotted away, seeming to walk through the exit, disappearing without opening the door. Ignoring this for now, you decided that you needed to do two things before you could attempt to leave. First, you needed some winter clothes to restore your normal body temperature, especially outside where you hoped to end up. Second, you needed some kind of weapon.

The wardrobe was just beyond the breakfast table, and this would be your best shot at clothing. Meanwhile, the table might have offered a selection of cutlery. Bracing yourself to leave the bed for the cold room air, you curled into yourself, then launched out of bed and made for the wardrobe.

What you hadn't expected was the pain. Every inch of your skin felt as though it was on fire, your joints seemingly full of needles. Filled with complete and utter shock, and unsure how to proceed, you lurched to the table, collapsing on it to support yourself, barely breathing despite the intense pain, afraid to expand your chest and invite worse, and barely containing a scream. You glanced around for ideas, fear rapidly taking over. Your magic was crippled, yes, but now your body was, too. The sharpest object you could see was a butter knife in a place setting on the table - no steak or butcher's knives could be found, which you decided was likely purposeful. You carefully reached to take it in your left hand, trying to move as little as possible, still barely keeping yourself from groaning as fire licked up your nerves.

Suddenly, the doorknob turned, disrupting your reach, and you steeled yourself for what you knew you had to do. You stood upright, raising your right hand to shoulder level as though you were waiting to summon a firebolt, ignoring the searing pain that erupted in your body and the creaking in your bones.

A man entered the room, confidently but but not loudly, and paused upon taking sight of you. He was genuinely beautiful, for all appearances having been expertly chiseled from marble, his snow white hair and alabaster skin contrasting with the deep maroon of his eyes and the rich plum color of his ruffled shirt. The fabric nearly, but not entirely, covered an ugly scar, the only defect in his beautiful skin, in the shape of... fang marks. Panic spiked through you in an instant – even on your best day, a vampire would be a mark you wouldn't accept. With most targets, you risked injury and death. With a vampire, you risked undead immortality in the darkness, forced to succumb to the whims and torture of a vicious, heartless master. The man was tall and carried himself gracefully, commandingly. His body language was not hostile, but you knew you needed to act as though he were.

“Ah,” he said, his eyes flickering to the cat, who had reappeared and was napping on the sofa. “I was told you were awake, darling, not that you were up.” You could barely call yourself that, as your ability to withstand this amount of pain was decreasing by the second. He resumed his path toward you.

“Stop there,” you commanded, forcing your voice through cracked and ragged vocal cords, beginning to tremble slightly through your body. To your surprise, he obeyed. To both your surprises, evidently, as he widened his eyes at you, and then furrowed his brows. After a moment to recover, he shook his head. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he insisted as he moved closer once more.

“Stay where you are, or I will cast Fireball on you, and draw an earthquake the likes of which will turn this building to rubble,” you threatened, drawing yourself up as tall as possible, but allowing your left hand to support you on the table while the fingers of your right hand moved as though you were summoning a spell. You were rapidly losing strength, and soon would not be able to hold yourself upright.

He did stop, but after a somewhat stunned moment of observing you more closely, he raised an eyebrow at you. “That will be difficult, given that you have no magic.” Cold fear drove down your spine, then. How could he possibly know that? Is he responsible for this? “In fact, I'm quite surprised you're even standing, darling.” That was becoming less true, as you were now sagging a significant amount of weight onto your left hand, your limited energy being sapped by the soul-rending pain. Goosebumps erupted over your skin as you felt another wave of ice move through you; you allowed your right hand to fall to the table as well, now leaning over it, shivering, but not breaking eye contact with the man. “Try testing that assumption,” you gritted out, your vision turning black around the edges.

At this, the man smirked slightly. “If you're chilly, there is a fleece robe in that closet. Since you're obviously fine, you can feel free to put it on. Just make sure nothing touches that wound.”

Your poisoned stab wound. You wanted to know how it looked, to ascertain how bad it was, but you couldn't see it without pulling up the hem of your shift and exposing yourself to the man. A fraction of a second of breaking eye contact to look down at your body before returning his stare was all he needed to know what you were thinking.

“Relax, my dear. There is no need to worry about modesty - I have already seen you naked,” he said, a wicked smile now playing on his face. Perhaps the vampire did not intend to hurt or kill you at this moment, but he would certainly toy with you.

With a groan, you fell to your elbows on the dining table, rattling the place settings and setting the man in motion again. “Let me help you,” he said. You had to get out of here before you lost consciousness again. Summoning your strength, you grabbed the butter knife you had wanted earlier and pointed it at him, halting him an arm's length away, his hands raised. For an instant, you were surprised that this worked – in what world would a vampire be stopped by a butter knife? You didn't have time to ponder, however, as you backed away from him, toward the wardrobe, leaning heavily on your non-knife arm for support. Using the last of your energy to fight through the agony of whatever it was that afflicted you, your heel struck the leg of a chair, ruining your precarious balance and sending you down and onto your back. The knife dropped out of your hand, forgotten in your effort to fight through the surge of excruciating pain brought on by the impact.

The man came to stand beside you, opening the wardrobe and pulling out a thick woolen robe. He knelt softly next to you, taking in your terrified face as you looked up at him.

“I was not lying,” he said. “I won't hurt you -” you whimpered as he wrapped the robe around you, the firm pressure of him moving you only adding to the pain you experienced “- you can feel free to keep this robe, and...” he paused for a moment, watching as you lost your fight to maintain consciousness.

“And, I have seen you naked.”

-----

You woke again, finding yourself returned to the four-poster, this time wrapped in the luxurious robe in addition to the comforter. You still felt as though frost was flowing through your veins, both in the sense that you were still freezing cold, but also that every heartbeat felt as though your chest was being stabbed with shards of ice. Gods, would you ever wake to a painless body again?

“Ah, so you've blessed the waking world with your consciousness again, have you?” said a silky voice to your right, in a bored tone. Startled, you looked toward the source of the sound, finding that it originated from your vampiric visitor, who was on the bed, propped up against the headboard with some pillows, lazily turning the page of a book in his lap. When you didn't answer, his eyes slid to you, followed by the rest of his face turning to look at you, nonplussed. You couldn't move, eyes glued to him.

He allowed the silence to hang in the air for a moment longer, then returned to his book. “You know, if I had wanted to kill you, turn you into a spawn, or simply feed on you, I could have done that at any time.” A page turned. “Including when you alerted the three closest cities to your presence with that ill-advised display of theatrics.” You winced internally. “Or, I could have let you be consumed by the paralysis poison until you could no longer breathe, or neglected to maintain your temperature at a safe level, since your nervous system currently seems to have forgotten how to regulate it in the absence of your magic.”

“Why go to all this trouble, then?” you growled, even that small movement of your jaw painful. He sighed, then shrugged.

“I enjoy theatrical displays,” he said.

The door to your room opened once more, and a thick, mustachioed dwarf bobbed inside. The elf's gaze snapped to him, closing his book and setting it aside.

“I came as fast as I could, sire,” the dwarf said, red-faced and out of breath, setting a large black leather bag on the mattress next to you as he walked to your side of the bed. Slightly shocked to see a dwarven vampire, you didn't realize he was speaking to you at first when he said, “Good morning, miss, so good to see you awake, it is. I'll just take your arm, here -”

“No,” you stated firmly, yanking your arm out of his grasp, not knowing what had come over you, as cooperation was certainly less likely to get you killed than resisting, only knowing that you would break if even one more person touched you without your consent. The dwarf was equally surprised, his mouth fluttering open for a moment before reaching for you again, as if you were a petulant child.

“Nonsense, I just need to check -”

“You will not,” you cried, pushing away from him toward the center of the bed and immediately curling in on yourself as the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. Of course, further from the dwarf meant closer to the elf, and you knew that the dwarf was likely safer; so why was it that you found yourself cowering toward the vampire, as if he would protect you from his own servant? The dwarf looked to his master for guidance, a non-verbal conversation occurring between them as you gripped the comforter in your hands, trying desperately to calm yourself. You needed a level head if you were to have any chance at survival.

“It's fine, Atticus. We'll try again later,” said the elf. Atticus was clearly not pleased with that answer, as he spluttered -

“But, sire, she needs -”

“You may go,” said the vampire, more firmly this time. Frustrated but obedient, the dwarf picked up his bag and left the room, giving you a hard look as he closed the door behind him. The elf sighed again.

“Atticus is the reason you are alive,” he said. “He is my best cleric, and very skilled at the healing arts. And believe it or not, he is not a spawn. He is here voluntarily.”

“And what is it that you are keeping me alive for?” you grunted, not turning to face him.

“You still don't understand, do you?” he asked.

“Understand what?” you demanded, suddenly defiant. When he didn't answer immediately, you flipped over, ignoring the searing pain beneath your skin. “Understand that you are a full blooded vampire in command of an army of spawn, for whom a sorceress stripped of her magic and so weak she can barely move, would make an excellent meal? Or perhaps you want to study this poison, so that you can replicate it for your own nefarious purposes? Or maybe you'll just turn me into your eternal slave? Regardless, I don't make it out of this with my life, so you might as well kill me now and get it over with.” He did not seem surprised by your response, but you could swear you saw just a modicum of hurt flash in his eyes.

“Understand that I saved your life,” he intoned quietly. “Understand that I will not kill you, or make you a slave, or rape you, or whatever you believe me capable of.” You forced yourself not to wince as he said the word rape, compelling your thoughts not to turn to how close you had already come to that fate. “Understand that you're still alive today because I plucked you out of a blizzard, brought you to my castle, found you excellent medical attention, and used my own body to keep you warm enough that your heart would still beat. Understand that you are safe while you are within these walls, and I will neither force you to stay, nor make you leave. Understand that I will help you get your magic back, should you desire my not-inconsequential assistance.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. A vampire... behaving altruistically? There had to be a catch, some reason for him to make this offer.

“And what aren't you telling me?” you asked dryly. “What debt do I owe you in return?” He averted his eyes.

“You are related to a... previously dear friend of mine,” he said, attempting indifference, but you could tell he didn't like discussing this. “Rest assured that the debt has already been paid, many times over.”

You were still shocked at this entire situation. He might as well have told you that he obtained his fortune by clowning in the traveling circus.

“He must have been pretty close to you to be worth all that.”

“She,” he corrected. “And she was worth 'all that,' and much more.”

“What happened to her?” You knew exactly of whom he was speaking. She was the reason for your dual magic-wielding. She was the reason that every one of her direct female descendants had exceptional innate talent and would rise to be among the best in their class, conducting world-bettering work across the realms. She was the reason that anyone on the planet existed, rather than morphing into Mind Flayers, controlled by an all-powerful Netherbrain.

“You should know,” he said quietly. “She...” Here he hesitated, seeming to struggle to decide whether to tell you. “She was your many-great-grandmother Tav.”

You said nothing, processing the idea that you were... safe with this vampire? Tav was a highly accomplished and savvy individual, and this was one of her dear friends, or so he said. If she trusted him, you likely should as well, even if it went against your every instinct. At any rate, trusting him was currently your only option.

“Now, I came here in the first place because I knew you would be getting cold again. Judging by your lips, which are currently blue, I would say that I was correct.” You couldn't deny that you felt frozen, and the only reason you weren't shivering is because of how much it would hurt. However, he said he'd been using his own body to keep you warm - how would that work now that you were awake? You tried to avoid thinking about the sudden, unbidden thought that belatedly sprang to mind - that the handsome elf had been looking at your lips.

“Yes,” you admitted. “And, while I'm not afraid of you anymore -” this was a lie, and he knew it, for he scoffed - “there has to be some other way to offer warmth besides staying here with me.” Somehow wrapped around me, you didn't add.

“You proposed a Fireball, earlier?” he suggested. It was your turn to scoff. “We tried heating metal sheets and placing them near you, but they didn't warm you enough and we couldn't very well lay you on top of them. I was going to try using them to heat the mattress and then move you to the warm spot, but then I recognized that this would require frequent changes and lots of servant work, so I…” Here he had the decency to look somewhat sheepish. “I just laid with you and warmed you myself. You are not the only one with the ability to manually control your body temperature.”

Gods, every word out of this man's mouth railed against everything you knew about vampires. You blinked at him.

“So, are you going to let me help you, or shall I leave you to freeze in your own stubbornness?” he asked, finally turning his whole body to face you, instead of merely his head. Your nostrils flared as you inhaled the whiff of citrus and bergamot that the resultant movement of the air provided from him. You'd expected… more of an odor of decay, if you were honest with yourself. Not summertime in Myth Drannor.

“I-” you hesitated, still, evaluating any other possible option. Finding none, you finally acquiesced. “I will accept your help.” He rolled his eyes at you.

“I'm going to need to lift you, and it will most likely hurt,” he said, not unkindly. “So no more butter knives, okay?”

You nodded, bracing yourself for the pain, but found yourself flinching away from him as he reached for you, without exactly realizing what you were doing. You knew full well you had just consented to this. You told yourself that it was because you naturally still didn't fully trust him, and were afraid of how much his touch would hurt, and it definitely wasn't because the last man who had restrained you against his body had nearly succeeded in raping and killing you, and your body was reacting accordingly.

The elf tilted his head and furrowed his brow slightly at your response. You wondered if he was connecting it to your response to Atticus. If he was, he didn't mention it as his expression relaxed and he backed off.

“Mmm, perhaps you should come to me, darling.” You nodded again, suddenly too nervous to speak. The pain was unbelievably bad – your skin felt as though it was being flayed off, your hair on fire – as you moved closer to him and pressed yourself into his arms. You had successfully restrained a groan until he lifted you to sit between his legs, your back against his chest. At this, a whimper escaped your throat, a tear sliding down your cheek as you thought about just how helpless you really were in this moment. He sucked in a breath sympathetically upon hearing the sound, but made no other acknowledgment as he pulled the comforter up over you both. He removed his arms from underneath, reaching for his book before settling his arms around the lump of you under the sheets and setting the novel on your belly, not opening it quite yet.

Very quickly, you felt your back grow pleasantly warm, even through the fleece robe you still wore. You had to admit that it helped significantly with the pain, and you soon felt yourself relaxing against his body. You felt his heart as it beat against your back, and focused on syncing your breathing with his, attempting to calm the amount of adrenaline in your body as the warmth spread through you. After a few moments, the elf spoke from behind your right ear.

“I've given you quite a bit of information in the past few minutes, haven't I?” he asked smoothly. “It's only fair if I get some information from you in return, don't you think?” You tried to quell the surge of panic that rose up in you in that moment. You might not desire to talk about whatever it is he would want to know, but so far he had given you no reason to think that he was asking with nefarious intent.

“Okay,” you croaked, your throat cracked and painful.

“What is your name?” There was no way you were going to give him that. You picked a new one quickly, the name of the author of your most recent novel -

“Amelie.”

“Hmm! An interesting choice. Want to try again?”

“If you already know the answer, why bother asking?” you retorted, annoyed.

“I'm just trying to see whether you have memory loss,” he said innocently.

“Tell me yours first.” He laughed, his chest shaking with the sound, before he moved his lips back to your ear.

“Aren't you needy?” he said in a low voice that was closer to a growl, and you found goosebumps flaring down your spine, unrelated to any cold or fear you still felt.

“Very well. My name is Astarion.” You let that sink in. You had not heard of Astarion in any of the stories passed down from your ancestor. You could name the other players in her mind flayer rescue tale, but not Astarion. That didn't mean he was being untruthful about knowing her well – your family matriarch had known, cooperated with, and saved thousands of people over her lifetime – but it meant that your mind still wasn't fully at ease. “Now, yours.”

You closed your eyes in defeat, and spoke your name quietly. He hummed in approval. The next question was softly spoken, after a beat of silence.

“What was done to you?” You tensed, a wave of pain roiling through your body, more intense after the brief respite. You shook your head slightly, unwilling to discuss that with him, hoping upon hope that he did not press you for this. You knew you needed to tell him, that it would give him necessary information to help you heal and to get your magic back, but right now you were barely holding on, and if you had to relive those moments, you would lose control. He leaned until he could observe your face, but you didn't look at him.

“Alright,” he said, in a tone that was respectful, but frustrated. “Who did this to you, then?”

“I don't know,” you admitted quietly. “I never got a good look at him. He wasn't familiar to me.”

“But he definitely was a man?” Astarion asked, seizing upon the one detail you'd remembered. Unbidden, an image of the man's arousal as he pinned you to the slab of rock sprang to your mind. Distracted, trying to shove the vision away, unable to devote brain space to a measured response while also suppressing a panic attack, you responded breathily,

“There wasn't much doubt about that.”

Astarion made a noise of surprise, and was then silent. You kicked yourself – you knew what he was correctly assuming, adding up your behavior toward him and his male healer, the way he had found you, the poison you had been given. He was kind enough not to say anything else or press you further on the matter, however.

This time, tears fell freely from your eyes, unable to contain the swell of emotions after having disclosed your fate to someone else. The admission made you feel smaller, incompetent, worthless. Astarion neither commented nor moved to comfort you, just picked up his book and opened to the bookmarked page, allowing you to work through your feelings on your own. After a bit, you were able to relax once more against his chest, focusing on the warmth that was flowing through you again. A few moments later, his voice came gently from your left.

“You can lay back, if you wish. Recall that every other time we've done this, you have been unconscious.” We, you thought. We've done this before. The thought of him protecting you like this, even whilst you were unconscious, sent an unexpected wave of affection through you. You'd never had to ask anyone for help – not like this. And with him, you hadn't needed to ask. The notion was overwhelming.

You did as he suggested, though, relaxing your neck until your head rested on his shoulder, closing your eyes. Immediately you began to drift off, the first time since before the dragon fight that you had sought unconsciousness rather than fighting it tooth and nail. You fell asleep as he turned a page.

Chapter Text

You awoke at some point later – it was impossible to tell what time of day it was, owing to the lack of windows in your suite – to a knock on your door. You immediately noticed Astarion's absence, although you were still wrapped in his robe. You still felt his warmth, too, although you weren't sure how long it typically lasted, or how long he typically allotted between visits. Pushing aside the ridiculous thought that you would feel safer if he was here, you addressed the door.

“Enter?”

A human maid opened the door, pushing a small cart in front of her. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a neat braid, her dress a lovely jade green beneath her white apron. She appeared to be close in age to you, perhaps in her early third decade.

“Good morning, ma'am,” she said. “My name is Marion. Lord Astarion has instructed that you be offered breakfast, and given the opportunity to bathe.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly, unable to think of anything else to say. You didn't know what you expected, but it hadn't been breakfast in bed and servant bath service. You hadn't really thought this far in advance, if you were honest with yourself. You'd mostly been thinking about surviving the night, not what you'd eat the next morning.

Marion paid you no mind, and began setting out a small arrangement on your table.

“When will Astarion visit again?” you asked, trying not to sound too interested – merely curious.

“I'm not sure,” she replied, pouring coffee into a mug. “He comes and goes frequently. Sometimes a few days will pass between my sightings of him.” You tried not to feel disappointed. It had taken you a lot of convincing to trust him even as little as you did, and now that he was gone, you felt as though you had lost your only anchor in this strange new world. Marion turned to you.

“I understand that you will require assistance to rise, and that it may be quite painful for you. I can offer you a tray table instead, but if you would like a bath, it would be prudent to come to the table as a step toward the tub. How would you like to proceed?”

You were taken aback by the kind professionalism shown by the maid.

“I suppose I should sit at the table,” you said, your thoughts racing, but your mouth still sluggish. Marion pulled back the comforter and sheets and offered you her hand. Wincing in preparation for the pain that you knew was coming, you took her hand and moved to sit on the edge of the mattress. It still felt as though jellyfish were stinging every inch of your skin, but the pain was less sharp and intense than it had been the previous night. You stood and inched forward, each baby step more painful than the last, and your face growing redder as you flushed with embarrassment over leaning harder on Marion with every inch. She eased you down into the dining chair, having placed a seat and back cushion for you already. She moved the breakfast offerings to surround your place settings such that it would be easier for you to reach them, and you quietly observed her neck for bite marks, surprised when you found none.

“You're not a vampire?” you asked, abandoning your manners in slight shock. Marion didn't seem offended.

“No,” she said. “The majority of Lord Astarion's staff are mortals. He pays and houses us, and treats us fairly, which is more than can be said for most masters.”

“And what of those that are not mortal?” you asked.

“Lord Astarion has a few spawn, but this time of year, they are occupied running his operations in Baldur's Gate while he stays here for the winter. We don't see them often, as they only come here for large events.”

You were dumbstruck. A vampire lord with only a “few” spawn? That fairly compensated a largely mortal staff? You had expected dungeons full of tortured spawn, not grateful employees.

“If you tell me what you wish to eat, I can put it on your plate,” she said, kindly prompting you to focus on your breakfast. You looked down at the food and selected some eggs, bacon, and toast with strawberry jam, which Marion supplied to the plate in front of you. Slowly, painstakingly, you lifted your fork, clenching your teeth against the pain. You felt ridiculous and clumsy, unable to eat your own food. Marion quickly pulled up a chair next to you and gently grasped your fork hand.

“Let me help you,” she said, searching your eyes. You couldn't stop a tear from rolling down your cheek as you released the fork into her hand, and allowed yours to drop to your lap. She carefully fed you, making sure you had swallowed before offering another bite, and creating a good rotation between your selected foods. This, and the coffee, to which she knew to add copious cream and sugar, without asking. When you were finished, you still felt somewhat humiliated.

“Thank you,” you said, your eyes downcast.

“It is nothing,” she responded. “Would you still like a bath?” You glanced toward the tub and considered the pros and cons of the process. Your hair was greasy, and the warmth would feel amazing. The pain involved in getting there, and getting back, however, was daunting.

“Yes, I would.” Just as before, Marion helped you stand, carefully removed your robe, and then slowly supported you toward the bath. The water was steaming, the shape of the claw-footed tub perfect for leaning against, and the bubbles would hide your body. As you neared the tub, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror, and paused to look at yourself, startled by your own reflection. You barely recognized your own body – your skin seemed drawn tightly over your bones, giving you a gaunt appearance. The bruises you expected to see around your neck were absent, and there was no blood matted in your hair from the slam onto the stone. Your back had only the faintest scar from the brand that had covered your spine. Most impressive of all, the wound on your abdomen had been expertly sutured, the skin nearly healed together, the black tendrils beneath your skin withering and withdrawing back to their origin. Marion looked away politely as you examined yourself, but then turned to meet your eyes in the mirror.

“Do you need help washing, or would you like some privacy?” she asked, reading your mind.

“I will wash myself,” you said as she helped you into the tub, ready to be alone.

“Understood,” said Marion, and closed the door behind her as she left. Immediately you sank below the water, eyes shut tight, relishing in the pain relief that the hot water offered, and trying to hold yourself together. You gasped as you finally breached the surface once more, and after a moment to catch your breath, you began quietly sobbing. You were so helpless that you relied on someone else to walk, bathe, or even eat. There was no way that you were truly safe here, but you had no possibility of escaping. Astarion had told you that he wouldn't force you to stay, but you had no way to leave. Would this pain ever subside? Would you ever perform magic again? After allowing some self-pity for a few moments, you gathered yourself together enough to notice a small tray of toiletries, which allowed you to wash and condition your hair and body. These smelled of rich citrus, just like him, you observed.

After washing and rinsing yourself, you called for Marion, who first toweled you off, then helped you into a fresh robe and slippers, these sky blue in color. Finally, she assisted you in moving to a plush armchair near the fire.

“We are expecting Atticus at any moment,” she said. You stiffened. What would he want? Where would he have to touch you, how long would he take, when would Astarion come back - “I will stay and assist as necessary.” Marion interrupted your racing thoughts. You looked back at her quietly, wondering whether she was using Detect Thoughts, or if you really were that obvious in your reactions. Having her nearby eased your mind somewhat, though, until Atticus knocked on the door a few moments later. She let him in, and he pulled a dining chair over to sit next to you. You watched him warily, Marion standing behind him.

“You're quite the mystery, you are,” he said. When you didn't respond, he continued. “Flung out of the the sky from far-off lands in a bolt of lightning, clearly a wielder of sorcery the likes of which none have seen before, but completely without magic. Poisoned with some of the most deadly paralysis toxin this side of the Nine Hells, and branded with a rune I have yet to interpret.” He put his hand on the arm of your chair, and you forced yourself not to lean away. “What happened to you, lass?”

The white-hot agony of the brand. The ugly pain of the poisoned dagger. Your body's unwilling surrender of control. The deafening absence of your power. The look in your assailant's eyes as he prepared to force himself upon you.

“I can't,” you whispered, now trembling.

