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Chapter 5: I Would Do Anything for Blood (But I Won't Do That)

What’s better than a room packed with six people, awkward silences, and unspoken tensions? Add a vampire spawn with a flair for manipulation, a bard trying to assert control, and the promise of a very awkward meal schedule. Oh, and there’s still a little bloodletting to sort out. 🩸🎻

Read here below the break or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please reblog or reply here, or comment and leave kudos on AO3! It really makes my day.

I've been trying for two days and cannot get the AO3 hyperlink to be clickable like previous posts. Apologies! https://archiveofourown.org/works/61628680/chapters/158445382

From the private journal of Astarion, hastily written in a secluded corner of Candlekeep's guest quarters:

I find I cannot trance, and I do not understand why.

That insufferable bard's blood still lingers on my tongue. Sweet, with notes of fear and—more interestingly—desire. How predictable. How useful.

I felt positively triumphant earlier. The plan worked perfectly—corner her alone, play on her guilt, seal it with blood. She'll help us now, if only to assuage her conscience over that wretched song.

But now, something feels... off. Wrong? No, not wrong. Different. When I manipulated marks for Cazador, the guilt belonged to him. The choice wasn't mine. Now...

[Several lines are scratched out viciously]

What nonsense. She's hardly innocent in this. That performance proved as much. Using me—my trauma—for her own glory. Why shouldn't I use her in return?

And yet.

The way she yielded when I bit her... I've done this dance countless times, but it's different now. No master's commands driving me. Just necessity. Just survival. (Is that better or worse?)

I don't want to seduce her. I don't want to play these games anymore. But what choice do I have? We need allies. Resources. Protection. If batting my eyes and letting her think she's special will get us that, then—

[The ink blots here, as if the quill pressed too hard]

At least the blood was good. Fresh. Willing. Better than rats. Better than whatever else we might have to resort to if this fails.

She enjoyed it too, the hypocrite. Perhaps that's what truly bothers me—that even now, even free, I'm still trading on the skills Cazador taught me. Still using my body as currency.

But what else is there? The world isn't kind to creatures like me. If manipulation is what it takes to survive, then I'll manipulate. If seduction is required, I'll seduce. Better than starving. Better than dying.

Besides, she owes me for that song. Fair's fair.

[The entry ends abruptly, the last few words growing increasingly jagged]

***

Darla perched on the edge of her bed, hyperaware of how cramped her guest room felt with six people crammed inside. Astarion lounged against the far wall, looking perfectly at ease despite the tension, while Dal stood rigidly beside him. The rest of Darla's companions had scattered around the room—Zee sprawled in the room's only chair, Thal leaned by the door, and Syl sat cross-legged on the floor.

No one seemed eager to break the silence first.

"So..." Zee cleared his throat. "You're the one who bit our Darla?"

Astarion's lips curved into a sharp smile. "And she's the one who made me into a delightful tavern song. I suppose we're even."

More uncomfortable silence followed.

"I hear you're a physician," Syl said to Dal, their tone carefully neutral. "That must be... interesting."

"Was," Dal corrected. "Though I maintain my interest in medical research."

Another painful pause.

"Nice sword," Thal nodded toward Rhapsody at Astarion's hip. "Cazador's?"

"Yes." Astarion's fingers brushed the hilt. "I thought it fitting, given the circumstances."

The candlelight flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls. Darla had imagined this meeting going differently — more dramatic declarations of alliance, fewer awkward pauses. She opened her mouth to try salvaging the situation, but Syl caught her eye and shook their head slightly. Right. Let it breathe. Even if the silence felt like it might suffocate them all.

A knock at the door made everyone jump.

"Evening meal service!" called a cheery voice.

Six pairs of eyes met in panic.

Darla's heart hammered as everyone froze at the knock. This was ridiculous. They weren't actually doing anything wrong. Yet.