“We can help you, lass, but we need to know what he was doing,” Atticus said, gently.

“I don't know what he was doing,” you snapped. “He said it was some kind of ritual, and that I needed to be awake for it.”

“Ah! See? Even that much gives me something more to work with. What else can you tell me?” You forced down the bile that rose in your throat as you wrenched your mind away from the attack.

“You know the poison and have erased the brand, yes? Surely that's all that you need for your examination today?” Marion saved you from having to answer.

“Yes, but if she wants her magic back, we need -”

“Then that is sufficient for today.” Atticus grumbled at her under his breath, leaning back and rummaging through his black bag until he found a needle and syringe.

“I need to draw some of your blood to determine the amount of poison remaining in your veins.”

“Is there no other way to know?” you asked, dreading the idea.

“No, and I promise that you'd prefer my way to obtain it over Lord Astarion's, you would.” You looked away, knowing exactly what would happen if Astarion took your blood.

“Fine,” you said, and looked away as you allowed him to carefully lift your arm until your elbow straightened. It took all of your strength not to yank your arm from him as he grasped it firmly to fill your veins for the needle, and you found yet another tear falling as the sharp edge pierced your skin and found its target. It was quickly over, and Atticus placed a small bandage over the wound.

“There. Easy as pie, right?” he asked, somewhat self-righteously. You glared at him. “Good to see you have enough energy to give me that look, miss. Truly.”

“What's next?” asked Marion, clearly trying to help speed things along.

“I need to inspect her wounds.” Your mouth went dry. You made eye contact with Marion, pleading.

“I will move her robe myself for modesty, and you may look,” she said quickly. The dwarf huffed.

“I am a professional, you know. I'm not here to leer at anyone.”

“Nevertheless, I will move her robe myself,” Marion insisted. She walked around Atticus before he could protest further and knelt in front of you. “I'm going to expose your dagger wound,” she said kindly, searching your eyes. You nodded, and felt a burst of cold air on your still slightly-damp skin as your wound was exposed – just your wound. You looked away. He methodically reached to palpate the wound, and Marion slapped his hand. “You may look.” Atticus glared at her, wringing his hand.

“Alright, now the brand,” he said. Marion moved behind you and pulled your robe down your arms, exposing your shoulder blades, but not your breasts, gently easing you forward to create space between your back and the chair. Atticus stood on his chair, and it took effort not to flinch away from the movement as he leaned over you to inspect your skin. You shivered as the cool room air moved over you. Atticus nodded, and Marion replaced your robe around you. He sat back down in his chair, obviously satisfied with what he'd seen.

“Well then, you must be brimming with questions, eh? You've given me what I want – mostly, anyway - so lay it on me and I'll answer as best I can.” Your eyes widened in surprise. Every action of the people in this place was completely unexpected. Spluttering slightly, reaching for your first coherent thought in the tangle of words that sprang to your mind, you asked,

“Where are we?”

“On the Sword Coast, about twenty miles from Baldur's Gate. Next.”

“Why does everything hurt so much?”

“That paralysis poison kills nerves. If I hadn't known the antidote, and Lord Astarion didn't have the funds to obtain it, you would have been dead within a day of your arrival, with your brainstem paralyzed.” You shrank a little as you realized how close you had come to your own demise. “And nerves take longer than most tissues to recover. Even with all the health potions I used and Lay On Hands spells I cast, I cannot convince your body to heal any faster. A lasting effect of the poison, which means you are having to heal yourself on your own. And I know it hurts, lass.” You were quiet for a moment.

“How did you know that I am without magic?” He raised an eyebrow as if this was not an intelligent question.

“Do you think me stupid, lass?” Your brows furrowed. Yours was a reasonable question, you thought. Since you had been unconscious, you couldn't have performed magic even if you still had it – so how did they know it had been taken from you? As you began to protest, Atticus resumed. “You transported yourself thousands of miles via electric current and created lightning in the middle of a snowstorm. For someone who is so uniquely gifted with storm sorcery to be unable to regulate their own internal temperature is clear evidence of magical paralysis, or theft, as the case may be.” He looked you up and down intently, clearly trying to fit together the missing puzzle pieces surrounding what happened to you. Trying to keep him from filling in the gaps, you changed the subject.

“Why have you locked me in a room with no windows?” Atticus barked out a laugh.

“You're not locked in, lass. You just haven't tried the door. The lack of viewing ports was for your safety. As we didn't know what happened to you, we didn't know who might be looking for you, or their intentions. We also wanted to give you privacy.”

“I haven't had much of that so far,” you grumbled. His eyes sparkled.

“Ordinarily, as a guest of Lord Astarion, you would be welcome to request alternative accommodations. However, in this instance, if you choose to stay here, you will need to remain quartered in this room.” You began to protest, when Marion spoke up.

“Lord Astarion is serious about your safety, and feels you are safest here,” she said gently. You swallowed as you considered your next question. They had both been quite open about everything you'd wanted to know so far, but this might go beyond what they knew, or what they were allowed to tell you.

“How is it that Astarion can walk in the sunlight?” Your mind went back to the day he had found you in the snow – it had been daylight when he had rescued you. “He is undead, yet he breathes and has a beating heart.”

Atticus' expression grew serious. “Multiple centuries ago, Lord Astarion participated in a ritual that allowed him to become a Vampire Ascendant. None have completed such a ritual before or since, and he does not speak of it, other than to note that it gave him the mortal abilities that vampires lack. None but he and those who were present at the ritual know exactly what went on there, and they're all either long dead, or silent.” You nodded, though even in your extensive research into obscure magics, you had never heard of a Vampire Ascendant – and here you were, seemingly in the good graces of the only existing example. You found yourself wondering what Astarion had been through to become what he was.

“If his center of operations is in Baldur's Gate, why is he here?” Atticus returned to a jovial expression once more.

“As the decades pass, his dislike for city life grows greater and greater. He has always preferred to spend the winter in the country, but recently he's postponed his return longer each year. I'm surprised that he leaves at all, now that the spawn have learned how to manage the operations there.” This sparked another inquiry.

“What about the spawn? Why so few of them?” Atticus looked at Marion for a moment, then back to you.

“Not all of Lord Astarion's spawn are still associated with him. There are select few reasons why he has ever created one. The Baldur's Gate community knows that he offers employment, and prefers to hire those who need help, utilizing what talents they possess in return for food, housing, and salary. On rare occasions, there is a shining star that rises through the ranks, to whom Lord Astarion offers immortality – a partnership, with the condition of complete secrecy. It is never required, merely offered. Most take the opportunity for leadership, but very few accept the vampirism, and those that do are aware that he has the ability to control them at will if they break the rules. If the spawn decide to leave his partnership, they do so with the knowledge that while he will not stop them from departing, he will continue to monitor them for problematic behavior and confidentiality breaches, and take appropriate action. Not that it really comes up – those that make it to the vampirism stage are exceptional individuals that have proven themselves worthy of trust.”

“Have you two been offered vampirisim?” Atticus looked at Marion again. She shook her head, adding, “I wouldn't take it if it was.” Atticus waited for her to finish before he spoke again.

“He has offered, yes, but that is not my ambition.”

You were once again dumbfounded. A vampire, hiding his true identity, helping the community, selectively offering vampirism to the cream of his crop, and responsibly monitoring all of his creations? Were you understanding this correctly, or was this an effect of the poison on your mind? When you didn't say anything more, Atticus held up the vial of blood he had obtained.

“I shall let Lord Astarion know the results when I have them. Of course, we won't know anything from yesterday” - here he shot an annoyed look at you - “but the data from two days prior and earlier can be compared.” He placed the vial in his bag and replaced the dining chair before walking toward the exit. He turned to face you and Marion before he left. “I shall return tomorrow for another health check. Might I humbly suggest that you are less difficult then, lass?” He didn't wait for an answer as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Once he had left, Marion turned to you, kneeling next to you.

“Would you like to stay here, or move to the bed?” she asked.

“I'll stay here for now,” you responded. Marion smiled and stood, walking to her cart. When she returned, she brought with her a short stack of books and a matching pair of blankets. After draping one blanket over your shoulders and the other on your lap, she set the books on the end table next to your chair.

“I tried to bring you a reasonable variety. Lord Astarion's library is vast, and items he doesn't have can be ordered, so feel free to make requests for reading materials. I will return with a light lunch in the afternoon as well as supper in the evening. If you would like to go for a walk, a wheeled chair has been arranged for your use, and I will take you where you wish to go. Should you need anything, please ring the bell on the side table.” You nodded, and she turned to leave the room. As she turned the knob, you called her name.

“Marion?” She stopped and looked at you expectantly.

“Thank you.” Her expression warmed as she smiled.

“It is what I would need, were I in your place.” She opened the door, turning away from you. “Good morning, miss.” Just like that, she was gone.

The day passed uneventfully. Marion visited twice more as promised, and you spent the time in between either reading or dozing. When a knock came at your door well after dark and you advised the visitor to enter, you expected to see Marion again, ready to help you into bed. You were therefore surprised when the door opened to reveal Astarion.

“I expect your day went well?” he asked, remaining a respectful distance from you, likely noticing the immediate tension in your body as you identified him.

“Yes, thank you. Marion has been very kind.”

“She is one of the best,” he said, clearly pleased with your satisfaction. “Although Atticus does not always agree.”

“I can understand why,” you said, a small smile playing on your face – possibly the first since all of this started. Astarion noticed this, his expression softening at your response.

“Well, you are welcome to stay up as long as you please, but I thought you might be ready for bed.”

“I am,” you responded, exhausted from your first day awake in gods only knew how long. With great effort, you stood from your chair before Astarion could reach you. As you resisted collapsing under the weight of the pain this caused, you reached for the hand you thought he was offering you for assistance. Instead, you were surprised, but not upset, when he slipped his arm behind your back and held eye contact with you while he slowly bent to sweep his other hand under your knees and lift you into his arms, carrying you just as he had the first time, out in the snow. You didn't stop him, and you were grateful when he placed you down gently on the bed, but as he stood, you found yourself wishing you were still pressed against his chest.

You expected him to leave, then, but he instead moved to the opposite side of the bed and climbed under the covers once more, a hand out to help you into his lap. You didn't flinch from him this time, slowly moving your tired and painful body closer to him and allowing him to settle you between his legs.

“I didn't think you would come back tonight,” you said, somewhat breathlessly. “You must have things to do that are more important than spending all night with me.” He scoffed, as though this was a ludicrous thought.

“As an elf, I didn't sleep much even before my transformation. I've needed even less sleep since then. Being here gives me an excuse to remove my nose from my paperwork and catch up on my leisure reading instead, all under the guise of attending to a guest who is ill.”

You surprised yourself when your noticed moisture gathering in the corners of your eyes. Did it hurt that Astarion wasn't truly here for you, and was only after his own purposes? What an absurd notion. You didn't respond to him, and felt conflicted about enjoying the warmth that soon exuded from his body. Shortly afterward, his voice came softly from your left.

“I understand that you interrogated Atticus this morning.”

“'Interrogated' is a strong word,” you grumbled. “He told me to ask.” Astarion chuckled softly, the vibrations shaking his chest.

“I understand. He certainly gave you plenty to chew on,” he said, clearly hoping that this would urge you to talk. You stubbornly remained silent, not giving in to the obvious trap. He knew what you had been told – he wanted to know what you thought about it, and you wouldn't give him an inch.

"Well,” he said, relenting. “Since you got so much information about me, may I ask you more about yourself?” You took a deep breath. Where was this going? You still couldn't talk about that, couldn't even think about it or you would start to panic, mind racing between thoughts and fear rising up in your chest -

“Only if you answer in turn,” you responded, yanking yourself out of your introspection. You needed more information - whether the vampire was true to his word or not, you needed to know as much as possible about what was going on, whether to help it, or escape it.

“I accept your terms,” he said, clearly smirking at you, though you couldn't see his face. “Where were you, before you fell out of the sky?”

“I was in Chult,” you said, purposefully keeping your answer short.

“And what were you doing there?”

“I answered your question, and I ask next,” you said, your turn to smirk now. He scoffed, but waited for you to speak again. A more somber question entered your mind.

“How often do you eat?” you asked quietly, leaving out the question of what he ate.

“Once or twice a week, usually,” he said. “I’m due to eat in the next day or two.” You stiffened as he grazed his lips across the skin of your neck, goosebumps erupting unbidden in the path of his breath. “But you needn’t worry, darling. These days I only feed on animals.”

“Why is that?” you inquired, trying not to allow the adrenaline in your veins to show in your voice, although you were sure he could smell it in your blood, given how close he was to your jugular. His breath spread over your neck as he chuckled.

“Now look who’s asking out of turn.” You swallowed as he removed himself from your neck, trying desperately to slow your breathing. “What was your objective in Chult, then?”

“I was paid to slay a dragon and retrieve the contents of its stomach,” you said confidently. There was no need for him to know anything about your dual magics, nor your true mission with the dragon.

“That seems a bit far removed from your usual academic pursuits,” he commented. Your jaw nearly fell open in shock, but you recovered quickly.

“How do you think I obtain the data for my papers?” you bit out.

“Of course, but dragons are not exactly mysterious and unstudied,” he pressed. “Why go after this one?” He was getting too close to the truth for your comfort.

“Not your turn anymore,” you snapped. “But the answer is that I needed the money, and the client was paying well.” That much was true. Research ventures were costly, and you couldn’t justify blind experimentation with your magics if you didn’t secure funding in advance. You hoped that would be enough to get him off your trail, but you cast around for something else to distract him.

“How much of my research have you read?” you asked.

“Oh, none of it,” he said dismissively. “Not really my genre, darling. Once I learned who you were, I set a wizard contact of mine on your trail. It turns out that he already knew of you and is enamored with your work. It was annoying, actually. He kept begging to meet you.” This elicited a surprised laugh. You knew your work was groundbreaking, but it was still quite niche, and you had certainly never been approached by any fans. “You likely know of him, too. Gale Dekarios?” Your eyes widened, and you attempted to sit up and turn to face him, before the stabbing pain beneath your skin reminded you that you shouldn’t, and you collapsed back against his chest.

“Professor Gale Dekarios?!?” you exclaimed. “The Chosen of Mystra, one of the saviors of the world?” One of your idols, both in magical pursuits and in research, and who had known Tav personally.

“Don’t forget ‘annoying as hell’ and ‘certified weirdo,” he quipped. “You will meet him soon; I have solicited his assistance with lifting the curse upon you and restoring your magic.” You gasped in disbelief.

“How did you come to be able to call in that favor?” you asked.

“Not your turn,” he said, obviously satisfied with your reaction to his revelation, but he was subdued as he responded anyway. “Honestly, we never enjoyed each other’s company, and our last meeting left us without the intention to ever speak again. He is largely coming here to satisfy his own curiosity, rather than any favor to me.” This sparked dozens more questions in your mind - how had he come to know Gale? What had caused the rift? You knew you were unlikely to get answers to these questions even if you asked, not that you would dare, and it was his turn to ask anyway.

“So,” he continued. “Will you tell me about the client?” You could tell he was asking with trepidation, not knowing how close he was coming to the areas that you were unwilling to discuss. This, though, you would give him.

“Serena Hillbrand. A young human woman who learned that her great-grandfather’s sword had been swallowed by this dragon decades ago. He is on his deathbed, and she wanted him to have it in his possession once more before he passes.” After a moment of thought, you spoke again, more quietly this time. “I do not believe that she is involved with what happened to me. I met the both of them before agreeing to the job, and I regret that I failed to deliver upon my promise.” Astarion tutted. He clearly disagreed with your conclusion, but was reasonable enough not to say so.

“I will have someone follow up with her,” he said, the barest hint of menace in his voice.

“Do not hurt them,” you exclaimed, more loudly than before. This time, you ignored your body’s protests as you twisted to look him in the eye, affirming your insistence. The corners of his lips turned up and his eyes sparkled with savage delight.

“Nonsense, dearest. I do not hurt anyone that hasn’t thoroughly earned it.” You grunted and laid back, the movement of Astarion’s arms settling around you more possessively than before not escaping your notice. “It’s your turn,” he said brightly. You cast around for something to ask, irritated with his response, and worried for Selena and that poor old man.

“How old are you?” If he had known Tav, he would be at least three hundred years old.

“Five centuries, give or take a decade. It gets harder to keep track as time goes on.” He said this dismissively, as if it was nothing, but you heard the undertone of sadness. You understood, in a way. Whether one was a hero or a villain, immortality would inevitably lead to outliving most anyone that one cared about, and it was unlikely that he had agreed to his fate. You allowed the silence to continue until he was ready to speak again.

“How much do you know about Tav?”

“What it says in the history books, mostly. Saving the world and all, with the help of Gale and Lae’zel and all the others. Some things are passed down through the generations as storytelling, but it’s hard to know exactly how much of it is true. Also, there's a lot of family reunions and stuff, as all of her direct female descendants are superior specimens of their craft, and collaborate frequently on humanitarian projects.”

So softly that you barely heard it, Astarion breathed, “Superior specimen, indeed.” It was your turn to ask now.

“How did you know her?” you asked, finally daring to ask a more personal question. He jerked as if struck.

“I -” he stammered. He was silent for a long moment, then seemed to gather himself. “She helped me defeat my old vampiric master, Lord Cazador.” As little as you knew about Astarion, you knew that there was something he wasn’t telling you - something big. Perhaps Tav was one of the long-dead witnesses to Astarion’s Ascendant ritual - but why wouldn't that have been in the history books, or at least told as an epic tale amongst your family? Clearly he didn’t want to discuss it, and he was allowing you not to discuss what happened to you in Chult, so you felt obligated to let his demons lie, just as he was doing for you - despite a sudden, burning desire to know the full story.

After a long pause, you attempted to break the silence.

“What's your favorite book in your collection?” Astarion cleared his throat before responding.

“It's not your turn, darling,” he said softly, subdued. “Although I tire of playing for this evening. I would pick up tomorrow if you're agreeable?”

You nodded, wondering why the polite rejection stung. What did you care about a vampire cutting short your social time? Surely he was just waiting until you were no longer poisoned to kill you so he could safely drink your blood, you thought. But then your heart screamed that you were wrong. He clearly had a dark and dangerous past behind him, and he was likely powerful enough to conquer at least Baldur's Gate, if not the entire Sword Coast, but he was also clearly traumatized, and had substantial regrets. The world's only Vampire Ascendant, possessed of the ability to destroy you with barely a thought, was holding and keeping you warm, despite your access to alternatives, and playing Twenty Questions with you.

Frustrated with your own emotions, you laid your head back onto his shoulder in resignation, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to take slow, deep breaths, counting the seconds through each inhale and exhale, attempting unsuccessfully to slow your racing thoughts.

Just as you were finally about to drift off, your mind jumped to attention as Astarion heaved a deep sigh and dipped his head to gently press the side of his face against yours, creating an unexpectedly intimate moment. You didn't move a muscle, maintaining the rhythm of your breathing, until he straightened and opened his book once more. The new flurry of emotions you felt were overwhelming – fear, uncertainty, and both emotional and physical pain within yourself were mixed with a sudden rush of affection, longing, and protectiveness over Astarion.

A tear leaked from your eye as you finally surrendered to sleep.

Chapter Text

You awoke the following morning once more without Astarion. You again found yourself wishing that you had woken up still wrapped in his arms, his warmth, steady heartbeat, and his very presence soothing your frayed nerves. However, that wasn't the case as Marion knocked on your door to begin the new day. Swallowing some of your pride, you requested a tour of the castle after breakfast, knowing that you would have to be wheeled around, cringing at the amount of vulnerability that displayed to a world you didn't understand. But Marion smiled, pleased, helping you into a simple and comfortable dress, and placing a blanket over your lap before pushing you from the room.

The manor was more enormous than you could have imagined. You were staying in one of the larger guest suites on the second floor. Marion showed you the various amenities, from the central ballroom to the kitchen and day to day dining areas, the foyer and library, the living room and several studies, a sunroom and conservatory, and the view to the courtyard, stables, gardens, and lake which were currently covered in layers of snow and ice. The decor throughout was tasteful and well planned, with themes of red, gold, and white recurring throughout the tour. Above the grand staircase was a larger-than-life painting of Astarion. He looked exquisitely beautiful in dress robes of crimson on a dark background, his face and build captured precisely, but the artist had failed in one singular aspect - the eyes were too friendly. While the portrait carried a regal, almost bored expression, the maroon eyes lacked the dangerous, practically lethal undertone that accompanied even the happier moods of his real-life counterpart.

“I don't much like it either,” Marion said, startling you out of your reverie. You turned to look at her, finding her examining the painting. You squinted, trying to ascertain whether you could detect any magic originating from her direction. Nothing caught your notice, although you were unsure whether this was due to there being none present, or because you had lost the ability to sense nearby spells alongside the loss of your magic. Her eyes flashed to yours, catching you in the process of your scrutiny. They sparkled, slightly amused.

“I am neither a mind reader nor a spellcaster,” she said lightly. “But when you've been doing this job as long as I have, you've spent enough time observing social interactions and anticipating needs to pick up on a lot of unspoken cues. And, indeed, yours are not subtle.”

You flushed slightly, embarrassed, and she chuckled, wheeling you away from the painting. “Do not worry, miss. Nearly everyone who is new to this lifestyle has to practice at the art of hiding one's thoughts.”

“What thoughts are you hiding?” you mumbled. You could hear the smile in her voice as she responded.

“I am an open book, ma'am. I have yet to deny you truthful answers to any of your questions, you must admit.”

You scoffed. As far as you knew, Marion was herself the Vampire Ascendant, having put on this entire spectacle to humiliate you before turning you into her eternal slave. You turned to look at her face, her expression kind but inscrutable. You knew you had little room to complain about your treatment – but you continued to be surprised at every turn, a feeling that was unfamiliar to you. You always knew what to expect, researched every mission and planned your every move before accepting a contract, and were always well-equipped to handle the challenges you anticipated. Here, you were at at the mercy of a completely unknown entity, and against all odds, this situation had been favorable to you. You still didn't trust this not to fall apart at any moment, but perhaps it was permissible for you to accept that at this time, you were safe.

Marion wheeled you back to your suite, where you stayed for the remainder of the day. You passed several more days in this manner – breakfast in your rooms, followed by a walk around the manor, and spending the rest of your time reading and recuperating. Atticus monitored your condition but did not collect any more blood after that first day, which you suspected was due to the insistence of Marion, not any acceptance of your improvement by Atticus. The cat, who you learned was the ghost of a tressym named Tara, wandered in and out of your rooms frequently, purring loudly and keeping you company, but did not speak. You were sure that she was surveiling you for various concerned parties, but she was unobtrusive, and kept you from loneliness during the day. Astarion would come at night, and you would discuss some subject or another until you fell asleep, but he carefully avoided any more games with questions, despite his earlier promise, and he was always gone by morning.

You had Marion send a letter to the Academy on your behalf, letting them know that you would be taking a 'working sabbatical' during the upcoming semester as your winter break mission had uncovered information not previously known which would require significant additional study. This was, of course, incredibly vague, but it was true, and provided you more time with which to attempt to get your magic back before returning to the Academy full time. Marion also helped you work on your mobility every afternoon, helping you to walk further and further each day as the pain improved, and within a week, you could get around on your own for short stints without much difficulty.

It was then that Astarion announced that he had discussed it with Atticus, and you had improved enough that you could regulate your own body temperature, and no longer required his presence at night. He said this as though it were a good thing. You had to admit, knowing that you weren't at risk of freezing to death even while in front of a fire was a relief, and you should have been ecstatic to distance yourself from the most powerful vampire in existence. Instead, you found yourself missing his company and conversation in the evenings, the huge bed feeling emptier without him, descending into fitful sleep each night with slowly worsening nightmares plaguing your unconsciousness with visions of jungles, dragons, quicksand, and curses. Additionally, now that his presence was not required nightly, you saw him much more rarely. You didn't know why you'd expected him to spend his days within the manor – he surely had more important things to do. You saw him perhaps once in the week following his announcement, passing the library door with Atticus, and startled yourself when you suddenly felt your heart longing to follow him.

Thus, it was a surprise when Marion informed you that Gale Dekarios' planned visit was occurring the following day, and she offered a briefing on the details, should you desire them. You didn't have patience enough for a that, though, when your mind swirled with dozens of questions.

“Will you be there?”

“This is a private meeting between you, Lord Astarion, and Professor Dekarios. My presence is unnecessary, especially with Lord Astarion's attendance.” You looked at the floor, suddenly nervous. Why did the thought of spending time in close proximity to Astarion still make your stomach clench in unease? You would prefer Marion at your side, but you couldn't rightly argue with the decision not to involve her.

“They're not going to get into a fight, are they? Don't they hate each other?” Marion chuckled.

“I cannot guarantee that words will not be exchanged. Once you've met Professor Dekarios, you will understand. However, Lord Astarion would not have contacted Gale for help, and Gale would not have accepted, had they the intent to kill each other once they met.”

That seemed like a pretty lofty promise – you'd heard of worse betrayals, and these two had a history. But Marion seemed very assured of her statement, and if you wanted any chance at having your magic returned, you needed Gale's help. She laid out the remainder of the details, walking you through the location and duration of the meeting. You picked a dress to wear, one whose color complimented your eyes and whose cut complimented your figure, while remaining professional in neckline and fabric. When you finally felt that you had every detail mapped out, you dismissed Marion and attempted sleep, despite the nightmares that woke you frequently.

The following morning, you were accompanied by Marion as you strode toward the study where the meeting was to be held. You were arriving ten minutes before Gale was due to appear. Astarion had briefed him on the basics – you were attacked with a paralysis toxin while on a paid retrieval mission in Chult, branded, and unsure of what your attacker's next step would have been if you had not been inexplicably spontaneously transported via lightning to a location less than a half-mile from Astarion, whom you had never met or even heard of prior to the time he rescued you. You awoke with your magic vanished, and sought its return. Marion had told you all of this the night before, and she hadn't mentioned the rape attempt, so you hoped Astarion had left it out of Gale's briefing, as well.

As you entered the doors of the study, you paused temporarily to look around this room you had never seen before, its door always shut tight. It was clearly Astarion's study, as it was completely free of dust, and amid the rich cherry desk and bookshelves, every texture was soft and velvety, every accent color shades of red. A small bar stood off to the side by the fireplace, where multiple chairs and a couch surrounded a small table near the fire. The musky scent of burning wood was accented by the bittersweet smell of brandy and rosemary. You knew, of course, that no matter where you were located in the manor, you were on his property. Here, however, you were very clearly on his turf – a place that was his, and his alone. You swallowed hard as Marion left your side and closed the door behind you, sealing you inside with Astarion.

Your eyes needed to adjust for a moment before you found him standing at the bar. He motioned you toward him, and you walked silently to its counter. The sight of him here and the knowledge that he would be with you during the meeting was comforting to you, overriding your base instinct that he was not to be trusted. That was getting easier, these days, you reflected.

“Hello, darling,” he said with a small smile, setting two bottles on the bar. “I will require alcohol to deal with Professor Dekarios, and I thought I might share.” You blinked in surprise. Wasn't this supposed to be a serious meeting?

“How much have you had already?” you asked nervously. You didn't want to worry about any drunken behavior while trying to conference with Gale.

“Oh, none, of course. This is for after,” he said, winking. You gave a surprised laugh, wondering how advisable it would be to play drinking games with a vampire.

“Perhaps I will join you, then,” you replied.

“I look forward to it. You are comfortable with the plan?” he asked, switching topics. You clarified a few points before accompanying him to a small sitting area in the rear of the library, where you expected Gale to appear at any moment. Approximately two minutes ahead of schedule, a purple spiral sprang into existence, and a handsome human man wearing purple robes and sporting shoulder-length hair and a beard, emerged from its center.

So this was Gale Dekarios. He greeted Astarion and they shook hands, before Gale's eyes found you. He broke into a dazzling smile.

“And this is our magical enigma!” he exclaimed. “You must introduce me, Astarion!” Astarion scoffed and rolled his eyes, but to you, Gale's presence was blinding.

“You've known each other for years from whatever academic weirdo circles you travel, you hardly require an introduction.”

“Of course, but this is the first time I've had the pleasure of meeting in person, and I absolutely must shake the hand of the author behind the definitive work on boggle behavior!”

Gale began to walk toward you, and your eyes instinctively flashed to meet Astarion's as you resisted the urge to back away. He moved to stand between you and Gale, the wizard halting before him in confusion.

“You do not touch her without her consent,” he commanded. Gale scoffed, backing up a step.

“Obviously not, Astarion! Goddess, you act as though I've ever touched anyone without their permission!” Astarion leaned forward into Gale's space, suddenly seeming to tower over the wizard.

“Shall we ask Mystra if you had permission to touch that Netherese orb?” he growled, enunciating each syllable with precision and anger, his expression vicious as you had never seen before. This was suddenly going very poorly, and you scrambled to think of a way to intervene.

“Fuck you, Astarion. I am here to help. Where is this animosity coming from?” Astarion inhaled to answer -

“Part of the ritual was rape,” you spoke up loudly, trying with all your might not to let your voice waver as you resisted curling in on yourself in shame. They both turned to you, Gale's shock written on his face, while Astarion kept his eyes steadfastly on the ground. Funnily enough, you preferred the latter.

“He Silenced me so I couldn't use magic and used the dagger to deliver the paralysis toxin.” You looked away from them as you struggled to keep the tears in your eyes from falling. “Then he gave me a small dose of antidote so that I would be awake when he branded me and raped me. I was still Silenced and mostly paralyzed, but it didn't matter anyway, because my magic was already gone. I can only assume that he would have left me for dead after he was done.” You breathed in shakily, steadying yourself for the last piece of information you would give, unwilling to reveal your deepest secret, but needing something to say that was readily believable and would stand up to scrutiny. “He was successful in branding me, but did not complete the rest, because I ended up here – how, I do not know.” They did not need the details about the unexplainable actions of your wild magic to understand the nature of the ritual.

You roughly wiped the tears from your eyes and straightened, looking back at the two men. Astarion was staring at you now, his brow deeply furrowed into an expression of intense curiosity with just a hint of fury underlying the look in his eyes. Gale, meanwhile, was trapped between an obvious desire to close the gap and offer you comfort, warring with the need to resist the urge in deference to not only your wishes, but also to Astarion's form still standing between you and preventing his approach. Instead, he turned to Astarion, ready to berate him for hiding this. Cutting off the start of an argument, you drew Gale's attention again.

“This is the first that Astarion is hearing of it, too. He only knew that my attacker was male, and surmised the rest.”

Gale finally spoke, about to offer some useless condolences, when -

“I don't want your sympathy,” you insisted, interrupting him once more, belatedly realizing how rude you were being. “I want you to use the information to get answers for how to lift this curse.” And remove from me the weight of this ever-present, suffocating fear. Please.

After a moment of stunned silence, Gale abruptly closed his mouth before raising his hands in submission. “I understand. Thank you for trusting me with the details. What shape was the brand? May I see it?”

“I had it erased,” Astarion volunteered, keeping Gale from needing to ask you to remove your clothes. “In case it would allow continued control over her.” He moved to his desk in the study, opening a drawer and removing a charcoal sketch. “I captured an image of it before that, however.” You startled at your first glimpse of the markings that had been on your back, having had no idea how intricate the brand had truly been, only knowing the feeling of the white-hot metal searing your skin.

Gale took the parchment from Astarion, holding it up to the light, when his face suddenly drained of color and his body tensed. Your stomach dropped to the floor as you observed his reaction – what he had seen there had scared him. Professor Gale Dekarios, Chosen of Mystra, Savior of Fae'run, was frightened by a drawing of the figure that had been burned into your skin. But it wasn't you whom he seemed to be worried about – it was Astarion whose eyes he avoided as he continued to stare down at the lines on the paper. His abrupt change in demeanor didn't escape Astarion's notice either.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What does it mean?” Gale was quiet for a moment, seeming to carefully piece together his next sentence.

“You will not be pleased,” he said, his voice calm, contrary to the knowledge that whatever bomb he seemed to be handling so carefully was set to explode.

Astarion scoffed. “I will be even less pleased if you do not come out with it!” He didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation, you realized. You truly had no idea what was going to come out of Gale's mouth next, but you did know that it was going to make Astarion furious. Your heart pounded wildly, your senses on fire, your instincts screaming that you needed to leave the vicinity of an angry vampire, no matter how generous and gentle he had been with you thus far. You truly, briefly wondered if whatever it was that had been branded upon your back would be enough to turn you into his next target. Clearly noticing the change in your heart rate and adrenaline levels, Astarion looked at you with his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed, before demanding,

“What is going on here?”

“I do not know exactly what it says, as I am unfamiliar with the dialect,” Gale explained carefully, drawing Astarion's attention away from you again before finally turning to look at him. “But it is written in Infernal, and most likely describes the process of the ritual.”

Astarion's eyes locked on yours, and for the briefest moment you were lost in the wave of intense emotions on his face – shock, grief, pain, fear, sadness, vulnerability – before his eyes clouded over in an expression of rage. You could swear his features sharpened and tendrils of black smoke began to weave their way around his form, his fury beginning to boil over, to make him look more vampiric. You found yourself immobilized under his stare, still as a statue despite everything within you screaming that you needed to run. Without looking away from you, he addressed Gale.

“How can this be reversed?” he growled, his struggle to contain himself obvious.

“I can't know that until I have it interpreted and its origin located,” Gale said, trying to temper him. “I will take it to Wyll and Karlach straight away.” You nearly jumped at the casual name-dropping of two of the most famous heroes in the world, but Astarion rubbed his face with his palm at their mention, finally breaking his eye contact with you, his features softening and the smoke dissipating as the fury lessened in the wake of something else – dread? Regardless, it distracted him enough that he could regain control of himself.

“Indeed,” he said. “You have my thanks. You will excuse me,” he said, tipping his head somewhat awkwardly at Gale, and looking back at you, not failing to notice your white-knuckled grip on the back of the closest chair, which had developed once you had escaped his paralyzing gaze.

Despite your attempted stoicism, you couldn't entirely hide your renewed fear of him. You had allowed him to get close to you out of necessity, despite your better instincts, and it hadn't taken long for him to remind you that he was a powerful and dangerous Vampire Ascendant, upon whose fleeting favor you depended to prevent him from deciding to take your life. Surely he wouldn't try to kill you in front of Gale - perhaps this was your shot at escape. Perhaps you could convince Professor Dekarios to allow you to become an assistant? Without your magic, you could likely never be a professor again, but safety and a steady job sounded better than immortal slavery or death. Your thoughts whirled through your head as your body took an instinctive step backward.

Astarion's expression changed for a millisecond – had your reaction hurt him? - before he straightened and marched out of the room.

You looked awkwardly at Gale, who was still staring after Astarion. After a long pause, he turned to you.

“That went better than I expected it would. He must have mellowed out over the centuries.” Your eyes widened.

“This was better?” you blurted incredulously. “What scenario did you expect, and did we both come out of it alive?” He chuckled, your face warming as you realized that you'd made Gale Dekarios laugh.

“Nothing like that. He has no cause to harm either of us, you especially. But he does have quite the flair for the dramatic. I expected more of an explosion, followed by sulking for days.”

“But why would he react that way at all? Is he that offended by the Infernal language?” Gale's gaze softened.

“If I told you why, and he found out, that is an explosion that I would not survive,” he quipped, and you struggled to determine how serious he was.

“What about me?” you demanded, desperate to learn anything about this curse. “My life is at stake here. If his anger at this means that he represents a threat -”

“Your life is at stake, yes,” Gale said, interrupting you. “But he is not a threat to it.”

“How can you know that?” you demanded, all pretenses of politeness gone now. “Evidently you haven't spoken in centuries, and you didn't seem to have an overly high opinion of each other the last time you met.” Gale sighed, suddenly seeming exhausted.

“Suffice to say that I have not always approved of Astarion's decisions. We left each other with no intention to meet again, yes, and he knew why I didn't agree with him then. But it has not escaped my notice how he has evolved over the years and what he's doing with his life – one hears things every so often, especially in academia. Plus, Tara is an old friend. She would not have decided to settle here if Astarion hadn't changed from the man I once knew. I have not reached out to him, but was not displeased when he contacted me. Otherwise, I would have rejected his summons.” He looked you up and down kindly, and said softly, “I'm glad I didn't.”

You flushed again, looking away, until his hand entered your view, waiting for the handshake he'd wanted since before this had all started. You looked up at him, taking his hand, feeling its warmth and steady grip until he released you, his eyes fixed softly on yours.

“This drawing has a gap in a couple of places. The words may or may not be important, and it will still be readable without them, but if I can copy them, it would be helpful. If you still have any kind of markings, may I see them?” Your breath hitched, but you nodded, turning your back to him and pulling your hair around to the front. The top of the brand was visible above the back of your dress, and you felt the low, magical hum of his connection to the Weave grow louder as he carefully moved closer.

“May I trace it?” he asked, his voice taut, quiet. You nodded again, knowing it was necessary, and that you had nothing to lose. He knew now what had been done to you, and there wasn't a reason to hide this from him. You tried not to jump when his warm fingers touched your shoulder, a quill and paper suddenly appearing and floating in front of you, copying his movements as he traced the intricate markings of the brand, no evidence in the magical drawing displayed of the goosebumps that erupted on your skin in the path of his touch. The quill paused as his fingers reached the back of your dress and moved to the zipper, pausing there to silently ask your permission. You leaned into his touch, signaling him to proceed. You shut your eyes and stopped breathing as he carefully unzipped your dress until your entire scar was visible. He continued his path across your back, the scratching of quill on parchment the only sound. You stood rigidly, a war raging in your mind between your fear and embarrassment begging you to pull away, and the gentle intoxication of his warm and consistent touch begging you to stay. Before long, he was finished, the quill vanishing and the parchment folding itself neatly and inserting itself into Gale's hand. He tucked it away before zipping your dress and placing a hand on your shoulder to let you know you could turn around.

“I will take this to my associates post haste. We will find the origin of this ritual and discover its undoing. I swear that to you. And worry not – if I felt that Astarion was a danger to you, I would not allow you to stay here.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, not knowing what else to say, or how to feel about the way his touch had somehow immediately melted you. Could he tell? Was this intentional? You felt shame for your attraction – he would never have an interest in you, this endeavor had been entirely scholastic in nature, and you should focus on getting your magic back rather than problematic romances. You felt very small as you tried to think of a way to end the conversation and retreat to your rooms, when the door where Astarion had exited burst open and Marion entered, making her way to your side at a no-nonsense pace. Gale smiled at her as she approached, but she returned him only a level gaze. You knew that whether this conversation continued or was abruptly ended depended on how you reacted to whatever he would say next – she wouldn't automatically see him out, but under no circumstances would she allow him to make you in any way uncomfortable. She certainly would not have allowed him to ask to unzip your dress. Gale gave you a knowing look.

“Ah, the cavalry has arrived – making good time, as well. Less than ten minutes must set some sort of record!” Holy shit – it had been less than ten minutes since Astarion had left? You could have sworn it was at least thirty!

“Less than ten minutes is plenty of time to hurt someone,” she replied, intentionally declining to clarify whether the victim had been you, or would be him. His smile grew wider.

“An excellent watchdog,” he said. “Some might say it is an insult to insinuate that a guest would harm his host, but no hard feelings, of course.” He turned away, a portal rippling with purple light appearing in front of him. Before stepping inside, he turned back to look at you. “I will be in touch. Perhaps our next encounter could occur at my office in Waterdeep – I have some articles I'd love your opinion on.” He winked before ducking through, disappearing before your eyes.

You let out the breath you'd been holding in a shaky sigh, belatedly turning to Marion. She was looking at you with an eyebrow raised. “What?” you asked. She scoffed. “What?”

“I won't do you the indignity of asking whether the way you reacted to Gale was because he gave you cause to fear him, or because he has already fooled you into being besotted for him.” You flushed and looked away from her.

“It is none of your business what I do or do not feel for Gale,” you snapped, feeling oddly defensive. “Is Astarion so insecure that he must send you to defend me from his potential rivals?” Marion's lips thinned.

“Lord Astarion excused himself from a situation that was causing him to lose control. He asked me to take his place at your side.” You continued to stare at her, not sure what she was getting at. “He didn't want to leave you in a position where there was any chance you might be pressured to do anything that made you uncomfortable. He didn't tell me to keep you away from Gale – you could have lain with him before my very eyes, and as long as you had consented, I would not stop you. Astarion told me to be with you. To serve as an incentive for Gale to respect your wishes rather than ignore them.” She leaned in, taking your hand, searching your eyes.

“I know not what happened in here, and you need not divulge it to me. If I am meant to know, Lord Astarion will tell me. But whatever it was, when he found me, he was in the most distress that I have personally witnessed during my employ with him. Despite this, he had taken the time to find me, to make sure you were taken care of. That is not insecurity.” You nodded, allowing your hand to slip from hers.

“Now, with Gale gone, did you need anything else from me?” You drew your scattered thoughts inward.

“No, thank you, Marion.” She inclined her head once before striding out of the room. As she disappeared, you slumped into one of the armchairs and groaned. Gale seemed certain that you had nothing to fear from Astarion, but how could you believe that when this was their first interaction in centuries? Regardless, it was too late to beg him to take you with him now, so you would have to settle for increased vigilance around and distance from Astarion. That wouldn't be too difficult to pull off, now that you were seeing him much more infrequently. How long would the translation take? Why hadn't you asked? You rose and dragged yourself to your rooms, reflecting upon the reality that this was your first time meeting one of your idols, and it had gone like this.

–---

As you toweled your hair in front of the mirror late that evening, a knock came on your suite door. Assuming it was Marion coming to tidy up before bed as she was wont to do, you didn't speak further and grew confused as the seconds drew out with no discussion from her. Wrapping a towel around your midsection, you stepped out into the main room, stopping dead upon sighting Astarion leaning on the back of the sofa. His eyes caught yours, betraying no surprise at your state of undress. You stiffened, preparing to flee, or barricade yourself in the washroom temporarily while climbing out the window, should he advance toward you. You kept your expression as neutral as you could, although you knew you didn't have long before he would notice your skyrocketing heart rate.

“I hoped I would find you here,” he said softly.

“These are the rooms you have assigned me,” you said defiantly. “Where else would I be?”

“I was worried you might have left with Gale,” he admitted. Wait - was he about to admit that he had done something wrong? You had rarely heard such a thing out of a man, especially in your line of work. Astarion rose to his feet and approached you, catching you lost in your own thoughts, and you couldn't stop yourself from clutching your towel and retreating a step. He froze.

“Am I frightening you?” he asked incredulously. “I thought we were past the boring stereotype of ‘sadistic vampire seduces damsel in distress.’”

“That was before whatever is written on my back caused you to look at me like you wanted to kill me,” you challenged. “I didn't put it there, you know.” Astarion looked first dumbfounded, and then guilty. He reached toward you and staggered forward, halting in his tracks when you backed off another step.

“Of course I know you didn't consent to it. And I do not want to kill you, nor am I angry with you. I seek revenge on the devil that wrote this contract, and the man who asked him to write it.” Your jaw nearly dropped in surprise.

“You’re telling me that you conveniently happen to know this devil?” you asked, suspicious.

“Not directly, no,” he said, looking away from you. “But he wrote the ritual that my old master, Lord Cazador, planned to use to become a Vampire Ascendant, and which I used for myself after I killed him.”

“And how do you know it was this particular devil, and not some necromancer or god?” you demanded. “It has yet to be translated - how could you possibly know its origin already?” His eyes flickered to yours.

“It would appear that he has a fairly obvious modus operandi.” When you only stared at him, he looked at the ceiling and clenched his fists at his sides briefly, before sighing deeply and murmuring, “Let me show you.”

He turned and removed his tunic, a network of thick, ugly scars in a spiral pattern slowly revealed as he pulled the fabric up and over his head. The muscles of his shoulders and back flexed as his arms returned to his sides, standing to allow you to inspect the marred landscape of his skin, the rough edges appearing as chips in the carved marble of his body. This time it was you who reached out and stepped toward him before stopping yourself, warring with your instinct to touch his marks and assure him that he was no less beautiful for their presence.

“What does this mean?” you asked, after a moment of stunned silence.

“It means,” replied Astarion, turning back around and pulling his tunic back on, “that he has made himself my enemy a second time over. Centuries ago, I thought that killing Cazador and taking his place would suffice, but this time I will not stop until I reach Mephistopheles himself.” The casual and confident way in which he said these sinister words sent a chill down your spine. He was powerful enough to take down an Arch devil, and he knew it. But from what experience? You knew that Tav, Gale, and the others had killed Raphael, but to your knowledge, Astarion hadn't been with them. Where else would he have had the opportunity and capability to handle a showdown with one of Hell's topmost denizens, then?

Astarion's eyes dropped to your shoulders as goosebumps erupted on your skin, both in reaction to his chilling intent, and the cool room air on your drying body.

“Ah, yes – I did come here with a purpose other than to complain about my past,” he said, somewhat awkwardly transitioning topics. “Atticus informed me that long or stressful days might cause brief relapses in your recovery. I had already cleared this evening's schedule, and thought I might ask whether you'd like someone to keep you warm tonight.”

You struggled to keep your face neutral as you came to the shocking realization that Astarion was making up excuses to be with you. You were not having any pain or abnormal chill, and this was far from the most stressful day you'd had since being here.

But none of that mattered.

He may have been asking for his own benefit, but this also meant that he was offering you another night in his arms, and while it went against every self-preservation instinct you had ever acquired, you wanted that. You wanted a familiar presence at hand as you came down from the adrenaline rush that Gale had caused, and there was a part of you that also wanted to press yourself against the chiseled abs that had peeked from beneath his tunic as he'd replaced it earlier.

You arranged your expression into one of reluctant gratitude. “I was getting used to having this big bed to myself, but I suppose I can make room.” Astarion rolled his eyes, but then proceeded to his usual side of the mattress and waited for you to dress for bed. After retreating to the privacy of the bathroom to change into your nightclothes, you climbed beneath the comforter and allowed him to help you into his lap, feigning slightly stiff movements and making sure to shiver slightly as you laid back against his chest. You had no idea why you were following through with this pantomime, or feeling anything less than terrified of this vampire.

Those thoughts vanished the instant that his arms came around you, more carefully than he ever had before. He held you as though he was worried that you would float away. His body felt calm and relaxed as he reclined against the pillows, but the tension in his arms betrayed his thoughts. It wasn't until you felt the warmth beginning to seep through your body that he finally spoke.

“I have realized that I did not have your consent to erase your brand.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may have wanted to keep it – whether to aid in the investigation, or for personal reasons. You didn't get a chance to choose, and for that I apologize.”

“I didn't get a chance to choose when it came to its application, either,” you said bitterly. You knew it wasn't his fault, but the painful memory had broken the spell of this moment. You were both silent for a time.

“I told Gale that I had it erased so that you couldn't be controlled or tracked. That was true, but it wasn't the entire truth.” You didn't say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“I saw evidence of an evil bastard trying to make another sentient being into their property, and I know how that feels. When you woke up, I wanted you to be free to make your own choices and fight your own fight, so I had it erased. But Gale's objection today made me realize that you may not have felt the same.”

You were stunned. You were receiving an apology – from a vampire. Maybe this should be the subject of your next paper – perhaps the Ascendant ritual had given him the capability for altruistic behavior? After recovering yourself, you responded in a subdued tone.

“You did what I would have wanted.” He nodded and said nothing more for a while. Your tumbling thoughts were interrupted as he finally spoke up.

“Did you know this bed has curtains? In case you desired a little more privacy.” He was trying, successfully, to change the subject again.

“Oh? Show me.” His breath hitched – he hadn't expected that – but he lifted a pointer finger and made a graceful, circular motion. Red wine colored curtains sprang to life and encircled the entirety of the bed, blocking out all light, and leaving you in pitch blackness with Astarion. The darkness heightened your senses – the smell of citrus emanating from his direction was suddenly much stronger; your skin tingled where his body pressed against yours. An electric current seemed to charge the air around you. Neither of you moved a muscle or made a sound, both adjusting to the sudden intimacy you shared, which at present felt not quite so innocent as before. You soon laid your head back against his shoulder, signaling that you were ready to sleep, although you didn't know how you would accomplish that with the way your mind was racing.

Gale's touch may have melted you, but Astarion's set you on fire. 

Chapter Text

You awoke to a strange feeling of contentment that was unfamiliar to you. It took you several seconds before you realized that Astarion remained behind you, having fallen asleep along with you, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath your back. That is, it did until a knock at the door startled you both, jolting him awake and causing him to pull you tighter against his chest until he realized where you both were.

The curtains around your bed remained closed, shrouding you in deep shadow. Without windows, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was, although the knocking likely indicated an early start to the morning with Marion. You barely had time to think when a husky, sleep-clogged voice spoke quietly in your ear.

“She doesn't know I'm here,” he said. You also knew what he wasn't saying – and you can do with that what you will. He wouldn't object if you revealed his presence to her, but he also knew the impression that would give. He didn't care if Marion thought you had slept with him, but he knew you might, and he was giving you the option.