As if reading her thoughts, Thal drawled, "Relax. Having guests in our quarters isn't against any rules I've heard of. Even if they are..." They waved a hand vaguely at the two vampire spawn. "No one knows. Let's try to keep it that way."

"Right. Yes. I'll just..." Darla squeezed past Zee's chair, nearly knocking over his tankard in her haste to reach the door. She opened it just wide enough to accept the covered tray from the smiling monk.

"Will you be performing again tonight, Miss Daring? The scholars so enjoyed—"

"Thank you, but not tonight. Bit of a sore throat." Darla managed what she hoped was an apologetic smile before shutting the door firmly.

She stood there awkwardly, tray in hand, surveying the crowded room for anywhere to set it down. The desk was covered in papers, the chair occupied by Zee, and the floor space claimed by Syl.

"Oh, for—" Thal crossed the room and took the tray from her, setting it atop a stack of books.

Darla squared her shoulders. They'd let this moment breathe long enough.

"Right then. About finding you a sympathetic scholar." She looked between Astarion and Dal. "I might know someone. Sage Evendur specializes in transmutation magic, particularly its effects on living beings. He's... unconventional in his research interests."

"Unconventional enough to help vampire spawn?" Astarion's tone dripped skepticism.

Darla shifted her weight, keenly aware of how Astarion's eyes followed her every movement. "Well... I don't exactly know. He's at the top of a list I made of scholars who might be sympathetic, but we'll need to feel them out carefully."

"And how do you propose we do that without revealing ourselves?" Dal asked, her fingers twisting together.

"Actually, I thought it might be better if we—the non-vampires—make the initial inquiries." Darla gestured to her companions. "If anyone hostile gets suspicious and starts testing for vampires, we can easily prove we're not. And given our latest adventure, our inquiries make a certain sort of sense."

Astarion's lips curved into that same knowing smile from the night before. The one that had so effectively flustered her when he'd—no. Focus. She wasn't going to let him manipulate her again.

"Quite practical," he purred.

Thal pushed off from the door. "Sound strategy, but are we sure we want to get involved in this? Candlekeep takes a dim view of those who abuse their hospitality."

"It's not abuse," Darla said, perhaps too quickly. She caught Syl rolling their eyes and pressed on. "Think about it—if we help find a cure for vampirism, that's... that's huge! Heroic, even! We could help so many people."

"Or get executed for harboring vampires," Zee muttered into his tankard.

"We wouldn't be harboring them, exactly..." Darla trailed off as Syl fixed her with their signature raised eyebrow.

"No?" Syl asked. "Then what would you call feeding an incognito vampire spawn on your own blood while we go fishing for corruptible scholars?"

Dal stepped forward, her physician's composure a stark contrast to Astarion's calculated lounging. "We understand the risk you'd be taking. But consider the potential benefits to magical and medical research—"

"Oh, spare them the academic speech," Astarion cut in. "They'll help because now because they helped before and leaving us to swing at this point would ruin the ending of the heroic story." His red eyes locked with Darla's. "Isn't that right?"

Darla's fingers curled into fists at her sides. A familiar heat crept up her neck, but this time it wasn't embarrassment from Astarion's manipulation—it was anger. At herself, for letting him play her so easily. At him, for trying the same tactics on her friends.

"No," she said, cutting through the tension. "That's not why we're helping."

Astarion's calculated smile didn't waver. "No?"

"No." Darla straightened her spine, meeting his gaze directly. "We're helping because it's the right thing to do. Not because you've manipulated us, not because of some story I want to tell, and not because anyone owes anyone anything."

She saw Syl's approving nod from the corner of her eye, but kept her focus on Astarion.

"As of right now, all debts and obligations are settled. You tried to kill me, I helped kill your master. I wrote a cruel song, you took my blood. We're even." She gestured between them. "Moving forward, we help each other because we choose to, not because anyone's forcing our hand."

The smirk finally slipped from Astarion's face.