When you didn't answer, Marion knocked again and entered, the sound of her cart rattling slightly at the threshold indicating she'd brought breakfast. You needed to be clever if you wanted her to give you some space – too lighthearted and she would insist on staying even if it meant breakfast in bed, too serious and she would insist on staying to find out what was wrong.

“Are there rules against sleeping in?” you asked, attempting playfulness. Astarion suddenly gently drew the tips of his fingers across your palm, your hand instinctively falling open to his touch, your skin tingling and sending signals of insistent pleasure up your arm and into your chest. Your breath hitched as you realized he was toying with you. Just because he accepted your decision to hide his presence didn't mean he wouldn't make the process more difficult than it already was.

“No,” she responded. “Is this not the time you would prefer to start your mornings?” Teacups and silverware clinked lightly as she began to set the table. You struggled to keep your voice from wobbling as Astarion's fingers grazed yours.

“I think today I would like to sleep a little longer than usual.” Goosebumps erupted on your skin as he trailed his fingers up the length of your forearm. You did nothing to stop him, your heart skipping as you had to concentrate to hear Marion's response.

“Are you feeling unwell?” she asked, and you froze as you heard her footsteps moving in your direction. Astarion, meanwhile, continued his lazy circuit from the inside of your wrist to your elbow and back. “Shall I fetch Atticus?”

“No, no!” you said, too quickly. “I feel fine physically, just exhausted after last night's events.” The follow-up was rushed, but you couldn't help but be distracted as you felt Astarion's breath spread in a burst across your neck in a silent expression of mirth. Marion moved closer to your bed, and you knew you risked her opening the curtains if she came any further.

“Perhaps you could just leave some jam and toast for me, and I will call for you if I need anything before lunch?” you suggested innocently, trying valiantly to keep your voice steady as Astarion's other hand found your opposite arm and traced a new pattern along the inside of your wrist.

“Very well.” You heard her return to the table where she placed the dishes you had requested. “Professor Dekarios sent over some spell scrolls for you this morning. I will leave them here as well.”

“Thank you, Marion,” you said, affecting a yawn, cut short by the small gasp you let out as Astarion threaded his fingers through yours. She paused in her exit at the change in sound, and you felt sure you had been compromised, but after a moment of apparent indecision, she continued on her path out.

After Marion closed the door behind her and the sound of her footsteps faded, you let out the breath you'd been holding in an airy chuckle. Astarion seemed to take no notice as he continued a path up your arm with the softest touch of his fingers. What was he doing? He seemed to know how Gale had touched you yesterday, and appeared to intend to make you forget it. Gale lost all importance as you turned to face him, meeting an expression of longing in his eyes as his gaze met yours and his fingers left your arm. Neither of you moved as your focus sank to his lips before snapping back to his eyes. A startling feeling was rising in your belly, one of desire and yearning and electricity, one that found you wanting to do something stupid, something illogical, something absolutely ridiculous -

You tilted your head a few degrees as you slowly closed the distance between you. He neither moved nor stopped you, but the heat in his expression grew more intense with every millimeter of your progress. Just before your lips met, another knock at the door, this one firmer and more businesslike, shattered the moment. You both nearly jumped out of your skin as the visitor spoke.

“Morning, miss,” said Atticus’ voice from the other side. “Has Lord Astarion mentioned his whereabouts this morning to you? We was supposed to meet over breakfast, but I've seen neither hide nor hair of him, nor has anyone else.”

“I’ve not seen him,” you called out, loud enough to be heard through both the bed curtains and the door, meeting Astarion's eyes and freezing when you realized that his expression had changed from hungry to panicked. And not about Atticus’ intrusion, or even his own lack of punctuality, but about you.

“Alright,” said Atticus. “If you do see him, tell him I'm lookin’ for him.”

As the sound of his footsteps receded, Astarion slid away from you, extracting himself from the bed and pulling on his overcoat. You were too stunned to stop him, or ask what he was doing. You had come so close to kissing him, and now he was running away from you? As he laced his boots, you finally shook yourself into speaking.

“Astarion -”

“I appreciated your company last night, but I am needed elsewhere this morning. I shall alert you when I next hear from Gale.” He turned and strode toward the exit. Your heart breaking, you tried to extricate yourself from the bedding, crawling toward him in desperation -

“Astarion, wait!” The door shut behind him, and he was gone.

You sank down onto the bed, defeated and soundly humiliated. Hadn't you just chided yourself yesterday for how easily you had allowed yourself to become smitten with Gale? How you needed to focus on returning your magic and not worry about frivolous emotions? Besides, it wasn't like you had much experience with romance. The way he looked at you, touched you, made it clear that he wanted to devour you, but perhaps you had been incorrect about what he intended to consume. For all you knew, he could be hungry for your blood, not your body.

You mostly dismissed this last thought as nihilism and fear, until a related fact popped into your head and you sat straight up in bed.

He had removed himself from the presence of others suddenly and rapidly, without making excuses, identically to yesterday, when Marion said he was on the verge of losing his control. A chill ran down your spine as you registered that no matter what he had wanted from you - if he had lost control and taken it from you - you would not find yourself leaving the encounter unscathed.

You collapsed back down onto the mattress, groaning, suddenly exhausted. Crawling to the head, thoughts racing, emotions reeling, you crushed a pillow against your chest until your emotions leaked from your eyes, and you began quietly weeping, failing to notice the sound of footsteps finally leaving your door.

–-----

After this thoroughly embarrassing scene, you were unsurprisingly hesitant to leave your rooms. You knew, of course, that you'd rarely seen Astarion in the manor even when he wasn't likely to be avoiding you, and surely he would be avoiding you now. You also knew that if he wanted to find you, any attempts to hide yourself away from him would be pointless. That didn't matter - you couldn't bring yourself to allow even the smallest chance of seeing him by accident.

You'd replayed the memory over and over in your mind, desperately trying to figure out what had gone wrong, and whether there had been any possibility of an alternative outcome. You felt certain that Astarion had started with the intent to tease you, but it was the change in his demeanor when Marion left that had you confused. What you'd thought was physical lust must have been bloodlust instead, based on his reaction. But that meant that you had misinterpreted a plethora of seemingly very clear signals - his lame excuse to hold you all night; remaining with you in the morning; his continued touch even after you were alone; the look in his eyes as you leaned in to kiss him - that he wanted you, and not as his next meal, either. What had changed?

You still hadn’t come to an answer by the time you finally began to drift off late that evening, nearly asleep when you realized with a start that last night had been your first dreamless sleep since Astarion had stopped spending his nights with you, weeks ago. You no longer needed relief from cold or pain, but the relief from the torments brought on by your own fears was palpably missing. Not only that, but now you would surely never get a chance to experience it again. Not now that you’d royally messed things up, anyway.

A tear leaked from your eye in frustration. Nightmares were the least of your worries, but the knowledge that they were all you had to look forward to, your mind tormenting you with things that hadn't happened as you attempted to escape those that had, was enough to break you down once more.

You barely slept that night as your night terrors intensified, more than making up for their brief absence. You woke screaming or in tears every hour, driven inescapably back to sleep each time despite your desperation to stay awake. The morning found you more exhausted than you'd been the night before, and you resolved to ask Atticus for a sleep aid.

Two more days passed in this manner - holing yourself up in your suite or making a mad dash to your hidden corner of the library, before picking at your dinner, bathing, and finally attempting sleep when you could stay awake no longer. Marion gently encouraged you to get out and about by giving you a report of the day's goings-on, but you politely declined each time. The sleeping draught provided by Atticus was helpful in dulling your nightmares, but your slumber was still plagued with strong feelings of fear and unease.

—-----

On the fourth morning, you were taking breakfast in your nightclothes, perusing the morning paper, when you were absolutely stunned as Astarion cracked the door and poked his head inside, smiling merrily, no evidence of the awkwardness between you displayed on his face.

“What the f–”

“Good morning, dearest. Quickly, come with me. I have something to show you.” Shocked, you remained where you sat. He continued to smile warmly at you.

“What is wrong with you?” you finally demanded.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” he responded playfully. “Can't I surprise my houseguest?” Your eyes narrowed in suspicion. Something was seriously off - should you call for Marion? Or perhaps even Atticus?

“What have you been eating recently? Could someone have poisoned you?” He laughed loudly, as if you had told the funniest joke he'd ever heard. “Gale? Have you used Disguise Self?” You were becoming slightly panicked, his unpredictability raising red flags in your mind. Before, you could trust him to be a sassy asshole. You didn't know what this was, or how to handle it.

“Stop being silly and come with me.” Astarion left the doorway, obviously expecting you to follow. Still stunned, it took a moment for you to reply -

“Wait!” He was back at the door as if he hadn't ever walked away, and your head spun with the incongruency. “How should I dress? Are we going outside?”

He looked you up and down, confused, as though it had not occurred to him that you might want to change out of your bedclothes. “What you're wearing is fine. It's much warmer outside today than it has been recently.” Your eyebrows furrowed - you were certain that a blizzard had been forecast for today, but your memory was suddenly fuzzy on that front. You pulled a woolen robe over your pajamas and slipped your feet into your house shoes as you finally obeyed and followed him.

He was nearly jogging, and you had to work to keep up with him.

“Where are we going?” you demanded, slightly out of breath.

“I think I've found the location of your magic,” he said, almost gleeful. You stopped dead in your tracks. How could it suddenly be this easy? What had happened to needing infernal experts to decipher a contract and master scholars to understand how to reverse it?

“What - how -”

“The details aren't important, we can discuss them later. For now, let's go get it,” he urged. Shocked, you resumed following him until you reached the foyer, not seeing another option. He was several yards ahead of you by now, and he ducked through the front door of the manor before disappearing from your view.

By the time you made it through the doors yourself, he was halfway down the manor lane, nearly a quarter of a mile away. How was he moving so fast? He had been correct, though - it was unseasonably warm, as if spring had come early, and you were nearly too hot in your robe. The snow cover was melting, and the pavement leading to the gates was nearly clear of it. You tried to jog to catch up, but your house shoes and pajamas were not, precisely, athletic attire, and you made slower progress than you could have in your sorcerer's robes and boots.

As you struggled to catch up, Astarion called to you. “Hurry now! It's just up ahead!” You had finally made it within a few yards of him when arms came suddenly around you and yanked you backwards against a firm object. You turned to see the visage of your attacker from Chult.

The blood drained from your face as a spike of pure, unadulterated fear pierced your heart. You screamed bloody murder and kicked and pushed and punched with all of your might, but your captor was too strong for you as he continued to drag you away, back toward the manor.

“Astarion!” you screamed, your voice ragged, and reached for him. He watched you, still smiling in confusion as you were pulled farther from him. “Help me!”

“Come with me, just a little farther,” he repeated, making no moves to save you.

“Please!” you begged. “Fucking do something!” Your protests were useless and you had no recourse when your attacker suddenly raised his arm toward Astarion.

“ARDE!” he bellowed. At this, you stopped screaming, stopped kicking and biting and punching and shoving, and collapsed onto the ground, helpless to stop this sequence of events as the fireball erupted from your kidnapper’s hand and launched at Astarion. Your one chance at safety, at returning your magic, would be dead in seconds. He was wearing no armor, made no attempt to defend himself, and the magic caster had quite obviously upcast the spell, based on the diameter of the flaming orb that… appeared to pass through Astarion without harming him?

You didn’t have enough time to process this before the warm spring morning turned itself over and froze instantly into a scene shrouded in the dead of night in the midst of a blizzard, the fireball having melted the snow in a radius around a point several meters outside the manor gates and having set fire to the dead grass underneath. Looking down at yourself, you observed your nightclothes, yes, but there was no robe, and you were barefoot. Ice crusted your eyelashes, nose, and lips, and your fingers and toes were purple and numb. Snow coated your hair and dusted your soaked clothing. Two trails of footsteps led from the manor house to your current location, the snow around you trampled in the skirmish between you and your attacker. You sat at the feet of a man standing over you, seemingly having given up on restraining you. Finally, you looked up.

The face of Astarion gazed back at you, his mahogany eyes blazing in the darkness, the dim atmospheric light highlighting his silver hair. You could barely see him, but you could hear him wordlessly panting, wild with exertion, before he crouched next to you abruptly and tried to pull you to your feet.

You flinched away from the movement, feebly raising a hand to push him away if he came closer, your mind struggling to reconcile with the truth, incapable of understanding, not knowing what to believe, your body chilling further with each passing second of the harsh wind blowing around you.

“Who are you?” you croaked, your voice hoarse from screaming.

“I am Astarion,” he said impatiently, “and you need to come back inside.”

“But he is Astarion…” you looked in the direction where the warm and sunny Astarion had been standing. A terrible, icy wave of numbness spread through your mind as you registered that there were no footprints ahead of you – only behind you. The other Astarion was a hallucination, you thought dumbly, observing your near-death experience with a surreal sense of detachment.

Without a word, and without looking at him, you reached for the hand of the real Astarion and allowed him to help you up. You averted your eyes as he removed his cloak and wrapped it around you, raising his arm to direct you back to the manor, not currently visible in the darkness and heavy snowfall. You started to move in that direction, but quickly stumbled as your numb feet were caught in the thick layer of snow.

You didn't have time to fall before Astarion caught you, silently supporting you as you regained your balance. He stooped to pick you up, then suddenly spun to face the opposite direction, toward the manor gate once more, shoving you behind him. You hadn't heard anything, but then again, your ears were ringing.

Just beyond the gate, where the fireball had landed, you could barely see a figure rising from a prone position at the center of the burning circle. Astarion crouched, a feral snarl marring his features and a low growl escaping his lips, before returning his gaze to you, then back to the man, clearly warring with opposing desires to go after the intruder, or to stay with you and escort you to safety. Before he could make any decisions, the stranger disappeared in the flash of a spell cast, and Astarion groaned in frustration, scanning your surroundings to ensure he wouldn't return. He turned back to you, your eyes having returned steadfastly to the snow once more, swaying on your unsteady feet and shivering violently.

This time, when he picked you up, he didn't stop until he was inside the manor.

–------

You watched Astarion's steps as he returned to your side after he closed the study door behind the servant he had summoned to wake Marion and Atticus. He had set you on a couch close to the fireplace and added logs beforehand, and you now sat unnaturally still as terrible thoughts attempted to penetrate the glass wall of numbness your mind had built to keep yourself from losing control.

You're not safe -

You wouldn't survive -

It'll hurt when he -

You quashed each horrible notion by wrenching your full attention to the minute details of your surroundings – the threads in the couch upholstery; the pattern in the rug; the wrinkles in the worn leather of Astarion's shoes as he stopped in front of you.

“Shall I assume that you weren't out there of your own volition?” he asked, his voice oddly strained, as though he wanted to demand answers from you, but was holding himself back. The abruptness of the question caused your focus to waver from the droplets of melted snow soaking into the hem of his pants. “Yes.”

He thinks you're an idiot. The completed thought hit you like a physical blow, and you retreated further into your mental fortifications, closely examining the woven fibers of Astarion's cloak still covering you.

“Then what did he do to you?” His voice was more intense, the tautness in it becoming more palpable, his tone causing your eyes to finally lock on his. The look of panic you found there surprised you into distraction, your grip on your control slipping momentarily.

What did he do to me? He nearly abducted me, again. He took over my body, again. He was nearly successful, again. I needed you to save me because I couldn't save myself, again.

You stayed quiet, pushing the emotional outburst away and pulling the cloak farther up over you. The panic on Astarion's face grew stronger with each passing second that you failed to respond to him, but it was a different kind than what he had displayed in your bedroom just a few days prior. That panic was born of the fear of allowing you closer; this one seemed to be born from some sort of fear of losing you. You tore your eyes away from his, looking back down at the pattern on the wood floor as you finally replied.

“I've been having nightmares, and I think... I think he took control of them.” You steadfastly avoided lingering on any of the many thoughts this statement brought up, shivering as the frozen clothes on your body continued to draw heat away from you despite the covering of the cloak and the warmth of the fire. You squeezed your eyes closed as the wave of cold passed, opening them to see Astarion crouched in front of you. You avoided his gaze, preferring instead to concentrate on the pain in your fingertips as they were exposed to the warm air.

“Marion and Atticus will be here at any moment. Is there anything I should tell them that you need? Anything I shouldn't tell them?” His voice was urgent, but steadier, much less panicked now that you had spoken. You shook your head just as Marion knocked brusquely on the door of the study. Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed slightly.

“If you are able to allow them to help you, then I will do my best to keep things as short as possible.” Your eyes flickered to his, and away again. This time you nodded, roughly wiping a tear that fell unbidden down your cheek.

Much of what occurred after Astarion opened the door for Marion and Atticus would become a blur to you. Upon seeing your condition over Astarion's shoulder, Marion did not wait for an explanation, but rushed to your side without asking or needing his permission, and did not allow either of the men to come near you for the remainder of the night. While they conversed in front of you and made no effort to hide what was said, you only made out bits and pieces as the ringing in your ears grew louder and you struggled harder to quash your intrusive thoughts.

You heard something about the wards holding, angry words from Marion when Atticus admitted he'd given you sleeping draughts, and snippets of a plan for that night and the next day regarding you, securing the perimeter, and enacting contingencies. You were so far withdrawn into your mind’s interior that you were startled when Marion asked you if Atticus could examine you. Your eyes flashed from her to the cleric, who was looking at you kindly, but your vision nearly went dark as a roiling tsunami of fear crested over your mind at the thought of coming out from under the cloak, of baring yourself to him, of letting him touch you… and of Astarion watching it all.

With significant effort, you tore your eyes from Atticus and looked back at Marion, and whatever she saw on your face made her force him to keep his distance despite his protests otherwise. Astarion jumped in, stating that you didn't appear injured when he found you, and asked Atticus to treat you for frostbite and shock, and deal with anything else later. After several more protests, the dwarf finally acquiesced, handing a scroll of Heal to Marion for her use on you. You didn't respond as she touched your shoulder to complete the spell, but the wave of relief from the ice in your fingers and toes was welcome.

You then heard fragments of Atticus' lecture to Marion on rewarming you, the ringing in your ears becoming more of a roar as you became acutely aware that Astarion had been watching you intently since the conversation started. You stared straight ahead, not allowing any of your previous angst to intrude, staunchly avoiding thinking about the look on his face and his rapid exit when you tried to kiss him. That morning felt like a lifetime ago, puny in the face of what had just occurred, and he certainly wasn't looking at you that way now. Right now he was looking at you as though you might disappear if he didn't keep his eyes fixed upon you, and as though that thought terrified him. Gods, how you wanted this to be over so you could be alone.

Soon, you found yourself standing up without possessing a memory of the act, allowing yourself to be led from the study by Marion, resisting the urge to glance at Astarion over your shoulder even as you felt the heat of his gaze upon your back. She took you back to your rooms and drew a bath for you, helping you undress as you waited for the tub to fill. When you shivered, she brought you a plush towel, and you briefly noted that she was in her nightclothes, having abandoned her rest to come to your aid. You felt guilty for a moment before the numbness settled back over you. She helped you climb into the tub, which she had filled with bubbles to offer you some privacy. The water was only lukewarm, but compared to your current body temperature, it felt as though your skin was burning. You closed your eyes and bore it, and Marion wordlessly took your hand in hers when you thrust it above the water and gripped the edge of the tub in an effort to keep yourself from launching out of the bath with the pain.

Gradually, you became used to the temperature, and Marion partially drained the tub before replacing it with warmer water. This did not burn quite so badly as before, and you adjusted more quickly. The process was repeated several more times before she was satisfied, and she proceeded to help you into a set of thick woolen pajamas. She was adding logs to the fire when you finally exited the washroom, moving tenderly, expecting something to erupt from you at any moment, although whether vomit or a breakdown, you knew not. The dark and violent undertones of whatever it was, surged just outside the thinning ice of your mental shields.

“What do you want to do next?” Marion asked gently.

“Sleep, I think,” you lied, knowing that this answer would get her out the most quickly so that you could be alone. Of course, you did need sleep - but you didn't think that would come to you anytime soon. She nodded once and began moving toward the door, and you followed close behind her. She paused, hand on the knob, and turned to you.

“If you need anything, at any time -”

“I will call for you,” you lied again, affecting the barest smile. She returned this with a small smile of her own, although you knew she likely saw through your ruse. You just wanted her out.

She nodded again. “Goodnight, ma'am.” And then she was gone.

-------

After carefully closing and locking your door, you moved to your bed, refusing to acknowledge the reminders of your sleepwalking in the disturbed bedding. You climbed back under the covers, silently pulling them up to your chin as you made the hand motion to cause the curtains to close around you. Suddenly, in the quiet darkness of the earliest hours of the morning, the careful control you'd maintained over your emotions lost its final foothold, and you tumbled into a freefall of panic. You curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and squeezing your eyes shut, gripping your own arms wrapped around yourself so tightly that you were sure to have handprint shaped bruises in the morning.

He knew you were here. He knew you were here, and you had no magic to defend yourself, and he would use that to his every advantage. He could control your unconscious mind and body - how long until he took over your waking self? How had he found you, in this windowless room in this estate in the rural countryside, in the company of the most powerful vampire to have ever walked the face of the planet? How would he attack next, and would Astarion be fast enough to save you then? Would you ever be safe again?

Your thoughts devolved further into wordless fears as you descended into deeper panic, gasping for air as though you'd just sprinted a marathon. You hadn't noticed Tara was with you until she stood and left quietly, and even then you barely registered the movement. Tears fell from your eyes as you buried your face between two pillows and screamed, wondering if death was a better alternative than this.

When an urgent knock came at your door a few moments later, you were immediately repulsed by the idea of interacting with anyone, your mind and body begging to be left alone, but you struggled to muster the coordination to tell whoever it was to fuck off.

“I can't,” you croaked in desperation, the sound pitiful, barely able to leave your throat. There was no response, but after a moment, you heard the curtains around the bed opening and closing, and a figure crawled into the bed with you, slipping under the comforter and pulling you toward them. Your immediate instinct was to fight the figure and scream for help, and you pushed against them weakly until you suddenly recognized the scent of bergamot and brandy.

You froze, stiffening as Astarion wrapped his arms around you and pulled you tightly against his chest, tucking your head into his shoulder. As you registered that he was attempting to comfort you, the shock dragged you up from the depths of the ocean of your panic, leaving you gasping for air, which quickly turned to quiet weeping. You grasped at his shirt, desperate for something to hold on to, tears falling freely from your eyes. His lips pressed into your hair, his voice a low murmur.

“He will never touch you again. I swear it.”

You gradually grew quieter until silence enveloped the two of you once more, still holding fistfuls of his shirt as you began to tremble. He held you tighter, and you noticed the familiar warmth begin to flow from his body. You wanted to relax into his touch, but your mind whirled with a hurricane of terrified thoughts - how could he guarantee that promise? He had nearly failed to save you tonight, and surely your attacker would soon calculate more creative ways to get to you. You would never be safe again, not ever, until you had your magic safely returned and your captor killed. Until then, Astarion was your only defense against whatever that man wanted with you.

Thoughts and memories that you had been staunchly avoiding began to flash involuntarily through your vision - the realization that your captor was about to rape you and the horrifying recognition of your complete inability to stop him; the terrifying unknown of what he would have done to you after he finished; the terrifying certainly of what he would do to you if he was successful in capturing you again; the extremely unlikely scenario in which you found yourself, one in which uncontrolled magic deposited you straight into the grasp of the most powerful vampire in existence, and which later saw you wrapped in the arms and protection of that vampire, rather than dead by his hand; and how damn lucky you had been, knowing that none of your hard-won skills had made a difference here. You felt the warning signs of another descent into panic -

“Astarion…” you whispered, unable to continue your thought past the mention of his name.

“I know,” he soothed. “It's alright, I'm here.”

You lost control again, sinking below the surface of the ocean of your panic once more, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing your face into Astarion's shoulder. Paralyzed by fear, you tried to steady your breathing as you took shaky breaths in and out. He gave you a few moments of silence before speaking again.

“What do you need?” he asked softly.

Completely exhausted and too tired to pretend that you were fine, and with no desire to relive this experience, you had no choice but to lay yourself bare before him.

“Please don't leave me,” you whispered, practically begging. He leaned back to look into your eyes, but you avoided looking at him. “I don't have nightmares when you're here.” Your eyes flashed to his and then away, bracing for him to reject you, to run away again and leave you drowning in your shame. Gods, you should fear his very existence, and here you were, pining after him like a schoolgirl with an unrequited crush.

After a moment of delay, he allowed you to bury your face in his shoulder again, pulling you close against his chest once more. “Of course,” he said. Your lungs deflated, your rapidly building angst temporarily soothed. However, another fear immediately took its place at the forefront of your mind, a thought you had not dared to linger upon, for fear it would be your undoing.

“I’m not getting my magic back, am I?” you asked quietly.

“On the contrary,” he said gently, his voice reverberating in his chest. “Tonight, while regrettable, has given us a wealth of information that we didn't have before. Gale sent word this evening that he has received the full translation of your brand and requests a meeting. Progress is being made.” You were quiet, carefully packaging this information away, afraid to allow yourself to be hopeful until you knew the outcome of these leads. He moved his hand to the back of your head and wound his fingers into your hair, his lips pressing against your crown again.

“Easy now, darling. You've got this. And I've got you.”

The strength of his arms around you and the weight of his words in your ear halted your panic in its tracks, even if just temporarily, and sent a sudden blooming of an unfamiliar emotion through your mind, one of affection and safety and happiness and peace, and this startled you even more than his sudden appearance had done ten minutes earlier. In fact, out of everything that had happened tonight, this was the most terrifying of all. Was this what… love... felt like? Were you in love with Astarion?

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Eventually, too spent to stay awake, you dozed off, only to wake a few minutes later with a jolt - not from nightmares, but out of surprise that you'd fallen asleep at all. A few minutes after that, you woke again, not remembering falling asleep. Astarion did not sleep, rubbing your shoulder briefly with his thumb each time you woke, reassuring you of where you were and who you were with. The pattern repeated through the rest of the night, the duration between interruptions gradually growing longer over time. Finally, you opened your eyes without simultaneously jolting awake, your thoughts having slowed enough that you could acknowledge how grateful you were to Astarion for this, but lamented that it would soon be over. You couldn't tell if he knew that you had woken, but you knew it wouldn't be long before he needed to attend to other duties. As if he heard your thoughts, he spoke without moving.

“Good morning, darling.” You squeezed your eyes shut, not responding to him, not knowing how to respond. “I am glad you slept.” You took in a deep breath, afraid to even consider the notion of trying to sleep without him again, knowing that it was soon to be your reality, before slowly letting it out in a shaky breath.

“What, no sassy retort?” he prodded. “Where is the brash confidence that you could kill a vampire while barely able to stand?”

“How did you know?” you interjected, unable to restrain the question before it leapt from your tongue.

“How did I know? I was there when you threatened-”

“How did you know what I was feeling?” It was his turn not to respond, clearly confused. “Last night, when I was the most terrified and panicked and vulnerable that I've ever been in my life, apart from my time on that blasted island, you said ‘I know.’”

“It's an expression, darling,” he said, just slightly too quickly.

“No, you meant it. I could tell,” you pressed. You didn't know why you were pushing this issue over any of the more pressing topics such as meeting with Gale or discussing other next steps, but you pushed it anyway. “How do you know?” He was silent for a moment, palpably tense, before finally responding.

“It was not difficult to surmise that you thought I was the one leading you out there.” His voice was stiff, as though he was tiptoeing around something fragile.

“And?” you demanded, somewhat more sharply than you intended.

“And I know what it is to be forced to place your trust in a vampire who later betrays you.”

“You haven't betrayed me,” you insisted.

“Perhaps not directly, but your trust in me has made you an easier target. Tell me that you wouldn't follow if I got up right now and asked you to come with me.” Your heart dropped at the realization. The part of you that remembered how terrified of him you had been on that first night in this room suddenly felt heart-wrenchingly vindicated as you absorbed the fact that trusting a vampire had nearly caused your undoing. You shivered as goosebumps erupted on your skin, and Astarion pulled you closer.

“I was serious when I said that he will never touch you again. I will kill him with my bare hands before allowing that to happen.” You attempted to steady your heart rate, but no relief was forthcoming. “Multiple avenues are being set in motion to prevent a recurrence of this situation.”

“Such as?”

“I maintain a set of exceptionally strong wards around the perimeter as a matter of course. Any person who is not wanted on premises by anyone who is already present on site will find themselves unable to cross the property line.” Your eyes widened at the implication.

“Anyone?”

He shrugged. “If a staff member or guest is truly that opposed to someone, there must be a reason. It is a matter of safety for everyone who works and stays here.” You were silent, stunned once more by his altruism. “Of course, there are exceptions, such as meetings and social events, but guests are invited by name. If there's one thing a vampire understands, it is the need to obtain permission to enter another's house.” His last sentence was closer to a growl than a statement, revealing no small amount of anger at the trespass. He seemed to gather himself before continuing.

“He should not have been able to cast a spell through the wards, and no spellcaster could maintain a spell that powerful over that great a distance. I fear that he was drawing power from another source - one that must have been exceptionally powerful to create an illusion that strong, and exceptionally familiar to be allowed past the wards, even with the aid of sleeping draughts.”

He'd left unsaid what you knew he was implying - your attacker seemed to have at least partial control of your magic. You couldn't tell, however, whether he had any inkling that the exceptional power he described arose from not just one additional source, but two. You nodded, indicating that you understood, not giving anything else away.

“What I find the most interesting is that the magic used to maintain the illusion was an aggressive display of prowess with freeform psychic magic. Your magic is of storm sorcery origin and you are therefore most proficient in elemental magic, correct?”

You swallowed. He knew.

“Correct,” you affirmed, continuing to play dumb and hoping against hope you were wrong. He did appear to be deep in thought as he replied.

“Yours must not be the only stolen magic he controls.” You breathed out slowly, not wanting him to notice your sigh of relief. He didn't know.

“How many times could one person do this?” you asked, trying to let your voice waver a bit, desperately playing into his train of thought.

“This will be his last,” Astarion swore, flexing his fingers against your back. “Regardless, I have altered the wording of the wards such that even more nebulous and powerful magics would find them more difficult to penetrate. In addition, with your permission I will be taking over a corner of your suite for a desk at which I can work while I supervise your sleep.” You winced. Supervise sounded so clinical, so… unromantic. You knew better than to hope that your sleep would be supervised in his arms again, but you were unsure if his mere presence nearby would be enough to prevent your nightmares. Having him with you was better than being without him, you decided, even if he did make you nervous, in a way that was different from the nerves you'd had around him when you first met. You nodded in understanding, still saying nothing. The wind howled outside as the forecasted blizzard reached the house.

“When shall I set a meeting with Gale? It is perhaps too late in the day to make arrangements for tonight, but in this case, he may be enthused enough about the opportunity to parrot all of the work that Wyll did for him as if it was his own that he would show up anyway.” You were focused enough on the jab at Gale that it took you a moment to notice Astarion's other comment.

“Too late in the day? What time is it?”

“Approximately midday,” he replied. “I have not left the bed to know for certain, but the activity I hear around us would seem to indicate so.” Your eyes widened in shock. How much time had you spent wrapped in his arms?

“Marion didn't come to check on me?!” you asked in disbelief.

“Marion has been in my employment long enough to trust me when I tell her that I can handle some things on my own.”

“But midday! You must have other things to do? Why are you still here?” You knew you were pushing him away, but only to give the effect of being capable of taking care of yourself, even if you would've preferred to stay like this with him forever. He sighed quietly before responding.

“I must admit that I am afraid to leave you alone.” He reflexively gathered you closer, as if on instinct. “Not because you would be in danger if I left, but because I am intimately familiar with the thoughts and feelings you are experiencing right now.” A slight chill settled in your spine at the careful brush of Astarion's trauma – of the violence enacted against him. He hesitated before continuing, as if he was conflicted about what he wanted to say, before softening his voice as he spoke. “I would have preferred to be with a companion through that. Even one who provided a company as poor as mine.”

It had not escaped your notice that he had managed to avoid decisively telling you how he knew what you were feeling, both now and when you had asked directly. He was hiding something - something huge - and you weren't likely to get it out of him any time soon. Perhaps Gale knew the secret, but he seemed quite reluctant, or possibly even unable, to tattle on Astarion. You weren't sure you would get any more alone time with Gale either - not after last night. Regardless, you appreciated Astarion's offer of companionship, and the gentle resolution of the tension between you, even if you did wish you could be more than his companion, and even if your heart broke a little at the thought. You closed your eyes, biting back a tear as you waited for him to pull away from you, but as the seconds stretched on, he made no movement to get up. Perhaps he really was afraid to leave you alone.

“So,” he started again. “The meeting with Gale? Shall I presume you wish to see him today?"

You swallowed as a miserable thought crossed your mind. “Do we need to tell him about last night?” you mumbled, dejected, knowing that he should be informed, but not wanting him to know how easily you'd been fooled, or how badly you'd lost control afterwards.

“I should think so,” Astarion replied gently. “Unless you'd prefer that we cut him out of the investigation after he gives us the translation. You wouldn't hear me complaining about that.” You sighed slightly, a little smile finally touching your face for the first time in days. Astarion was quiet for a beat before speaking again, softly.

“Being deceived is not a weakness, you know. Neither is fear.” You nodded as if you believed him, though you absolutely did not. “You have done nothing wrong, made no mistakes. There was nothing you could have done differently to have prevented this. Fear is the natural reaction when you come to be harmed despite those facts.” He pulled back to look into your face as a tear leaked from your eye. “And if Gale believes otherwise, he is not worth our time, no matter what information he might have.”

You nodded again, the bittersweet reality of your situation washing over you. Astarion was being exceptionally gentle and intensely protective toward you, causing your heart to soar to heights you'd never experienced before, but he had just made the decision for both of you to play it safe. To acknowledge your desire for one another and choose to walk away without exploring that path. You wanted to be with him, to bond in a way that he would feel safe enough to reveal his secrets to you - the ones he still felt were too ugly to dig up - but you knew that it wasn't an option.

“I will meet with him tonight,” you finally answered, carefully considering the phrasing your next thought, “but I would prefer for Marion to attend.”

“Ah,” he said, politely confused. “You'll hear no objection from me, of course, but do not fear that she is being left out. She will be briefed immediately on what occurred.” You shook your head, breathing in shakily as you attempted to organize your jumbled thoughts into a coherent sentence, before giving up and letting loose your fear in one frantic breath-

“He listens to her. He will learn what happened and feel the need to comfort me, and I can barely stand even the thought of him approaching me and wanting to put his hands on me, no matter how innocent his intent, and he won't do that if Marion is by my side.” Astarion's eyes and voice darkened.

“If you do not want him to touch you, he will not fucking touch you, whether Marion is present or not. I will be present.” You still wanted her there to help moderate the tempers of the two arrogant men, but didn't know how to explain that without further setting him off. You didn't have much of a chance to ponder a response before Astarion spoke again. “I know he put his hands on you the other night – was that non-consensual?” His tone was close to a demand, as if he had been dying to know the answer to this very question and hadn't allowed himself to ask. You flushed heavily, knowing that the only answer with any kind of positive outcome was the truth, at the cost of your massive embarrassment.

“It was consensual,” you said quietly, shrinking into yourself. “But I do not wish to repeat it. And I would thank you to cease spying on me.” Astarion chuckled, a smirk playing on his face.

“Far be it from me to shame anyone for their preferences, however illogical they may be. I was not spying on you, darling. I am a vampire. I could smell him on you the instant I entered your suite that night. You seemed to be far more distressed about my presence there than you were about any of Gale's behavior, so I assumed that he had been polite with you.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, I would not have continued to collaborate with him.”

You nodded, still shriveling in your embarrassment. Now was probably the best time to cut the cord, while you still had any sort of negative feelings toward Astarion, no matter how petty and self-interested they may have been. If you didn't cauterize your burgeoning love for him now, you were only setting yourself up for additional heartbreak. Still, you found yourself regretting what you were about to say.

“Please don't let me keep you. I'm sure there are plenty of other things you need to attend to.”

“Perhaps, but you are my priority at the moment. If you are truly ready to be alone, I will leave you and contact Gale, but don't feel a need to release me from a mere obligation. You are much more than that.” There he went again, saying the sweetest things that made you fall harder for him, without the ability to act on it. You sighed before responding.

“I will be fine left alone,” you said. “Please alert me when you receive a response from Gale.” You intended to be more formal, to separate yourself from your problematic feelings for him, but you hadn't meant to sound so cold and ungrateful. You regretted your words the instant they left your lips, but you waited in silence for his response, knowing you couldn't go back on it now.

“Ah, yes,” he said, seeming taken aback. “Of course.” Hesitating slightly, he pulled his arms from around you, meeting your eyes for a moment as he seemed to wait for you to call him back. When you maintained your silence, a facade seemed to fall over his face as he turned from you and efficiently pulled back the curtains, the light from the fire and candles still nearly blinding you compared to the absolute darkness that had just been shattered. He swung his legs over the edge, removed himself from your bed, and donned his housecoat, giving you a slight bow before striding toward the door. “Good day,” he said, exiting and shutting the door behind him.

You waited until he was gone to allow the tears in your eyes to fall.

–

You weren't able to wallow in your own self-pity for long before Marion did come to check on you, pushing a cart carrying a late lunch. You lay on the bed forlornly, watching her movements as she placed the silverware in order and arranged the food in the center of your table. Finishing this, she turned to you.

“Lunch, ma'am?” she asked, prepared to help you out of bed. Whatever Astarion had told her, she seemed to only be concerned with the obvious trauma from last night, rather than what had transpired between you and him this morning. At least – that was the ideal scenario, anyway. What was your body language revealing to her now? Regardless, you groaned, feeling too anxious to eat.

“Perhaps it would entice you to know that I have an envelope for you from Lord Astarion,” Marion stated nonchalantly, her expression and body language steady even as the undertone of amusement in her voice grew stronger when your eyes snapped to the hand holding the missive. Cringing internally in embarrassment, you attempted to assume the same nonchalance that she affected.

“If you leave it on the table, I will read it as I eat,” you blurted awkwardly. The faintest of smiles ghosted at the corners of Marion's lips, but she nodded once and placed the envelope over your empty plate.

“I am to inform you that we will plan to meet with Professor Dekarios after dinner this evening. I understand that you requested my presence. Of course, I am only happy to be there, but is there anything you would like me to know beforehand?”

The inquiry she laid at your feet was simple and diplomatic, but loaded with unsaid questions. What frightens you enough that you would specifically request this? What don't you trust about Gale and Astarion? You felt neither capable nor willing to go into the details right now, the pain and fear of last night leaking into your mind as you carefully responded.

“Given the... strong personalities that will be in the room, I merely thought it would be prudent to have a mediator in the event of any conflict.” And to make sure I'm not alone with two of the most powerful men on the planet as a sorceress with no magic. To give me back a fraction of the autonomy that's been taken from me.

“Understood,” she responded, a spark flashing in her eye. “I shall retrieve you just after dinner.”

You watched as she exited, barely able to contain yourself as you waited for the door to click into the frame before launching out of bed and picking up the envelope on your plate. Your name was written on its front in Astarion's neat hand, the ink still glistening bright red. You carefully opened the envelope so as not to tear it, and withdrew the folded parchment within, fingers shaking. You took a deep breath before unfolding it and carefully scanning the words.

Hello, darling.

I have spoken with Gale. Or, rather, -he- spoke with -me-. I barely got a word in edgewise, as usual. Regardless, by now you will know that he enthusiastically agrees to a meeting this evening, and Marion has confirmed her own attendance.

I told him what happened last night, though my story ended when I brought you inside. I also informed him that you would prefer not to discuss it unless relevant, and that at no time was he to believe that there was a chance he wouldn't lose the hand that tried to touch you, even if in an attempt to comfort.

I will see you tonight.

~A

You let out a ridiculous little squeak - “oh” - before freezing in place as you recognized a surge of that positive, warm emotion from the previous night. It was immediately washed away by a wave of sadness as the reality of your situation reimposed itself upon you. Astarion said he would've wanted a companion. Not a lover – a companion. He had made a very careful decision to shoulder the burden of nipping this – this possibility – in the bud, but his words and actions made you feel otherwise. Threatening Gale on your behalf and protecting information that he knew you would prefer to keep quiet. Holding you for hours until you felt safe again. “You are my priority at the moment.” You shuddered as the gentle, fuzzy feeling began to overtake you again. You groaned as you considered what to do with the reminder that you were in love with Astarion.

You picked at your food for a bit, finding yourself too restless to eat very much. Your eyes wandered the room as you leaned on your elbow, widening as they settled quickly on a small stack of spell scrolls that you'd forgotten were there. Marion had brought them to you when your attention was decidedly concentrated elsewhere. You stood and moved toward them, freezing as you remembered that these were a gift from Gale. If they were from his collection, there was a reasonable chance that he'd created them himself. You clenched your fists and closed your eyes for a moment before resuming your path toward the scrolls.

Using a spell scroll was not the same as an innate connection with the Weave. Even a fighter devoid of their own magic could wield one. This was because an intrinsic component of a spell scroll was exactly enough magical power required to complete the spell without drawing from the user's magic stores. The author of the scroll was thus required to sacrifice that amount of their own magic to create the end product. To use one was to wield the magic of another, a magic that wasn't yours. It was an inferior substitute, in your opinion. However, your larger objection to using them was that anyone with a natural connection to the Weave could feel the presence of the author as the sacrificed magic flowed through them. This was all well and good if the scroll was mass-produced by apprentices at a shop, but home-brewed spell scrolls were cheaper and easier to come by. If you got one from a questionable source, you took the risk of feeling the jagged edges of the magic in a scroll made by someone who was tortured into producing it, or the sensation produced when you wielded the magic of an evil alignment and felt as though you were covered in slime for days. A non-magical user probably wouldn't notice a difference, but to a student of the arcane, it would be painfully obvious. If Gale had made these scrolls, you suspected that the aura of his magic would be nothing like that, of course, but you weren't sure if you could handle whatever it did make you feel.

As you grew close to the small pile, you could already feel the magical presence radiating from them. This, too, gave you pause, as you realized that you hadn't felt any magic at all in the time since you'd left Chult. Ordinarily, the swirls of your powerful magic throughout your surroundings would nearly drown out the more gentle and standardized power emanating from a spell scroll. Now, their magic shone as brightly as lightning on a summer night, and it forced you to recognize just how empty your world was without your power. Your mouth nearly watered at the thought of wielding magic again, but was it worth the price of sharing something so oddly intimate with Gale? Feeling his magic move through you in a way so few ever had? What had happened between you and Astarion was raw and vulnerable, but what Gale was offering you was a soft place to land, to spend some time allowing yourself to be distracted from your present situation. You sighed before reaching out to the pile.

The first thing you noticed was that you could already feel the personality of Gale's magic just by touching the parchment. It was warm and jovial, with an undertone of playfulness. Gods, you were Weave-starved if you could already feel that from these tiny tastes of magic. Your fingertips browsed the labels on each scroll. He had given you a useful variety of options, both utility and tactical spells. Your fingers paused as they rested on a Goodberry label. You grasped the scroll and opened it, feeling the energy of the magic increase, as if you had stepped from darkness into a candle-lit room. A gentle aroma of leather and blueberries wafted from the parchment. You steadied yourself as you recited the incantation.

Immediately obedient, the magic jumped from the page to your fingers, spreading instantaneously through your body before flowing to your hand and depositing the berries in your palm. You popped one of the berries in your mouth, the fruit juicy and feeling as though it had been warmed in the summer sun, a dash of cinnamon in the flavor. The sensation of Gale's magic within you was soft and warm and left you with just a hint of the smell of leather in your nose. You shivered slightly at the sensation, immediately realizing that you... you liked it. You liked the feeling of Gale's power flowing through you, and tried to convince yourself it was because you desperately missed wielding your own magic, and not because of any untoward thoughts about Gale.

You were still telling yourself this when Marion arrived to accompany you to the meeting.

--

This time, as you entered Astarion's study, Gale was already present near the fire, Astarion standing on the opposite side. They were not speaking, and while both made a valiant effort to act normally, it was clear that both of them were feeling awkward at that moment. You smiled quietly to yourself as you approached the sitting area where they were located.

Gale still looked resplendent in purple, but these robes were more casual, with a somewhat plunging neckline that showed off his collarbones and the muscles in his neck, and displayed just a hint of deep brown curls trailing further down his chest. His appearance was augmented by the faint, shiny outlines of an erased scar in the shape of the Netherese orb on his chest, a figure that had been engraved in your mind from the history lessons you took even as a child. You tried not to stare at it, knowing that seeing it was an historian's dream, but also that you couldn't allow anyone to think that you were merely ogling the way the lines curved up his neck. He must have been using a glamour last time, you decided. Perhaps he is attempting to convey solidarity with me?

“Ah!” exclaimed Gale, gesturing toward you. “The lady of the hour!” Astarion rolled his eyes, arms crossed. You stopped several feet away from the pair, instinctively leaving yourself space to escape if something went awry. Gale opened his mouth to beckon you closer, until Marion settled into her steady position at your side, glaring at him with a steely gaze.

“Good evening, Professor Dekarios,” you offered, your public speaking experience pushing you to do something to cut the tension. “I must thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.”

“But of course!” he responded with a smile. “I wouldn't miss the chance to spend time in your most dazzling presence!” You blushed slightly at his words, recalling the cozy feeling of his magic flowing through you earlier, hoping that Astarion hadn't noticed your reaction. Unable to find a response among your scrambled thoughts, you were grateful when Marion spoke up.

“Now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, let us discuss what we came here to discuss.”

If Gale was taken aback by her abruptness, he didn't show it as he nodded, his face growing more serious. He produced a piece of parchment from his sleeve with a snap of his fingers. Show-off, you thought. He held the parchment out to you, but Marion took it from him and handed it over.

“Wyll has determined that the curse upon you is the work of a contract with the devil Mephistopheles, as we suspected,” he said. “That parchment was taken from a tiefling seen to be leaving his palace, but who didn't successfully make it out of the hells before a flock of imps found him. It is likely to be nearly identical to the contract involving you. The brand is a significantly abbreviated version of the contract. It describes what seems at first to be a generic power-seizing ritual and the consequences of failure thereof, but it requires the contractee to cause the victim to experience their most terrible fear, and thus rapidly becomes very specific and tailored to the individual. The perpetrator would spend months or years determining this with certainty, because if the ritual is performed inaccurately, there will be no opportunity given to repeat it.” You'd been wincing during most of Gale’s explanation, but at that, your ears perked up.

“Does that mean that he can't attempt it on me again? That's good, right?” you asked desperately. Gale's eyes softened on you, a sad expression crossing his face.

“Unfortunately, it would seem as though your experience was merely interrupted, rather than incorrect. Otherwise you would have immediately resumed control of your magic.” Your heart dropped again as you looked away, and you found yourself trying not to cry in frustration, wondering when you would finally catch a break. “And, the ritual magic is not especially picky about who performs it. As long as all steps have been performed correctly and in sequence, the person who completes the final step is the one that receives the power, even if they weren’t the one to initiate the rite. Astarion is, of course, familiar with this aspect of Mephistopheles’ rituals.”

You looked at Astarion quickly enough to see a nearly imperceptible flash in his eyes as he glared at Gale - a warning, but about what? You already knew about his Ascension. What was it that he didn’t want Gale to tell you? You looked away before he could discover your staring, and Gale continued, carefully avoiding more comparisons.

“This is one of his most common tactics. He writes a ritual granting the recipient some theft of life or power and demands only that they are so well-acquainted with their victim that in another life, they might consider them a friend. It's the various responses to his demand that give him enough entertainment to continue offering the rituals, but his true repayment comes in the form of the eternal soul of the perpetrator.”

“Then Serena Hillbrand and her grandfather were plants?” you asked, feeling faint.

“They do not seem to exist in records anywhere. Even the address they gave you was an empty house. I suspect they were either substantially bribed or substantially tortured into doing what they did,” Astarion supplied. The room began to spin slowly, and you sank into an armchair, your head in your hands, breathing deeply to calm your racing heart. You heard Marion kneel next to you, but she refrained from touching you. How had this gone so fucking wrong?

After a moment, without lifting your head, you spoke.

“So how do we stop it?”

Gale hesitated for just a millisecond too long before continuing, and it set you immediately on edge. You looked up at him over your hands, eyes laser-focused on his face as he responded. “There are two options to reverse the ritual. First, the ritual performer can die. The victim need not be the one who kills him, and in fact, he need not be killed at all. He just has to die. Mephistopheles does not care enough about a contract like this to make such specific demands.” A worried look developed upon his face as his eyebrows knitted together.

“As for the second method - unfortunately, as a man, there is no way for me to - that is, perhaps Marion should -” Gale's eyes shifted rapidly between yours, Marion’s, and Astarion's, as though he didn't know whose permission he needed to ask in order to proceed.