"And that means no more manipulation," she added firmly. "Not of me, not of my friends. If you want our help, ask for it plainly. We'll either say yes or no, and you'll respect that answer."

"And if you say no?" Dal asked quietly.

"Then you find another way." Darla shrugged. "But we're not saying no. We're saying yes—freely and clearly, because helping people matters more than who owes what to whom."

Astarion's lips parted, likely to deliver some cutting remark, but Dal stepped forward smoothly.

"We accept your terms, and we're grateful." Her physician's composure never wavered. "Though I fear we won't have much to offer in return beyond our cooperation and discretion."

Darla fought to keep her expression neutral as Astarion's jaw clenched. Oh, he didn't like being spoken for, did he? A little petty thrill ran through her at his obvious frustration. After his games last night, he deserved to squirm a bit.

"Also," she said brightly, "I've got enough healing magic that I think I can spare a little blood each day." She made a show of considering it, as if the idea had just occurred to her. "We could alternate, if that works for you both? So it would be Daly's turn tonight."

She watched Astarion from the corner of her eye, savoring the way his careful mask slipped for just a moment. There it was—that slight widening of his eyes, the twitch of his fingers. He'd clearly planned to make their blood-sharing arrangement into some sort of intimate power play, and she'd just turned it into a practical meal schedule.

Syl caught her eye and raised that knowing eyebrow, but Darla kept her focus on appearing perfectly innocent and reasonable. She'd learned a thing or two about manipulation herself, after all. Sometimes the best way to deal with someone trying to make everything into a dramatic scene was to treat it like it was perfectly ordinary.

"That's... very practical and very generous," Dal said carefully, glancing at her brother. "Isn't it, Astarion?"

Darla watched Astarion's jaw work as he searched for a retort that wouldn't sound petulant. His composure cracked just enough to make her want to grin.

"Fine," he said finally, each syllable precise and controlled. "How... kind."

"Excellent!" She clapped her hands together, enjoying how he flinched at her enthusiasm. "Now, I've got a few scholars in mind we should approach carefully." She turned to Syl. "Master Delwind in the Hall of Resonating Rhythms—he's always been interested in unusual magical transformations."

"I'll handle him," Syl nodded.

"Thal, you take Sage Voss. She studies healing magic, might be receptive to medical arguments." She saw Dal perk up at that. "And Zee, you've got the charm for Keeper Adelie."

"What about me?" Astarion's voice carried a dangerous edge.

"You and Dal rest. Stay out of sight." She gave him her brightest smile. "We'll meet back here at sunset tomorrow to compare notes."

His eyes narrowed. "And tonight?"

"Tonight, I'm helping Dal with dinner, and you're leaving." She made little shooing motions with her hands. "Go on, all of you. Out you go!"

She herded them toward the door, noting with satisfaction how Astarion's perfect posture had gone slightly rigid. He paused in the doorway, giving her a look that mixed irritation with something else—curiosity, maybe? Or appreciation? Either way, she was counting it as a win.

When the door closed behind them, Dal turned to her with a slight frown. "You don't have to do this. I know how Astarion can be—"

"Exactly why I'm doing it," Darla said. "He needs to learn he can't manipulate everyone."

"I can find another way to feed—"

"Nonsense! I offered, and I meant it." Darla swept her hair to the side, hoping her trepidation didn't show. "Besides, I heal quickly."

Dal hesitated, then said, "Perhaps you would find the wrist more… comfortable?"

Darla smiled. The wrist. What a wonderful idea. Astarion was going to love it.

"How thoughtful." She rolled up her sleeve with a smile. This was going to make the most interesting song.

***

Astarion slipped into his quarters, closing the door with barely a whisper. The scent of old parchment and leather bindings filled the small space—a scholar's sanctuary. Three ancient tomes he had requested sat waiting on the desk, their spines cracked with age.

"That cheeky little pup," he muttered, dropping into the chair.