“Spit it out, please,” you interrupted, your anxiety growing. What was he afraid of telling you? You noticed a smirk on Astarion's face as you grew impatient with Gale, and warmed slightly at the feeling of having made him smile. Gale paused in stunned silence, then seemed to gather himself.

“Ah, well. Just as the performer completes the ritual by enacting the victim's greatest fear, so can the victim reverse the ritual by participating in said activity and, ah… enjoying it.”

You stifled a sudden wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm you, digging your fingernails into your palms.

“Likewise, the victim need not enjoy the activity with the ritualist specifically - it can be with anyone,” Gale rushed to assure you, as if that made anything better. You pressed your hand against your mouth to prevent the bile rising up in your throat from escaping. Getting laid and having fun doing it was the activity you were least likely to be capable of doing in this circumstance. Not after what had been done to you, and not after the agreement you had just made with Astarion. He was, after all, the only man you could ever see allowing close enough to you for that to be possible. Thus, your options were to somehow kill your attacker without your magic, wait for him to die, or crawl to Astarion on your hands and knees and beg him to fuck you. Somehow, the last option was decidedly the worst one. A somewhat hysterical giggle escaped your throat as your vision began to blacken around the edges. You realized you weren't breathing, and you struggled not to hyperventilate as your body demanded more oxygen. To an onlooker, you probably just appeared shocked, but on the inside, you were struggling to remain upright.

You tried to avoid his gaze, but your eyes met Astarion’s as you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at him. His smirk was long gone now, his expression outwardly neutral, but his eyes betrayed a deep level of concern. Whether that was because he knew that you were on the brink of collapse, or because he, too, was considering the prospect of sleeping together, you knew not. Apparently growing more worried, Marion placed her hand over yours, startling you out of your spiral. You tore your eyes from his and looked at the floor.

“Not happening,” you ground out through gritted teeth. Gale seemed to relax, as though he had been bracing for some sort of outburst that was no longer coming.

“Understood,” he assured you. “Instead, we shall find a way to draw him into an ambush and kill him.”

You found yourself once more in the same position as the night prior - essentially catatonic, on the verge of a breakdown, staring numbly into the void as two men and Marion discussed what was to be done with you, as though you were an inanimate puzzle to solve. You knew you were helpless in your current state, but you hated the constant reminders that the universe seemed to be scattering for you. Hated knowing how pathetic and useless you were without the power you inherited by the sheer force of luck. Meanwhile, Astarion was also repeating last night's pattern as he tried to avoid letting you see he was staring at you with a deep level of concern, as though you wouldn't do anything to be wrapped in his arms in your bed again right now, but his rule meant you couldn't. You knew from experience, however, that he didn't seem to have any rules against sudden departures from overwhelming situations.

You stood suddenly on quivering legs, taking a moment to balance yourself with a hand on the back of the chair, the conversation halting abruptly as everyone turned to you. Nobody spoke a word as you bowed your head stiffly to the group, awkwardly announcing your exit.

“Thank you for everything, Professor Dekarios. You have given me much to think about, and you have my gratitude.” You hoped your voice wasn't as tremulous as it felt as you rushed to find an escape. “I look forward to continuing this discussion at a future date, but for now you must excuse me.” You nodded again before turning and walking from the room at a speed that you hoped seemed normal. As you closed the study door behind you, your speed escalated to the fastest walk you could achieve without running. A moment later, you suddenly felt goosebumps erupting along the nape of your neck as you realized that Astarion was walking after you. A primal instinct arose within you, its intense focus on the presence behind you. Too close, it said.

“Wait. Please!” he called urgently, not shouting, but still causing you to shrink into yourself, stubbornly rejecting the order.

You walked faster, no desire to talk to anyone else today, hoping he would get the message. Your body tingled uncomfortably as he instead closed some of the distance between you, nearing twenty feet away rather than thirty, where he'd started.

Too close.

You knew he wouldn't hurt you, he just wanted to talk, but your body was tracking him as though he was a predator. As you felt him growing even nearer (too close too close too close), you spun to face him and nearly jumped out of your skin when you first locked eyes on the male figure frozen in front of you, your scrambled thoughts needing a moment to register his identity as Astarion rather than literally anyone else.

“Please don't follow me,” you begged, looking up at him, your voice cracking on the first syllable as you recovered from your startle. He is a predator - an apex predator, your mind supplied unhelpfully as you looked at him. “I just need some time alone.” Your heart ached that you were pushing him away, but you weren't sure whether you could withstand any more of his pity, or another beautiful night in his arms followed by another lonely morning after he left you again. “Please,” you repeated.

When he didn't respond, you raised your palm as though to hold him in place as you backed up a few steps before slowly turning and walking away from him, forcing yourself not to look back even as the prickling down your spine told you that he was staring after you. This time, he didn't follow.

---

You were laying numbly on your side, staring into the fire, watching the embers glow and pop, when a knock came on the door. Gods, would they ever leave you alone? You didn't answer, hoping that perhaps they'd think you asleep. You were only mildly surprised when Astarion's voice came through the door.

“May I come in?” You ran a hand down your face, suppressing a groan. You spoke quietly, knowing he would hear.

“Yes.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as the door opened and then closed, soft footsteps moving across the room, and clothes rustling as he settled onto your couch. You peered through squinted eyelids at him as he audibly yawned. He did appear... exhausted.

“Why are you here?” you asked, no patience left for politeness. If he was that tired, why didn't he go to bed and allow Marion to check on you?

“Well, I rather thought that you might prefer to avoid a repeat of last night,” he said acidly, unappreciative of the barb. You flinched inwardly – in your self-pity, you had forgotten that this morning he had announced his intention to watch over your sleep. Even so, you hardly would've expected him to show up after you'd rejected him so strongly this evening. Regardless, you knew that he was here out of his own generosity, and if you kept pushing your luck, it might run out.

“You're right,” you admitted, trying to smooth things over. “I thought I might have caused you to reconsider.” He was quiet for a moment before responding.

“The moments where I pushed people away were the moments that I needed them the most.” Your eyes watered, touched by the sentiment. After a pause, he yawned again, covering his mouth politely with his hand, a tired look in his eyes.

“How long has it been since you slept?” you asked quietly, not looking at him.

“Several days,” he admitted. “I had planned to sleep last night.” You cringed into your blankets at the casual comment.

“However, I have plenty of work to keep me awake tonight. It is nearly tax season -”

“Sleep here,” you interrupted, startling yourself not only with the abrupt and ridiculous notion, but the fact that you'd said it out loud. Astarion appeared equally stunned for just a fraction of a second before his features smoothed over once more.

“I hardly think napping is the best way to keep you from killing yourself in your sleep, darling,” he said evenly. You shook your head.

“I told you, I won't have nightmares while you're here. You don't need to be awake to be here.”

He studied you for a moment, seeming to decide whether you were right, before sighing and hanging his head.

“Very well,” he said, reclining on the couch. His neck bent at an awkward angle as he was just a bit too tall to comfortably fit. “Would you pass me a throw?”

You shut your eyes tight, preparing for rejection, wondering how much farther you should push your luck, since he'd already agreed to sleep in your suite -

“Come up here and be comfortable,” you said. “This bed is larger than some island nations. There's plenty of room for you.”

Astarion didn't say anything, and you could only imagine the look on his face in response to that. As the seconds passed, you grew more and more certain that you'd massively fucked things up, becoming even more certain when you heard him stand and start walking slowly, until you realized that the footsteps were getting closer, rather than farther. He pulled back the comforter and climbed beneath it, maintaining a position very close to his edge of the mattress. He faced away from you, one arm folded around his pillow. You felt an incredible sadness through your body as you experienced the vibrations in the bedding that originated from his movements, knowing that you wouldn't be getting any closer to him tonight.

“Good night,” Astarion said softly, before dimming the candles, a thick silence developing between the two of you.

You didn't turn over. Didn't move a muscle. You stayed firmly rooted on your side of the huge bed, feeling both too far away from and far too close to Astarion. Tears dripped off your nose as you refused to allow yourself to truly cry, because that would shake the mattress, and alert him. Inevitably, he would roll over and gather you into his arms, soothing you with quiet reassurances and gentle touches - and you absolutely could not allow that to happen.

No matter how much you wanted it.

You pulled the covers further up your face and curled in on yourself more tightly, trying to keep yourself from wondering whether Astarion was thinking the same.

Chapter Text

Just three mornings later, you found yourself outfitted in a shirt, tunic, and pants of softest wool, accompanied by a lushly lined, deep cobalt hooded cloak and thick but feminine gloves. You had reluctantly agreed to Gale's suggestion of attending the winter Maker's Market in the small nearby town, a lighthearted and festive event to celebrate the rapidly-approaching new year. Astarion usually made a point of visiting each year, showing support and benevolence for the local community, so his presence with a member or two of his staff would not garner an abnormal amount of attention - that is, unless someone was actively looking for a member of Astarion's household. You took a deep breath, trying not to tremble as Marion sized you for a pair of insulated winter boots, anticipating frigid temperatures and slick footing, but luckily little wind and no additional precipitation.

“Everything will be fine, miss,” Marion said kindly, not looking up from her measurements. “No matter how much power he has, it would be exceptionally poor judgment to attack you in broad daylight and in a crowd. Not to mention that he now knows the company you are keeping, and that it is not insignificant.” You studied her, watching for any sign of hidden worry or tension, but found none. As was typical, her face was pleasantly neutral.

“I can only hope you are correct,” you said, not feeling especially hopeful. Marion would likewise accompany you on the outing, and you knew nothing was likely to happen, but the very thought of leaving the estate had you on edge. You hadn't even left the manor house, save for your recent hallucination, since your arrival, and now you were to act as bait, intending to draw out your attacker such that he could be positively identified and tracked down thereafter.

As you finished your preparations and waited with Marion in the foyer for Astarion, you chewed your lower lip and fussed with a wrinkle of fabric on the edge of your cloak, trying not to think about how exposed you were about to be, out in public without your magic. Your worries intensified as the carriage pulled up - the very same that Astarion had used when he rescued you from certain death. As you pretended to study the details of the carriage through the manor windows in a desperate effort to calm your racing thoughts, a gentle whiff of citrus and brandy floated toward you on a draft, announcing Astarion's arrival, and sending your head spinning in a completely different direction.

Now, instead of trying to avoid thinking about how vulnerable you were about to be, you found yourself trying to avoid thinking about the last three nights of Astarion's presence in your bedchambers. He had not slept next to you again after that first night, preferring instead to work at his desk or read on the couch, but his very being in your rooms set absolutely miserable butterflies floating in your stomach. You had so many irrational thoughts, feelings, and fantasies that would never see the light of day, and for some godsforsaken reason, they were all about him.

“Are we adequately prepared?” he asked as he approached you and Marion. You wrenched your eyes away from the carriage and onto the man in front of you. He looked resplendent in a deep maroon cloak that matched his eyes, paired with a modest navy winter weight overcoat and black pants.

“Yes, my lord,” replied Marion. “We may embark at any time.” You felt, rather than saw, Astarion's gaze upon you, clearly having noticed that you were steadfastly avoiding his eyes.

“It seems that not everyone agrees with your statement,” he murmured.

“I am ready, Lord Astarion,” you said defiantly, finally meeting his eyes. You were terrified, yes, but you weren't about to allow that to interfere with regaining your magic. Why you had turned snippy, however, was a mystery even to you. He was only trying to check in with you, and you knew it. He raised an eyebrow, but made no other indication that he had noticed your change in tone.

“Very well,” he said lightly. “Let us be off.”

You trailed behind him as he led your small party outdoors, Marion taking up the rear. He climbed into the carriage, offering you his hand to help you up once he was inside. You accepted it wordlessly, releasing it the instant you'd ascended the steps. You sat across from him, rather than next to him, having no desire to tempt fate with his proximity and any sizable bump in the road. Marion followed you into the carriage and took a seat beside you. With that, the carriage set off, and you stared out the window at the passing landscape, carefully avoiding both Marion's and Astarion's gazes.

You watched as first the estate gates disappeared behind you, then multiple miles of wooded path. Before long, the trees parted and the landscape became that of vast farmer's fields, covered in snow, dead and stemmy plant material piercing the top layer of ice. You briefly observed a large, sprawling tree with exposed roots and black, angular branches, standing alone in the center of one of the fields. You gasped quietly and looked away, fixating on the floor of the carriage as you were forcibly reminded of your landing at the foot of that very tree, its gnarled roots digging into the freshly branded skin of your back. Once again, you felt the weight of Astarion’s gaze upon you, and once again you refused to meet it.

You became more and more withdrawn into yourself as the carriage drew closer to the town, grateful that the windows had fogged, blocking your view of the exterior. After stopping at a fountained square a few blocks from the center of town, you hurried out of the carriage after Marion, not allowing Astarion to offer his hand, not at all sure you would have the strength of will that was required to release his hand once you had it in your grasp. You stood next to her, pulling your hood up against the frigid air and scanning your surroundings, stifling the panic that was blossoming in your bones. It wasn't until you turned to look behind you that you observed Astarion standing there, waiting for you to notice him before he extended his elbow. Blushing, you slowly linked your arm through his, hoping that the hood of your cloak would obscure the redness of the skin of your face. His immediate proximity and the consistent strength of the muscles flexing under your fingers reduced the amount of fear you felt, though it did nothing for the tingling along your arm where it touched his.

Astarion himself was unhooded, trusting his magic to maintain his temperature. You silently resented him for that, though you knew it was an exceptionally petty sentiment. He was here, after all, to help you get your own magic back, not because he enjoyed lording his abilities over you. Besides, you had already repeatedly benefited from that particular ability, during those long hours when he had kept you luxuriously warm, pressed against his chest… You shook your head to dispel the memory, returning instead to scouting your surroundings.

As you reached the town square and the population density increased, you slowly found yourself able to relax. Marion and Gale were correct, of course, in that there was safety in numbers, and the act that your magic thief would need to accomplish in order to finish the ritual would be impossible as long as Astarion was at your side. For his part, he casually browsed the vendors' booths, directing Marion to purchase this or that for the estate, and giving polite greetings to those whom he recognized. Otherwise, whether they seemed to know him or not, people generally gave him space. Before this moment, you hadn’t observed Astarion in any sort of lordship activities, and he seemed to quietly excel at it, though you could tell that it drained him. For a reason you couldn’t place, you felt a sense of… pride? over his efforts, knowing how difficult it could be to maintain professional warmth for extended periods of time. That fizzy, happy emotion bubbled through your heart again, try as you might to stop it.

Of those that did speak to Astarion, many mistook the meaning of your arm linked through his. If he minded being asked repeatedly when he had married, he didn’t show it; he merely corrected the inquiries politely, and artfully changed the subject. Regardless, as you grew more comfortable, you released yourself from Astarion’s arm, and merely stayed near him, rather than immediately beside him. You had finally loosened up enough that you dropped your guard somewhat, no longer frantically searching your surroundings for that dreadfully familiar face, when, seemingly from out of thin air, a scraggly old man appeared at your side and took a tight hold of your wrist.

TOO

FUCKING

CLOSE

“Special trinkets for the lady?” he asked, his wiry grip unyielding as you startled sideways into Astarion, whose arm wrapped around your waist. Appearing rapidly from somewhere behind you, Marion shoved the man away, a hidden blade suddenly at his throat as she forced him backward, a fierce and furious expression on her face, the likes of which you had never seen from her. Meanwhile, Astarion pulled you into a side street, separated from the flow of foot traffic, breaking line of sight with the scene that had unfolded. You were hyperventilating, the feel of the man's bony fingers leaving a crawling sensation around your wrist, your thoughts swirling into a maelstrom of panic, your body slumping against the nearest building as your vision began to blacken.

It was then that Astarion placed his palms against the wall on either side of your body, his broad shoulders shielding you from the view of any observers, creating a private moment between the two of you.

“Easy, darling,” he murmured. “The danger is past.” You didn't respond, unable to pull yourself out of the panic into which you were descending.

“Look at me,” he urged, lowering his head to catch your eyes. You finally met his gaze, and froze at the tenderness and worry you saw there. You broke eye contact as one of his hands traveled down the wall near your side, pausing at the level of your wrist that had been grabbed. You looked back up at him as he silently asked permission, and nodded your consent. His fingers were warm and soft as he grasped your wrist, contrasting starkly with the cold and painfully tight grip of the grifter. He raised your wrist and gently pushed back your sleeve to examine the skin beneath, the frosty air touching your body for the first time and causing goosebumps to flare on your arm. You didn't dare watch as he rotated your hand to check all sides.

“Are you in pain?” You shook your head. Not physically, anyway. He carefully lowered your hand, and you looked back up at him, the crawling sensation reduced, but not eliminated. “I feel that this is enough exposure for our purposes. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you replied breathlessly. The sensation of Astarion’s gentle fingers on your skin had distracted you sufficiently enough to halt your panic in its tracks, but you still felt its aftereffects. He proffered his arm again, leading you to the side street where the carriage stood waiting. He was businesslike in his walk - he didn’t dally, but neither did he rush. He didn’t seem at all concerned about the potential for danger, merely your discomfort, and you tried to take solace in his lack of worry. The crawling, dirty sensation of your wrist suddenly increased in intensity, causing you to gasp softly, and your affected hand to move across your body and grasp Astarion’s forearm just below where your opposite elbow rested, still linked through his arm. You grasped the fabric of his overcoat as though he could somehow pluck you out of the filth that was marring your skin. He looked down at you, concerned, his pace increasing slightly as his evident level of worry began to elevate.

Marion was already at the carriage, waiting impatiently for your arrival. She did not wait for Astarion’s command or permission before pulling you away from him and subjecting you to her own strict appraisal. You looked at Astarion, thinking you would see irritation or an eye roll, but your eyes widened when you instead saw a visage of forcibly restrained fear. His expression was outwardly neutral, but the stiffness in his spine and face, and the tension in his balled fists as he waited for Marion to pronounce you safe and healthy, told a different story. What is he so afraid of? You looked back at her as she took your hand and critically examined your wrist. She pressed the tips of her fingers firmly into the surfaces where you had been grabbed.

“Does this hurt?” she asked, watching your face as she continued to prod. Her expression was not one of fear or worry, but of methodical determination. “No,” you replied truthfully. Astarion no longer looked as though he was so terribly afraid for you, but as though he was resisting saying something. About the way I grabbed him, maybe? You silently begged him not to bring it up. You were physically fine, and becoming mentally fine would require getting the fuck out of here, something you had no desire to delay any longer.

You again sat beside Marion in the carriage, declining Astarion’s offer of help to get inside, and held yourself sturdily upright in your seat. At times you found yourself absentmindedly scratching your wrist, and it was those same instances when you felt Astarion’s eyes on your movements. Upon reaching the gates of the estate, a page hailed the driver, and the carriage rolled to a stop. The page handed Astarion an envelope through the window, a burst of frosty air entering the previously warm space.

“So sorry to stop you sir, I was told that it was of utmost importance that you receive this as soon as possible.” Astarion took the envelope and opened it as the carriage rolled on, first raising an eyebrow, then looking directly at you with a strained expression you couldn't identify. In turn, you refused to look at him, and worried your wrist instead.

The journey home had seemed simultaneously much faster and much slower than the trip out, and as soon as the carriage pulled up to the manor, you effectively launched out without assistance and fled to your rooms without looking back. Having shut the door behind you, you sank to your knees and pressed your forehead to the floor, arms wrapped around yourself, hyperventilating and rocking back and forth, thoughts racing as bile threatened to rise up the back of your throat. Try as you might to contain your emotions, they escaped your control and ran rampant, panic forefront among them, seemingly without end, until the last dregs of your energy were finally depleted, along with your tears.

The crawling feeling about your wrist increased in intensity once more, and rubbing it on the carpet was ineffective at stopping it, so you heaved a sigh and decided to run a bath. Perhaps that, you thought, would help you rinse off the filth that seemed to be covering your body. You ran the water as hot as it would go, ripping off all your insulated clothing as steam filled the room. As you waited for the tub to fill, you examined your wrist for yourself for the first time since being grabbed. It seemed unharmed, with no bruising, but the skin was slightly red from all the attention you'd paid it with your fingernails. It was just before dinnertime, but you had not a shred of hunger within you, and decided that you were done being conscious for the day - done feeling this dirty. Refusing to acknowledge the consequences that you knew would arise tomorrow, you snagged a sleeping draught from the stash you'd hidden away before your disastrous hallucination. Climbing into the bath, you filled it with bubbles and scrubbed your entire body, lighting the candle on the bath-side tray that smelled of brandy and citrus, and sipping the sleeping draught as if it was a fine vintage wine. As you slowly drifted off, you wondered whether you would feel clean tomorrow morning, or ever again.

—-

You awoke slowly to Marion shaking you violently, creating ripples in the water, now still and bubble-less. Your first instinct was to cover yourself, as if Marion hadn't already seen you naked and helped you dress multiple times. She scoffed, putting one hand on her hip and holding out the empty sleeping draught bottle in the other. 

“What is this?” she scolded. “I thought we were done with sleeping draughts?” Still reeling from the sudden waking, you didn't respond, instead wordlessly scratching your wrist beneath the water, not even comprehending the movement. Marion groaned and grabbed your hands, forcibly separating them and holding them above the water level, preventing you from further abusing yourself. You grunted in foggy displeasure before noting the trickle of blood slowly dripping from your wrist where the beggar had grabbed you, the exact imprint of his fingers outlined in red, weeping skin where you had evidently removed the top layer, and seemed to be digging for the bones beneath. The bath water was tinted pink from your efforts over the last few hours, though for all you knew, days could have passed since you had first filled the tub. You looked up wordlessly at Marion standing over you, a sympathetic expression on her face overtaking the frustration.

“Shall we get out of the tub?” she asked gently. You nodded, allowing her to assist your exit and to wrap you in a fresh robe. As the water drained, you leaned on the edge of the tub, and acquiesced when Marion held out her hand expectantly. She examined your wrist before pulling two small bottles from her pocket.

“Astarion and Atticus are both outside the door,” she said quietly. “Atticus has given me a healing tonic for your skin, while Astarion has insisted on a potion of curse removal. I will ask, but not require, that you take them both, if only so I no longer need to deal with their bickering.” A small smile ghosted across your face as you hesitantly accepted one, then the other. Both usually tasted sweet and refreshing, but now only tasted of dust and regret. You watched as the skin on your wrist repaired itself before your eyes, but the curse removal potion seemed to have had no effect. Marion observed closely, before deciding something to herself and leading you to the door of the washroom. She stopped before the door, turning and handing you a thin, soft fingerless glove, which you pulled on over your newly healed wrist. You knew it was to stop you from scratching unintentionally, and the casual kindness of Marion's thoughtfulness caught you off guard. It had been a long time since you'd trusted anyone to have your best interests at heart, even before your tragic incident in Chult, and you'd started to find that trust again in the chief of staff of a vampire. If you made it out of here, she was one connection you'd like to preserve. One friend you'd like to take away from this trauma.

“Back up, boys,” she announced. “I know you're listening.” There was the noise of shuffling on the other side of the door, and then she opened it, leading you out. Atticus immediately swarmed you, seemingly with intense curiosity, Marion's arm extending to prevent his approach. Astarion's response to seeing you, meanwhile, was significantly more concerning to you - hanging behind, a look of intense worry upon his face as he beheld you. You met his eyes and immediately looked away, embarrassed at the attention.

“Well?” Atticus demanded. “What of the potions?”

“She has taken both of them, but only the healing tonic had any effect,” Marion responded, reporting to Astarion more than Atticus. His brows furrowed. You suddenly felt very exposed, very observed, and you couldn’t stand it any longer. Besides, the thought of Atticus performing any testing made you feel faint. You made eye contact with Astarion, silently begging him for relief. He held your gaze as he responded.

“Very well. I will handle things on my own from here.” It was a polite but firm dismissal, and while Marion bowed her head, Atticus immediately protested.

“But sir, she has yet to be properly examined -” Astarion turned to Atticus, one raised eyebrow enough to silence the cleric, and interrupted firmly.

“Your objection is noted.” Atticus clearly didn’t appreciate having his advice ignored as frequently as had occurred over the last few weeks since your arrival. You would have to speak to him later - apologize. For now, you were grateful that Astarion was insisting they leave you with him. Atticus sighed in frustration before responding.

“Yes, sir,” he said in a low voice, before marching out of your rooms, Marion closing the door behind him. Astarion slowly turned back to you, standing there pitifully with your robe wrapped as tightly around you as was physically possible. He waited for you to be the first to speak, and, desperate to fill the silence, you said the first coherent thought that came to your mind.