The way she'd dismantled his careful manipulations with such ease—it was both infuriating and oddly refreshing. No simpering acceptance of his practiced charm, no falling for the guilt angle, not once she'd had a chance to think it through. She'd seen right through him and called his bluff.

He traced a finger along the spine of the nearest book, not really seeing the title. The arrangement was almost elegant in its simplicity: help freely given, no strings attached. No debts to collect, no favors to hold over anyone's head. Just... assistance.

His lip curled. How terribly straightforward.

The worst part was how cleanly she'd stripped away his control of the situation. Even the feeding had been reduced to a clinical schedule, like some sort of medical treatment. All his careful groundwork, his plans to keep everyone dancing to his tune—gone in an instant.

He pulled the first tome closer, though the words swam before his eyes. The crushing weight of depending on mere goodwill pressed against his chest. Everyone wanted something. Everyone had an angle.

Except, apparently, this insufferably direct bard who'd decided to help him simply because she could.

A laugh escaped him, sharp and brittle in the quiet room. She probably thought she was being noble. Heroic, even. But she'd left him more vulnerable than any amount of seduction or manipulation ever had.

Because now, for the first time in over a century, he had to trust.

Astarion arranged his quill and inkwell with precise movements, positioning the first tome at the perfect angle for note-taking. The familiar motions should have been soothing—they'd always been before, when books were his only refuge. But tonight his mind kept circling back to that infuriating feeding arrangement.

The scratch of his quill against parchment faltered. Darla's blood had been exquisite. And now Dal would share that pleasure, would know exactly how sweet their benefactor's blood tasted on her tongue.

His grip tightened on the quill. Ridiculous. They had more than enough to sustain them both. More than he'd ever been allowed under Cazador's rule. The thought of going hungry was laughable when compared to years of subsisting on rats and insects.

And yet.

He pushed the book aside, unable to focus on the cramped script. Was this some remnant of his predatory nature? This possessive urge to keep his prize to himself? Perhaps Dal felt the same twist of territorial anger at having to share.

A bitter laugh escaped him. Here he was, reduced to puzzling over base instincts like some common beast when he should be planning. Darla had effortlessly stripped away his usual advantages—but she hadn't taken everything. He still had his wit, his charm, his beauty.

His fingers drummed against the desk. He didn't need fangs to capture a woman's interest. Sometimes the most effective approach was the simplest—she found him attractive. It was a lever he didn't want to pull—he'd had more than enough of whoring himself out—but it was there, if he needed it. And it wouldn't hurt to lay the groundwork. It could even be fun.

Astarion leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. Perhaps he'd been looking at this all wrong. He had time to kill, waiting while the party chased down leads. Why not pass the time with a little entertainment?

He traced the edge of the book's cover, remembering the way she'd cut through his practiced tactics. Most people were depressingly predictable, falling for the same tired routines. But Darla... she had teeth. She'd seen his moves coming and countered them with devastating precision.

How delicious.

If she wanted to play the noble hero, let her. He could work with that. Perhaps there would be no need to actually take her to bed, but should it prove necessary, the groundwork would be laid. The trick would be making it feel a natural progression if and when he actually pulled the trigger.

And if the party remained loyal and Dal's absurd quest for a cure actually succeeded? Well, he'd have lost nothing but time spent pleasantly in a duel of wits. The scholars might even prove to be useful contacts, regardless of their success with the "cure." Knowledge was power, after all, and Candlekeep was nothing if not a repository of knowledge.

He pulled the first tome closer again, finally able to focus on the text. The game would require patience, careful observation. Learn her weaknesses, her desires. Let her think she'd tamed him while he studied exactly what made her pulse quicken.

His fingers drummed against the desk. Yes, this could be amusing. A welcome distraction from the tedium of research and the uncertainty of their situation. When they met, he had been a hunter hunting another predator. Now he would be a player playing another player. An interesting game indeed.

May the best player win.

#bg3 #astarion #bg3 fanfic #myfic

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