“I didn’t realize Marion’s combat skills were so sharp.”

“Her career in service was not her first,” he said, seemingly relieved to have something less difficult to talk about. “She was an upper level fighter, a Harper in service to the Grand Duke. She suffered a back injury in his defense, and did not feel that her reduced physical abilities would suffice to continue in his service. She has more than enough wisdom to run this household instead.” After this, Astarion was quiet once more. You took a deep breath before continuing.

“How… how did you know what I’d done?” you asked, barely louder than a whisper. You were nearly offended when he scoffed.

“I am a vampire, darling. We’re sort of known for our ability to scent blood. One might even say we’re the experts on the subject.” His ribbing helped lighten the mood just a hair, and the ghost of a chuckle left your lips. This time, after a pause, it was Astarion’s turn to speak up.

“Perhaps now is not the ideal timing, but I feel I owe you the chance to read the letter I received this afternoon on the way back from town.” His tone was carefully casual, but his words implied that there was something sinister from which he was currently shielding you.

“Oh?” you asked, immediately nervous, wondering what he was about to say. You felt a sudden resurgence of the crawling feeling on your wrist. The glove touching your skin helped to dampen the sensation, but you still had to consciously prevent yourself from rubbing it against your robe.

“It was addressed to me, but the letter was written to you. The sender clearly wanted us both to receive his message, and also to test the strength of my honesty.”

“Does he think you would lie about it?” you asked, not understanding. Astarion had shown no evidence of dishonesty in any of your interactions.

“He likely believes I would withhold it from you or otherwise prevent you from reading it once I knew what was written. It is exceptionally violent, and its only purpose is to frighten you, and laughably, to intimidate me.” His tone began in that carefully light manner, gradually growing darker until his anger slipped out as his voice changed to a growl. Thinking better of himself, he readjusted to a more natural cadence. “Nonetheless, I shall leave the decision of whether or not to read it up to you.”

You watched as he removed the envelope from his housecoat, its paper now wrinkled and abused, as though repeatedly handled. He reached out to place it on your breakfast table, carefully avoiding moving any closer to where you stood. Your eyes remained fixed on the envelope.

“Who else knows about this?” you asked quietly, leaving the real question - how many people had he involved in your shame? - unspoken.

“Just you and me,” he assured you. “It is only addressed to us, after all.” Your eyes shot to his, surprised, before returning to the letter. If he hadn't shown Marion, Atticus, or even Gale, the state of the envelope then indicated that he had read and re-read it multiple times. How long had it taken him to decide to allow you the opportunity to read it?

You found yourself drawn toward the breakfast table - not due to any sinister magic, but the sheer, overwhelming desire to understand what the fuck you were facing. Your fingers touched the envelope, the paper still warm from its time inside Astarion’s coat. His name was written in a neat cursive script with black ink on the cover. You carefully pulled open the flap, touching as little of the paper as possible, as though it was covered in grime. You retrieved the folded missive within, and began to unfold it when Astarion’s voice halted your movements.

“Before you read it -” he paused, seeming to parse his words, “- just know that I have been alive for far longer than he has, and defeated far more powerful men than he is, and because of this I know he does not represent a threat to me. And, because you are with me, he also does not represent a threat to you.” Gods, whatever was in this letter must be vicious if he was priming you like this. Alternatively, it was truly nothing to worry about, but he distrusted your emotional stability… Ignoring the growing desire to scratch away the prickly sensation on your wrist, you took a steadying breath and unfolded the missive, freezing at the sight of your name scrawled in an ugly hand at the top, contrasting starkly with the script on the front. A chill ran down your spine as you continued.

What an adorable little stunt you pulled just now. Did you really think that simply showing your face publicly would entice me into revealing myself? Even without full command of your magic, I am in possession of power the likes of which no ordinary man has experienced, not even the so-called ‘Lord Astarion,’ and I am not enough of a fool to squander it at the first opportunity.

Before Chult, I thought that you would be difficult to overpower. I had multiple contingency plans. Now I know that even you did not understand the scope of the power you possessed, and were never meant to be the one to wield it. Before Chult, I thought that your history of successfully taking down especially difficult opponents would make you more likely to be aware of your surroundings. Now I know that you are painfully oblivious, and without your magic to protect you, you have nothing. No special skills, no talent - only the accident of the Weave which bestowed you with such power that even you cannot fathom.

If you truly desire the chance to face me, invite me past the wards. Allow me into the estate. Alternatively, when Astarion’s generosity runs dry - and it will, eventually - leave the estate. Regardless of the option you choose, I will find you. I will finish this. And nobody, not even Astarion, will be able to stop me.

A final note - before Chult, I would have been content to let you sleep through my enjoyment of your body, and allow you to pass peacefully afterward, had the terms of my contract not required you to be conscious. Now, I will make sure that it is the most excruciating experience of your life, and proceed to torture you to death in the slowest and most creative ways I can devise - all in front of your precious Lord Astarion.

See you soon.

The blood drained from your face as you began to feel faint, and you sank into one of the chairs at the breakfast table. Astarion reached out as though to catch you, and thought better of it as you shot him a warning glance. Too close.

“I'm fine,” you insisted, even as your voice was breathless and trembling. “These are the words of a desperate man who is angry that he didn't get what he wanted.” If only you believed that for yourself, you mused.

“I agree,” said Astarion slowly, clearly cognizant that you weren't fine, but unsure of how to help.

“What are you going to do?” you asked softly, not at all certain you were prepared for his answer.

“I have some ideas, but I believe it would be best to save that particular discussion for tomorrow, when we have a bit of distance from the events of today.” You released a shaky breath, glad to spare yourself from having to dwell on the topic, but dreading the direction that the conversation was headed.

“Well, then, about today…” you trailed off, unsure how to ask what the fuck happened.

“I fear we did not gain much from the excursion,” he supplied, saving you from the struggle to phrase your thoughts. “I had scouts posted in several locations, and none of them noted any unusual or suspicious activity. The beggar man was truly a beggar, and this was verified by the tavern owner at whose establishment he most often panhandles. My page tells me that the deliverer of the letter was a female Deep gnome, and he got no other details - the interaction was so routine, he didn’t think anything of it. If it was truly our man, he was clearly using Disguise Self, or somehow manipulating the gnome into doing his bidding.” Your eyes grew wider, though not for the reason you knew Astarion believed.

“You posted scouts?!” you exclaimed. In no universe would you have expected a vampire to go this far out of his way to protect anyone other than himself. Little was known about the behavior of vampires, other than that they were pathologically, cruelly selfish. In every possible instance, Astarion demonstrated himself to be the complete opposite of his peers. He shrugged.

“They wished to attend the Maker’s Market. I told them they could have the balance of the day off as long as they made good use of themselves for the handful of hours we were there. They were happy to oblige.” You looked at him with intense curiosity.

“Is there no end to the ways you will surprise me?” you murmured. He chuckled softly, slipping his hands into his housecoat pockets. When he spoke again, it was strained, as though he was holding back the strength of the emotion behind his words.

“I thought you had been cursed,” he whispered. “I knew it was illogical, but I saw the way you couldn’t stop scratching yourself… I thought I had allowed harm to come to you, after I promised you safety in my company.” Your heart softened at his admission, and you stifled a desire to close the distance between you and wrap him in a hug. You knew he would let you, but you couldn’t - not now.

“It wasn’t your fault, Astarion -”

“I am so very sorry that the beggar was allowed to lay a hand on you,” Astarion interrupted, clearly having been waiting to discuss this topic. “There were wards against magical and physical attacks in your clothing, but not once did I consider warding you against unarmed attacks. I believed my presence would frighten off any attempts at close combat, which in that circumstance was inexcusable -”

“It’s not the beggar,” you said, your turn to interrupt now. He paused, waiting for you to continue, and you stood from your chair, drawing a steadying breath. “He is nothing. He would not have truly harmed me even if you hadn’t been there.” Astarion remained quiet, giving you time to formulate your next words as you wrapped your arms around yourself and gripped a fistful of the robe’s plush fabric in your hand, resisting the renewed urge to scratch at your wrist.

“The problem is that when his fingers were on my skin, all I could feel - all I could see - was the man in Chult holding me down. Once the beggar was removed, I no longer saw that scene, but I feel him still.”

The strangled noise that left Astarion’s mouth sounded as if you’d punched him in the gut. By the time you looked up at him, brows furrowed, he had already resumed his usual stoic expression.

“What do you need right now?” he asked, quietly.

“I need,” you said, your voice trembling, “to try to sleep. For real this time.” His eyes searched your face, but you couldn’t look back at him. The water had washed you clean, but you still felt so dirty, so unworthy of his consideration. You were thus startled when he spoke again.

“Would it help if I offered to keep you warm again tonight?” His voice was low, as though he was trying desperately not to frighten you with the offer. “No strings attached.” Your heart dropped, as you knew you would have to decline, cursing the gods for your current fate.

“I can't, Astarion.” Tears leaked from your eyes. “Gods, I want to, but I can't.”

“Why can’t you?” he asked, seemingly truly curious, not offended, but you thought you detected just a hint of desperation, as though he, too, had truly wanted you in his arms tonight.

“I can't handle anyone touching me right now. Not even you.” Fuck, but you wanted to lay against his chest, feel his muscular body warming your back, his arms gently but possessively wrapped around your waist, his shoulder impossibly comfortable as you relaxed against him.

“Talk to me, darling,” he begged. “Tell me what you're afraid of.”

“Any touch will only bring him to mind. And I…” you trailed off, steadying yourself, before taking a deep breath and steeling your resolve, your eyes finally finding him. “I won't let your hands feel like his.” In that moment, you didn't care what your sentence told him about your feelings for him; you only cared that it was the truth. His face contorted into an expression of sudden sadness before resuming a significantly more neutral mask. He nodded slowly.

“Understood,” he said. A brief pause, and then - “As such, what would you have me do now?” You looked away from him then, fixing your eyes on your bed, before responding.

“I can’t let you touch me, but I would like you to be close to me.”

“It would be my pleasure, darling.” With this, Astarion turned to the stack of books you had on the breakfast table, and you tried not to look too hard as the soft firelight played across his body, shifting fluidly as he moved to examine their covers. He selected the third book in the stack, and you hoped your face wasn’t flushing scarlet as you realized that it was a smutty historical fiction novel you’d sheepishly asked Marion to order a week ago. He looked at you quizzically as he made his way to his side of the bed. You still hadn’t moved from where you stood.

“Not that it matters to me, but perhaps it would be more comfortable to sleep in your nightclothes, rather than that robe?” You had been avoiding that train of thought.

“Perhaps,” you said quickly, not giving yourself a chance to dwell on the topic. “Nonetheless, I will sleep in this.” After studying you for a moment, he shrugged as he slipped off his housecoat and prepared to climb into bed. You could tell he knew there was something you weren’t telling him - but how were you meant to tell him that you could neither bear to be alone for even one more moment tonight, nor could you strip in front of him and allow him to see you naked and at your most vulnerable - again?

You took a shuddering breath in, shaking yourself out of your introspection, and dove beneath the covers, curling tightly around yourself, facing him. He slowly, wordlessly moved to your side, close enough that you could have reached out and touched him, but far enough away that there was no chance of accidental contact, and you caught a slight whiff of citrus as his movements shifted the air. You realized with a start that this moment was nearly identical to the first time you opened your eyes and found him sitting with you on this enormous bed - the second reminder today of your arrival to this place, though this one was significantly gentler than the first. He opened that gods-forsaken romance novel and began to read, and you squeezed your eyes shut against a wave of the warm, gentle emotion of fondness that had been so problematically cropping up recently. It wasn’t entirely bad, though.

As soon as it released you, so did consciousness.

Chapter Text

Three additional weeks had passed without incident. At least, outside of the two meetings you'd had with Gale, they had. Even with Marion present, tensions between Astarion and Gale remained high. You'd felt your own share of tension – or, rather, panic – when, in the second meeting, Gale had made a startling proposal. The first meeting had occurred in Astarion's study, and was largely an exchange of information – knowledge gained through your ill-fated excursion, Astarion's scouts, and the angry, scrawling note. Just as before, Astarion protected your ego, smoothly avoiding the mention of anything about your attempt to bleed to death in a bathtub. You knew Gale wouldn't judge or be upset with you, but you couldn't withstand the pity, and that was something Astarion understood. The second meeting took place at Gale's behest in Waterdeep. You were already quietly awed and intimidated by the awards, artifacts, and books lining the shelves of the headmaster's office, and the magnitude of the achievements of Gale himself. Thus, when he had suggested the insane idea, you found yourself a bit dumbstruck. Surely you were misunderstanding – surely he didn't think this was truly even remotely plausible. Unable to formulate a response, you looked at Astarion, whose eyes were locked on Gale. You fully expected him to protest on your behalf, to educate Gale on what a terrible idea this would be, and your panic began when, after a moment of strained silence, Astarion agreed with him, and your mind – imploded.

I can't. I won't. Not again. I won't survive. I can't. I won't. Not again. I won't survive.

“What?!” you choked out. I can't.

“This is by far the safest and easiest way to draw him out,” Gale assured you. I won't.

“Have either of you considered that I don't like to be used as bait?” Not again.

“But in this instance, Astarion is the bait. This foul creature knows that in order to access you, he must get through Astarion. There was a reason that his letter was addressed to the both of you – he intended to goad Astarion into reacting rashly, thereby increasing his chances of success, and eliminating the largest obstacle standing between him and you.” I won't survive.

You turned to Astarion now.

“And you mean to tell me you agree with this plan?!” I can't.

“Gale is correct. There is no better place to hunt than one's own territory.” I won't.

You lowered your voice, stepping closer to him and turning away from Gale, unwilling to expose the intimate conversation you needed to have.

“You swore that he would never touch me again.” Not again.

“These are not mutually exclusive. I will be in complete control of every element, including your security detail.” He bent his neck to look into your eyes. “You will be perfectly safe.” I won't survive.

With that, you found yourself swept dumbly and involuntarily into a complex discussion of plans, options, rules, and details surrounding inviting your attacker to the Equinox Ball, a highly formal event held annually at Astarion's estate, and at which you were to headline as his esteemed guest.

I can't. I won't. Not again. I won't survive.

---

After the night of the Maker's Market, the need to bother your wrist faded rapidly. Things quickly returned to routine, which for you, meant that Astarion did not offer to hold you again. He would spend most of his time in your rooms at the desk he'd had brought in, or else dozing on the couch. It was rare that he would climb into bed with you to read, but you relished every moment that he did. Regardless of how he spent his time, his presence allowed your sleep to be blissfully nightmare-free. The time passed quietly, with you finding ways to occupy yourself during the day, and Astarion finding ways to occupy himself at night.

“Tomorrow morning, I am leaving to take care of some business in Baldur's Gate. I hope to return the following day,” he said offhandedly one night, concentrating on a ledger at his desk. You blinked in alarm. Of course you couldn't control his movements, but the prospect of being so physically separated from him was terrifying.

“I see,” you responded, trying to keep your voice from shaking. The way he looked up at you was evidence enough that you'd been unsuccessful.

“Don't think you'll be alone, darling,” he said. “One of my spawn is riding down tonight to take my place. You'll meet him tomorrow before I leave.” You let out the breath you'd evidently been holding, somewhat reassured that you would still have a guardian, but anxious at the prospect of meeting another vampire, no matter how meticulously screened they may have been.

Your sleep that night was uneasy, and you startled awake as Marion knocked, still feeling exhausted. She helped you prepare for Astarion's arrival, first briefing you on the history of the spawn, whose name was Mordecai, and then providing you with a small breakfast and a change of clothes.

“Marion,” you asked, “Is there a reason that you can't just sit in my rooms tonight?”

“None specifically,” she said carefully. “I suspect that Lord Astarion wants you to know that you have someone dedicated exclusively to your safety while you sleep.”

“You know that I would feel perfectly safe with you filling that role, right?” you said, seeking Marion's eyes. She smiled pleasantly. “Thank you, ma'am, but Mordecai is an especially gifted fighter, much more suited to your immediate defense than I am.” You suspected that you had just found a chink in her armor. She liked Mordecai, but you had no way to prove it. You tried not to let your face give away what you'd worked out, but internally, you smirked, filing that information away for later. You finished dressing, and steeled yourself to meet your second-ever vampire.

Not five minutes after you'd slipped on your shoes, Astarion knocked at your door.

“Good morning, darling,” he said, businesslike. “I'm sure Marion prepared you adequately?”

“More than adequately,” you replied, swallowing the sudden wave of uneasiness that came over you at the thought of interacting with another vampire – another man.

“In that case,” he said, stepping out of the doorway and encouraging you to take his place, his gaze fixed upon something you couldn't yet see. “This is Mordecai.” You took a steadying breath and walked forward, taking your place at Astarion's side.

Before you was a handsome young human man, his skin a rich brown and his hair a dense black. At least, he had been young when he was turned; it was, of course, impossible to tell how old he was now. A well groomed ebony beard adorned his face. Like all vampires, his eyes were a deep red, though his were brighter than the rich maroon of Astarion’s irises, a sharp and pleasing contrast with his dark skin. He was exquisitely handsome - perhaps that was a requirement for employment in Astarion's household, you mused – and he lacked the nasty scar on his jugular that Astarion bore. You assumed that he would offer the new spawn a choice in the placement of the bite, a flush creeping up above your collar as you found yourself wondering where on the body Astarion preferred to put his mouth. You bit your lower lip as you wrenched your mind away from that line of thinking.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, bowing politely. “I look forward to our version of a sleepover tonight.” His accent had a slight twang, as though he'd been born somewhere far away, but had spent enough time in this area to lose most of his native dialect. His smile was genuine, but the fangs he displayed in a way that Astarion rarely did, still gave you pause as goosebumps erupted on your skin.

Too close.

You resisted the sudden urge to move closer to Astarion, knowing that he wouldn't place your protection into the hands of anyone other than his most trusted associate, but still reeling from the spike of unease stabbing through you as your instincts begged you to retreat from the unfamiliar vampire. Friendly or not, everything you knew about vampires screamed that they were not to be taken lightly. You shoved the rising fear away and stepped closer, shaking his hand.

“The pleasure is mine,” you replied politely. Mordecai's hand was simultaneously warm and soft, while still giving off the impression of marble hardness, a trait you recognized from the time you'd spent resting against Astarion's chest. You backed away as quickly as was socially acceptable, suddenly finding anything else to look at besides Mordecai's face. Too close.

“Mordecai will stand outside your door this evening and keep watch. Being one of my spawn, he is unique in that he shares my ability to enter locations without permission, but he will not enter without yours.” Here, Mordecai nodded enthusiastically. “Should you desire to leave your quarters, he will accompany you unless you ask him not to. Is this acceptable?”

“Of course,” you said, a forcibly bright tone to your voice. You would much rather Astarion be there, but of course you couldn't, and wouldn't, expect him to drop everything for you. Not when he'd already given up so much in the interest of your needs.

“Don't worry - I won't let you get bored,” said Mordecai, misunderstanding your hesitation. “I'll bring some wine and a deck of cards. I'll teach you how to beat this old man at blackjack every time.” This brought a smile to your face as you glanced at Astarion, who was mid-eye roll. He looked at you, one brow raised, before seeing something that satisfied him, and turning back to Mordecai. “You may go,” he said. Mordecai inclined his head to Astarion, then faced you once more.

“See you this evening!” he said energetically, his eyes sparkling. “Bring your A-game.” There was a kind smile on his face, but the renewed exposure of his enlarged canines raised goosebumps on your skin once more. You smiled back weakly. “See you then.” You wanted to like him - he seemed friendly, and both Astarion and Marion obviously trusted him, but gods, did it have to be another vampire? You felt guilty even having that thought after all that Astarion had done for you, but he was proving himself to be the exception to every rule about vampires – and the rules tended to indicate that most would not survive an encounter with one.

As the door closed behind him, you closed your eyes and sighed deeply, opening them once more to find Astarion watching you carefully.

“And how are we feeling, darling?” he asked, in a tone that implied that he already knew the answer to his question. You clenched your jaw once before replying, wrenching your next sentence out of the gushing waterfall of thoughts cascading through your mind.

“I know that this is extreme overkill, and that your immediate presence is not required for me to be safe. But gods…” you paused, hesitating to reveal further weakness to him. “I would rest much more easily if you were in the building.” You cast your eyes onto the floor, away from him, not looking up until you saw his boots enter your vision. He gazed at you urgently.

“I shall only be gone overnight. I will return first thing tomorrow morning. Mordecai is more than capable of looking after you, and he comes with the added benefit that I know what he is doing at any given time.” He moved closer, holding his hand out to you, revealing an object in his palm. “Even still, I brought you something to remember me by.”

You looked up at him, confused, coming close enough to carefully pluck the item out of his palm, taking care to brush as little of the surface of your fingertips over his skin as possible. Once in your grasp, you examined the object more closely.

You held a teardrop shaped ruby encircled in yellow gold, hanging from a delicate chain. The similarity to a drop of blood was not lost on you, even as the glittering facets of the ruby held your gaze. You looked back up at him, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. Why was he giving you jewelry? Tradition held that there was typically a sentimental value attached to such gifts, wasn’t there?

“What is this?” you asked quietly, unsure whether you truly wanted the answer.

“The ruby is linked with my connection to the Weave. Should you speak my name aloud three times in a row, I will be alerted, after which I can coordinate any response necessary with Mordecai.” Your eyes watered as you were overcome with affection for the man in front of you. You still didn’t know, and probably wouldn’t learn, whether the gesture was romantic or merely chivalrous, but it was melting you all the same. Your fingers closed around the pendant.

“Thank you, Astarion.” His eyes softened.

“I’ll put it on for you?” You smiled and nodded, returning the necklace and rotating to allow him to place it. The simple movement, so casually completed, caused you to freeze at the realization of what you had done. You had just voluntarily turned your back on a man for the first time since your assault. Not only that, but the man you had turned your back upon was the most powerful vampire on the face of the planet - certainly not a choice that most would consider wise. You wondered whether Astarion knew how vulnerable you were in that moment, and whether he knew that the outcome of whatever he did next had the potential to shape the entirety of your future ability to place your trust in men.

You didn’t have long to ponder this before you felt, rather than saw, his presence close behind you as he reached around your form to dangle the necklace in front of you. Goosebumps erupted on your skin as his breath cascaded down your back. He carefully settled the chain around your neck, the pendant resting on your sternum, before lithely fastening the clasp at the nape of your neck. Your breath caught in your throat as you turned back around, finding his body still less than a foot away from yours, his eyes inspecting your new accessory. You forced yourself not to move as he reached for the ruby and dangled it over his fingers one last time, drawing his fingers across the fabric covering your chest as he settled the pendant against you once more. You wondered foolishly if he could hear your heart pounding - you knew he did - but he made no comment on this as he finally met your eyes.

“It looks well on you,” he commented, as though his presence so close to you didn't set him on fire the way it did you.

“Astarion, Astarion, Astarion,” you murmured. He closed his eyes and breathed out softly as the enchantment in the necklace tugged at something within him. When he opened them again, there was an intensity present in his gaze that had been absent before. Neither of you spoke, each refusing to break eye contact with the other. As the tension grew to a crescendo, you briefly began to wonder whether now was an appropriate time to lean in -

Astarion blinked placidly and withdrew, acting for all the world as though he had merely satisfied himself with observing you, and was moving on to other matters, as a cat would grow bored with prey before eating it, and leave it behind. You, however, were reeling.

“Be safe,” you said, belatedly yanking yourself out of your stupor.

“Of course,” he replied, then sighed deeply, suddenly seeming just as tired as you felt. “I do not relish the work I am to do in Baldur's Gate. Rest assured that I will return as quickly as possible.” You nodded, and with this, you were alone.

----

Late that evening, after a few hours spent with Mordecai, first eating with him and then learning how to play blackjack, he finally said his goodnight, intending to allow you to sleep. It had taken around an hour, but you gradually grew to trust him enough that you weren't suppressing a flinch each time he moved, or freezing each time he stood up. He truly seemed a kind soul, but the flashing of his fangs as he laughed still gave you pause each time you caught a glimpse.

You sighed, watching him leave, content with his presence outside your door, but wishing that Astarion hadn't needed to leave you here without him. Physically speaking, you were safe as could be – Mordecai was guarding your door, yes, but Marion was also nearby, as was Atticus, and all the normal guard rotations and wards were still present. Astarion had been careful to ensure his presence wasn't necessary at all times for this very reason – but that didn't stop you from wishing he was closer, because mentally speaking, you weren't sure his replacement would be enough to keep you from your nightmares. Astarion had assured you that it was perfectly safe to sleep, that Mordecai wouldn't allow you to be taken or harmed by any rogue magic, but you had already steeled yourself to remain awake until Astarion had made it back to the castle tomorrow.

You could have told Mordecai about this, you supposed, and he would likely be happy to continue keeping you company, but you didn't wish to impose yourself upon him any more than Astarion already had when he assigned Mordecai the task of your safety. Instead, you pulled out the latest novel in the series you were reading, settling yourself in for a cozy, but sleepless night.

----

Several hours later, you had finished the novel, sighing as you closed the back cover. You had enjoyed it, and intended to immediately begin the next book, but that required getting out of bed to find it in the pile of books on the side table by the fire. You groaned and stretched, your bare feet reaching down to the cool floor, a slight shiver leaving goosebumps on your skin. You padded quickly over to the table and found your book, making a quick check of the summary on the rear cover, when you heard a loud thud from just outside your door.

You froze.

You hadn't locked the door behind Mordecai. You hadn't thought you needed to. Despite this, whoever was on the other side of that door was breaking lockpick after lockpick in repeated attempts to open it. Astarion must have put some sort of ward on it, and you blessed him under your breath, while also cursing the fact that this person had successfully evaded the exterior wards of the estate – or had somehow caused them to fail. Your attacker had hinted at incredible power, perhaps wielding even more magics than your own – was this the opportunity he'd been waiting for? For Astarion to be out of the way, and the house left undefended? Was Astarion alive? Was Atticus? Marion?

The blood drained from your face as you refused to continue down that train of thought, and instead focused on rushing to hide as the intruder ran out of lockpicks and began pelting the door with explosive arrows. You snagged the top few of the pile of spell scrolls on top of the bookshelf and thanked the gods that the Scroll of Invisibility was included in your grab. You launched yourself under the bed and pressed yourself against the wall, deploying the spell as the final arrow exploded the door inward. Invisibility didn't prevent you from being heard, so you muffled your panicked breathing in a handful of your nightgown as you watched an unfamiliar pair of boots move slowly into the room. The feet slowly paced the room, predatory, taking excruciatingly long looks behind various objects, before progressing to the foot of the bed under which you hid. You held your breath now as he knelt and lifted the bed skirt, his eyes scanning only for a millisecond before he made eye contact with you.

“I see you,” he growled, before the stifling magic of a Silencing spell radiated in the air around you. He lunged at you, and you rolled out from under the bed, sprinting toward the door. His hand wrapped around your ankle as you passed him, causing you to hit the ground face-first, your nose now broken and bleeding, the wind knocked out of you. You wrenched your foot out of his grasp, reaching for the bottle of wine that you and Mordecai had nearly finished, and slamming it over the intruder's head. There was no denying now who he was – the same man who had assaulted you in Chult. He must have had some See Invisibility spell, you realized. Regardless, the blood streaming down his head from the gash you'd left in his scalp didn't seem to bother him as he staggered to his feet and ran toward you, all the more dangerous for how unsteady he was, blocking your way to the exit.

“Astarion!” you cried, knowing that even if his pendant worked in the midst of a Silencing spell, he wasn't here, and couldn't protect you. But you yelled it anyway, as some kind of desperate prayer that someone would come to help you. The man didn't stop. Standing shakily, you summoned all your strength and braced yourself to yank a burning log from the fireplace, aiming at the man's head as you swung wildly, not quite enough strength or resistance to fire damage at your disposal to aim accurately, but hoping the size, heat, and weight of your improvised weapon would help you. Alas, it did not, and the man ducked, his shoulder taking the brunt of the blow, sparks flying from the smoldering log as he dodged sharply sideways and rolled once on the floor before coming at you again, more slowly this time, backing you into the furthest corner from the door.

"Astarion!” you screamed, over and over, no sound leaving your ragged throat in the midst of the Silencing spell. You had nothing more to throw, no weapons left to invent, nowhere else to hide. Tears streamed down your face, knowing that unless he somehow magically appeared, you were about to lose everything.

You darted to the man's right as he drew close to you, but he reached out an arm and effortlessly prevented you from escaping him, pushing you back and shoving you to the floor. Your screams changed to a repetitive, piercing cry of “No!” as you kicked and punched and fought against his restraint, though he easily kept you pinned, something lending him strength beyond that of a normal man.

As you screamed over and over, as your throat turned raw, as you fought the impossible grip of your assailant’s body, as you lost control of your fate, you had but one thought running through your mind - a memory, that of Astarion's voice as he held you close against himself.

“He will never touch you again. I swear it.”

Just as you were considering simply giving up and allowing the final events of your life to proceed unhindered, the door to your rooms slammed open, leaving none other than Astarion standing in the doorway, and time seemed to freeze. You immediately experienced several things.

First, an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude for coming to your rescue, followed by a sickeningly rapid descent back into misery as you remembered that his oath had been broken. You knew that holding it against him was petty and illogical, but your basest of self-protective instincts told you that he was no longer to be trusted.

Second, a deeply inappropriate warmth spread through your veins as you realized that Astarion was without a shirt, his hair disheveled, panting in the dim candlelight of the hall outside, clearly having sprinted here from elsewhere in the castle. His body was as smooth as polished marble, every muscle in his lean frame standing out in sharp relief in the flickering light. He wore lounge pants and was barefoot, seeming to indicate that he had been sleeping, or in some state of undress, when he had started here, and you did your best not to wonder if some escapade between star-crossed lovers had been interrupted in his quarters.

Third, you looked back up at your attacker, and were stunned to realize that not only were you in your bed, and not cornered on the other side of the room, but that you were being gently restrained by none other than Mordecai. His hands gripped your shoulders lightly, as though he had been trying to shake you awake, and there were no signs of a struggle. Now, though, he too was frozen, his eyes on Astarion, wide and uncertain. You looked at your chambers - nothing was out of place. Nothing had been thrown, or broken. There was no evidence of any Silencing spell. You struggled to understand - where had your attacker gone, and where had you been, if not here? What magic was this? You looked back at Astarion as he straightened to his full height, wisps of barely-there black smoke escaping from him at intervals, his eyes ferocious but not quite furious, clearly ready to explode at the sight in front of him, but restraining himself until he knew for certain it was necessary. He didn't like what he saw, but he had enough trust in his associate to refrain from killing him on sight. Astarion's voice was smooth, controlled, and clear, but his lips pulling back and exposing his fangs as he spoke demonstrated how close he was to reaching for lethal means.

“I'm sure there is an excellent fucking reason for this.”

You looked back up at Mordecai, who still had not moved, his hands stiff on your shoulders, eyes fixated on Astarion, carefully choosing his words, struggling to compose the correct sentence to prevent Astarion from killing him. Suddenly, the world shifted on its axis as all the puzzle pieces slipped into place for you.

“I was having a nightmare, Astarion,” you blurted out, your voice cracking in your ragged throat, drawing his ire away from Mordecai. “I had been Silenced and I think I started screaming, so Mordecai attempted to wake me.”

He looked back at Mordecai, still frozen in position, having been given no command, and unwilling to move a muscle without one. “Is this true?”

“Yes, my lord,” the spawn said hurriedly. “Well, more of a mumble, but otherwise the very same. Check my memories and you will see that it is so.”

You were witnessing what had to have been one of the most rarely observed interactions in scholarly history - the etiquette and relationship between a vampiric master and his spawn. Surely most, if not all, other vampires would have killed the spawn instantly for touching that which didn't belong to them. Astarion was an unusual vampire, yes, but this was clearly still the outcome Mordecai feared. Not only had Astarion abstained from killing, and also abstained from automatically reviewing Mordecai’s memories upon discovery, he was also now considering trusting the spawn’s words rather than forcing him to demonstrate the truth. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath as he looked at you both. This would make excellent material for multiple papers - if you survived, that was.

“He hasn't hurt me, truly. He was trying to help.” Beneath your outwardly calm facade, you were painfully embarrassed at your outburst, apparently having screamed for Astarion loudly enough to have been heard across the castle. You were also terrified of the increase in magical powers being demonstrated by your attacker - how was he still able to penetrate the wards and access your mind? You shoved these emotions down to be dealt with later, when you weren't trying to prevent the death of an innocent man for your own mistakes. Astarion fixed his gaze upon you, alternating rapidly between a deep worry and a fierce contemplation, before finally closing his eyes and sighing, his fists clenched.

“Very well,” he said slowly. His eyes snapped to Mordecai once more. “But you will remove your hands from her, this fucking instant.” His tone was venomous, acknowledging that there had been no foul play, while still dripping with fury that you had been touched without your permission.

You flinched even as Mordecai pulled his hands away and retreated from your side, the rapid movement startling you, as though your body had expected him to somehow kidnap you, to drag you back to Chult and complete the ritual in a place where Astarion would never find you. Astarion growled at your reaction, seeming to reflexively re-evaluate his decision briefly before rubbing his face with his palm and sighing loudly.

“You may go, Mordecai. I will speak with you tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir,” Mordecai replied, giving you an apologetic glance and a nervous bow, although his demeanor was significantly more relaxed now that Astarion’s mood had seemingly calmed. Astarion made way for him to hurry out before shutting the door quietly behind him. He turned his head to you, body still facing the door, the scars marring his beautiful back standing out in sharp relief. You watched him mutely, turning on your side, trying to avoid the thoughts insisting that this was another hallucination, another opportunity for your rapist to get closer. He sighed deeply, turning the rest of himself toward you and stepping forward. Too close. You jumped at the movement, pushing yourself further from him and pulling the comforter up to your chin. He observed the reaction and briefly hesitated, before moving forward once more, albeit at a slower pace.

He sat down slowly at the foot of the bed, palms raised, an obvious attempt to appear nonthreatening, as though he could ever be anything but threatening simply due to the fact of his very existence, whether the figure in front of you was truly a Vampire Ascendant, or merely a power-thieving rapist. Too close. You gasped as the shifting of the mattress beneath his weight triggered an unbidden vision of your raw, branded back being slammed onto the rough stone of the cave ledge as unfamiliar and unwelcome hands pinned you down. At that moment, on that island, that man had been far more dangerous for you than Astarion had proven himself to be, and he seemed to be acquiring more power as time went on. Was Astarion dangerous enough to best him? You suppressed the troublesome thoughts, dragging yourself back to the present, reeling from the reminder and struggling to focus on your current situation.

“You're still afraid that I'm him, aren't you?” Astarion asked quietly. You nodded, curling further in on yourself and avoiding his eyes, the weight of his gaze on your form too much to bear. You knew, really, that this was Astarion in front of you. You knew, but you were afraid to believe. Afraid to believe that you had displayed your complete and utter helplessness again, that you had disturbed the household’s rest over a hallucination again, and that you had demonstrated you couldn't survive a single day of his absence unscathed, again.

“What if I told you something about Tav? Something only I would know?” Astarion posited. This pricked your ears, pulled you out of the depths of your introspection. Were you about to learn something about his relationship with your ancestor? Just like that? You opened your eyes, finding his immediately, and nodded again, quickly, not giving the moment any chance to slip away from you.

He considered you carefully before responding. “Well, as you know, Tav was a sorceress, just like yourself. However, she adored the spell Find Familiar. She liked to conjure the same little cat to sleep with her at night.” He snorted softly as he seemed lost in a memory. “Gale was so eager to please her that he would save bits of parchment and enough magic for at least one spell each day, and create spell scrolls with it for her to keep on hand.”

Your mood soured slightly as you internalized the fact that Astarion had once again avoided divulging anything about the true nature or timing of his relationship with Tav, as well as the fact that even this tiniest of tidbits very well satisfied any requirement for evidence of his identity you might have, so you wouldn't get any more. Besides this, you carefully packed away the memory of that pile of spell scrolls sitting on the shelf across the room, staunchly refusing to sit with the idea that Gale had done the same for you as he had done for Tav, and apparently this meant that he was, for whatever reason, eager to please you. You sighed and looked away from Astarion, nodding your consent once more.

He slowly climbed under the comforter, causing your body to tense as it tracked his movements even as you refused to look at him. Too close. He settled himself across from you, facing you, allowing the silence to stretch on comfortably, not pressing you to speak. When you finally opened your mouth, your voice came out very small.

“I'm sorry for waking your house again.” He scoffed.

“Darling, you were hardly screaming. It was closer to the moan of a dying whale.” You rolled your eyes.

“Then how did you know to come here?” Astarion narrowed his eyes at you, critical.

“How soon you have forgotten the pendant that I placed around your neck this morning,” he deadpanned. “I thought it best to make the return trip overnight, rather than tomorrow, to avoid some bad weather expected to arrive in the early morning. I was dressing for bed when the pendant notified me. I normally refrain, but in this instance I took a look through Mordecai's eyes and saw only that he was already approaching you. It was then that I made my way here.” You looked away from him then.

“Of course. I understand.” You were so close to breaking, and you didn't know long it would be until your sanity came crashing down. You were small, pathetic, a liability. Why he continued to tolerate you, you didn't know. What you did know was that you had one more question before you could allow yourself to sink into a panic.

“How did he get past the wards?” you asked, carefully phrasing your words. You didn't want to accuse him of negligence, but you needed to understand what had gone wrong. Astarion's eyebrow raised as he responded.

“Darling, I'm afraid you misunderstand. You had a nightmare, yes. But that was all.”

The blood drained from your face.

“I hallucinated something different than what was happening in real time. That's no mere nightmare,” you insisted. He sighed, slowly.

“There is no evidence of magic in this room. None. I'm no wizard, but I have enough experience with magic to know that.” You cast out with your mind in search of magic, stunned at your own neglect to do the same upon waking up. You could feel a gentle warmth from the spell scrolls, and you did your best not to linger on the stronger heat emanating from Astarion's connection to the Weave, but the room was otherwise devoid of magic.

You were mortified, looking away from him once more. So you'd disturbed him... over a mere nightmare? And Mordecai's attempt to save you from said nightmare? You felt nauseated.

“That doesn't mean your fears aren't justified,” he said, the words hurriedly tumbling out of his mouth. “Only that you are, and were, safe from them here.” You stifled a groan as a wave of that problematic affectionate feeling, set off by the strength and tone of his words, washed over you in a bittersweet tide of emotion.

You tried not to cry.

You still wouldn't look at him. You feared the emotion he would discern in your eyes as you looked steadfastly at the wall, the bedpost, the dresser.

Finally, your control slipped, and your gaze fell upon his face, where his eyes caught yours and held them. You were trembling again, this time in embarrassment, fearing above all another rejection, no matter how gently it might have been delivered. Thus, you were nearly startled when he offered his hand across the gap between you. Too close! Your eyes sank to his palm before snapping back to his face, where you found a soft and encouraging expression. You returned your gaze to his hand, reaching out tentatively with your own, ignoring the base instinct in your head screaming at you to stop, until your fingertips brushed his, your confidence building when he didn't pull away. When your palm lay inside his, he closed his fingers. His touch was gentle and unassuming, a steady presence you could trust without the pressure to do or say anything else.

Later, you would look back at this moment and realize that you didn't know how it happened. All you knew was that one minute, you felt Astarion's thumb rubbing comfortingly on the back of your hand, and the next, you found yourself pressed against his chest, having thrown yourself into his arms, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your arms wrapped tightly around him as though he was your buoy in a sea determined to drown you, companions be damned. He froze, stunned, for a moment, before sliding his arms around you in turn, pulling you tightly against him, allowing one of your legs to slip between his as he lifted his knee to rest over your thigh. You heard the curtains around the bed whirring shut at breakneck speed as he rapidly flicked his wrist to perform the command gesture. You were fully and completely entwined with him, physically surrounded by the protection of the world’s most powerful vampire, but it still wasn’t enough. You might have merged your soul with his if you thought it would help you escape your powerless body and fractured mind. Not close enough. You wept softly into his shoulder.

“Tell me what I need to do to make this stop for you,” he nearly whispered, his voice cracking. “Anything.” Your heart stopped as that single, solitary word planted a stark, terrible, illogical, impossible idea into your mind, one that you had been avoiding even thinking about for weeks.

“You don’t mean that,” you breathed, stalling.

“Of course I do,” Astarion assured you quickly, his hand reaching up to weave into your hair. “Anything that is in my power, I will do for you.” There was no way he could have known the content of the thought you were considering allowing out of your mouth - no way he would have given you a blank check if he had realized the amount you would write on the dotted line. You were silent as you began to panic anew, knowing that your hasty new plan was likely the most plausible out of your rapidly dwindling options. You also knew that if you asked him, laid your most vulnerable self bare before him, and he rejected you, you would be destroyed. You rocked back and forth slightly, the bulk of his body and the strength of his arms around you preventing you from moving much, but it was enough that he pulled away to examine your face. You looked away from his eyes, focusing instead on the skin over his collarbone, beginning to hyperventilate as you felt just a twinge of arousal at the remembrance that he was without a shirt, even as you continued to panic about what you’d decided you had no choice but to ask.

He moved to cup your face with his hand. A startled blink was all that remained of the flinch you suppressed at the motion. Gods, how had you so quickly fallen from your place as one of the most powerful sorceresses in the world to a battered woman still terrified of her savior? This had to stop, immediately. You needed your power back, immediately. And you needed to release yourself from the shackles of your own fear, immediately.

“Astarion, I -” you started, pausing as you struggled to phrase your request. You cursed yourself as you lamented that slaying a beholder was seemingly easier than formulating this sentence.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. You grasped the wrist of the hand that held your face.

“I think I know the easiest solution to this,” you said, voice dry and cracking.

“Of course,” he started. “I will ensure that I cancel any overnight engagements between now and the Equinox Ball. There is only a month remaining, and it will be no hardship to me.” You shook your head.

“No, not that.” You groaned in frustration before continuing. “I think we could solve this entire situation sometime in the next few nights, if this idea works.” This elicited an eyebrow raise from him; surely he had to be catching on.

“Ah,” he said, taciturn. “And what idea would that be?”

You pulled at the wrist you grasped and moved it downward, goosebumps erupting along the curve of your neck as his fingers brushed your jugular, the skin over your chest pebbling at his touch along your clavicle as you left his palm resting just above your breast, the rounded stone in his pendant just brushing his fingertips as it dangled from your neck. After an initial moment of shock, a tiny smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Oh. Is that all?”

“It doesn't have to be tonight, or ever, if you're not comfortable -” you sputtered, wildly covering your tracks. “This is the most efficient option out of those available to us, if it is agreeable to you.” Astarion's smirk grew at the way you defaulted to professional lingo as you became more flustered. Your face must have been bright red, and with Astarion's night vision, he had surely noticed.

“What a change of heart,” he said, affecting a jovial interest. “When the concept was originally discussed, I seem to recall you indicated quite a disdain for the idea. Along the lines of ‘not happening,’ or some such?” He was toying with you again. You couldn't tell if he was trying to add levity to a difficult conversation, or if he was truly that cruel, but you couldn't stop the words that flew from your mouth.

“A simple ‘no’ would suffice, Astarion,” you snapped, blinking back tears. His eyes widened for an instant, caught off guard for merely a moment before settling back into their smirk.

“Why, darling, whatever gave you the idea that I would deny you this? Did I not just promise to give you anything that is in my power to offer?”

“It seems to me that you drew a very clear line in the sand when you told me that what I needed was a companion,” you retorted.

“Ah, but companions may have… certain benefits, one could say, should both parties enthusiastically consent.” Astarion's tone was flirtatious and sarcastic, an instantaneous change from the gentle, worried version of himself that had held you mere moments prior. Was this a persona he affected in response to your request? Perhaps you had triggered some kind of old habit - unless this was how he truly acted on the issue? Despite the carefully phrased and tight-lipped nature of your conversations with Astarion, you had come to understand that he had experienced some sort of terrible past, but you knew not if or how that intersected with the scenario at hand. The rapid change in his personality left you reeling, and you struggled to reconcile the two versions of him.

“I still wish to know - what changed your mind?” You froze, completely unable to conceive of any excuse other than that you felt you were running out of options, nor did you feel enthusiastic about the idea of blurting out that you were hopelessly in love with him.

“I-” you stuttered, reaching for words.

“I predict it was one of two things,” he interrupted. “Tell me if I'm right, and I'll do as you ask.”

“This is the first time there's been a catch,” you whispered.

“Not a catch,” he corrected. “A price. And a minuscule one, at that. I shan't do you the disservice of assuming that you don't understand the magnitude of what you ask.” The playful and flirtatious Astarion was still front and center, but you heard a distinct edge in his voice, telling you that this would be no small undertaking for him, either. You swallowed hard, finally meeting his eyes. At first, they were a touch hard as he set his boundary, before melting into a cocky expression once more.

“I predict that you either see this as something of a last resort to regain your magic, or…” he trailed off, his eyes dipping to where his palm still rested on your chest, your hand still gripping his wrist. He turned his hand to grasp yours, and you allowed him to pull your arm toward him, his fingers still gentle even as he affected this new persona. He placed your hand over his heart, his bare chest as smooth and as hard as marble, his hand resting atop yours and his heart beating a steady thrum beneath your palm. You swallowed hard as you tried to prevent yourself from hyperventilating.

“Or,” Astarion finally continued, clearly enjoying himself, “is it because seeing me half naked in your bed tonight has finally made you curious enough to want to see me fully naked?” You knew what he was really asking in his seemingly lewd question - how should I prepare my heart? Did you want to use his body as a means to an end, or did you still harbor feelings for him? He would accept either answer, but he was asking you to be honest with him.

“Why not both?” The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, an automatic, sarcastic response that had you yanking your hand off Astarion's chest and slapping your palm over your mouth in horror. His smirk turned into a satisfied grin as he barked out a laugh, his fangs on display sending goosebumps down your spine.

“Now that's an honest answer,” he said, obviously amused. “And honesty is the most important part of sex.” You swallowed again, avoiding thoughts about the wild magic you were hiding from him, or the rest of the things you would have to keep hidden if you wanted this plan to work.

“So, be honest, now. How does one go about pleasuring the queen of sorcery?” You glared at him, sullen. He was just trying to get important information while maintaining a light atmosphere, doing his best to give you what you needed without scaring you away. Even so, there was no way for him to understand the sensitive nature of what he asked.

“I… I don't really know,” you admitted carefully. “My past encounters have not been particularly advanced in that aspect.” You still hadn't lied to him, merely omitted most of the truth.

“You needn’t worry. I have confidence that I shall be less than half as mediocre as any of your previous lovers,” he intoned. You pressed your lips together, unwilling to tell him that there hadn't been any previous lovers. None, at least, that had made it as far as you were asking Astarion to take you. One of his eyebrows raised slowly, mischievously, misinterpreting your silence.

“You don't believe me?” he demanded playfully. He leaned down to speak into your ear. “I am five centuries old, which is plenty of time to practice-”

“I need to know that you'll take this seriously,” you said, cutting him off, watching as he pulled back. Both of his eyebrows were raised now, seemingly surprised by your statement. They knitted together on his brow as he responded.

“My darling, you must know that there is little I take more seriously than sex.”

“I'm not joking around here, Astarion,” you snapped. “The last man to touch me this way kidnapped me, branded me, tried to rape me and steal my magic, and nearly killed me. Now I'm asking you to make that same thing enjoyable, and asking myself to enjoy it, with my magic and my life hanging in the balance. If you can't understand the pressure I feel, or the lasting effects of what he did to me, then perhaps it isn't a good idea to attempt this after all.”

His eyes widened for a moment, then hardened gradually, returning to the quiet, reserved version of himself that had been holding you before. In the darkness, you couldn't quite see him in focus, but his eyes blazed crimson fiercely enough that you couldn't look away.

“I understand more than you know, darling,” he whispered. “I understand everything.”

Your eyebrows shot up as you realized that this was the closest you had come to an admission of what had been done to Astarion. You were still without details, even broad ones, but his statement seemed to imply that he, too, had been sexually abused in some way. His vampiric master seemed the most likely culprit, given that Tav had helped Astarion kill him. Regardless, you couldn't know for certain without probing deeper into a wound you were as-yet unwelcome to touch. A brief moment of rage against anyone who would hurt Astarion blinded you, and you clenched your fists at the sudden emotion before returning to your senses.

He gathered you back against his chest, your arms wrapped around each other once more, but this time it felt different. His protective reassurance was still there, and the tension had largely fizzled out now that you'd agreed to each other's terms, but there was a sense of mutual desperation present, as though you both cradled life itself in your arms, each seeking solace in the grasp of the other.

“I was being truthful, earlier, you know,” he said into your hair, smirking, just a flicker of the flirtatious tone returning to his voice. “There is little I take more seriously than sex.”