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scarredwithcruelintentions · 8 months ago

Text

chapter 1: this is a gift

Find the masterlist here!

W/C: 2,700

Over the course of his unnaturally long life, Astarion had experienced many things. However, he couldn’t recall ever having had the displeasure of acting with such altruistic compassion before now. It was almost as if Cazador himself had thought up an entertaining new way to torture him, forcing him to don a mask of tight-lipped humility to maintain his facade of belonging.

One thing was made abundantly clear from the start of this journey: Astarion did not belong among this group of would-be heroes. His first taste of freedom in two hundred years, consistently squandered by the incessantly self-sacrificing actions of his traveling companions. He found himself in a constant state of exasperation these days, an eye-roll or a scoff away from striking out on his own, for better or worse.

No matter how uncomfortable a role it was to play, far be it from him to turn down the objective safety in numbers that his companions provided him with, however unwittingly. It wasn’t as though he was a stranger to playing uncomfortable roles for the sake of his survival. Were they ever to find out just what it was they were traveling with, they’d surely turn him out in an instant, if not stake him outright. Neither being vulnerable to recapture by Cazador nor the finality of death quite tickled Astarion’s fancy, so he kept his head down and the worst of his sarcastic quips to himself in hopes that he would remain relatively safe from prying eyes - or more accurately, prying thoughts.

And it worked - for the most part. The gith and the cleric were too busy quarreling amongst each other to pay him any heed, and the warlock was all too consumed by his loathing of his contracted owner. The wizard, while clearly educated and well-read, didn’t seem to have a perceptive bone in his body if the way he carried on was anything to go off of. Astarion could swear that listening to him speak was the closest he’d come to truly sleeping since he’d been turned. The tiefling woman, bless her infernal engine, had heart and brawn to spare, but had been less than fortunate in the intelligence department.

You, however, were far harder to read, and therefore far harder to trust. Not to say that he trusted his other companions, but he could at least trust that they remained steadfastly oblivious as to his true nature. He was never sure with you, occasionally catching a glimmer of something deeper in the warmth of your gaze when you exchanged pleasantries, or looking up from his book to find you staring at him from across the campfire, your pleasant voice lilting the harmonic accompaniment to the lyre in your arms. Your eyes held far too much keen interest for him to be comfortable, so he kept an especially safe distance from you.

At least, he tried to.

As the days wore on and the fights became more grueling, he found himself growing weary and bone-tired beyond what his typical nightly hunt could satiate. He felt sluggish and weak; stringing together rational and coherent thought had become burdensome. He could scarcely breathe in the company of his companions without feeling overwhelmed by the sheer might of his bloodlust. Luckily, he’d mostly learned to ignore his bottomless hunger over the span of his enslavement, and whatever wasn’t held in the firm grip of his self-control was allayed by the fear of Cazador’s retribution.

The longer he spent away from Cazador, though, the more that fear shrunk alongside his waning self-control. The fact that he’d left his most recent kill, mangled and exsanguinated, in the middle of the path for his traveling party to stumble across was testament to his current lack of presence. Under different circumstances, its discovery could have been his death sentence. As it were, he only had to listen to the shocked and horrified exclamations of his companions, none of them the wiser that the beast in question capable of such a grisly and disturbing kill resided in their camp. For his part, Astarion remained steadfastly silent, watchful gaze leveled on the back of your head and fingers twitching toward his dagger.

After a quiet “hmm” and a shrug, you stood from the corpse of the boar and brushed your hands off.

“Nothing to be done for it now. Best be on our way,” you said gravely. Astarion’s fingers stopped their twitching, and he released a silent breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.

Later that night, as his companions sang and danced and made merry around the campfire, Astarion began to hatch a plan. An ill advised plan, mind, and not one that he was proud to have conjured up, but he was so hungry and could no longer ignore the mouth watering smell of the sentient life around him. All that was left was to pick his target and wait for the right opportunity to strike.

As he pretended to eat his bowl of stew that the wizard had prepared, he sorted through the list of his companions in his mind, weighing his options. Both the gith and the warlock were sure to kill him if they caught him in the act, so they were immediately discarded. The tiefling would melt his face right off if he got too close to her, which made her an impractical option. Something about the wizard smelled off, so naturally he was struck from the list. That left the cleric… and you.

Just as he was preparing to puzzle out the best option between the two, you waltzed past him with your gentle instrumental and sultry lilt, and he made the mistake of inhaling. His mouth practically watered at the smell of you: jasmine blossoms and orange peel and heady musk. Without any further thought, he had his vict- target.

He shook his head warily, attempting to clear his disquieted thoughts like so many cobwebs from his mind, just as you turned to send a soft smile his direction.

His insides twisted with the sharp discomfort of shame and he smiled back, taking care to keep from baring his fangs. He couldn’t tell if the vise grip of unease was of his own or his master’s making, but it was almost strong enough to make him reconsider. Almost. Then, his hunger returned to him full-force and all at once, and his resolve was strengthened. Once everyone else had reached the land of dreams, Astarion would have his first true taste of freedom: ‘the blood of a thinking creature’. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion volunteered to take first watch, so, mercifully, he was the only one awake. If he were capable of nervous sweats, the back and underarms of his shirt would be soaked through, his palms clammy and the curls at his forehead damp. One would think that being abducted by mindflayers would make the prospect of drinking his companions’ blood pale in comparison, but he found himself more terrified now than those handful of nights ago when he’d been snatched up and imprisoned on the Nautiloid. Perhaps it was the fear of Cazador’s wrath, when he inevitably found out Astarion wilfully disobeyed his cardinal order; perhaps it was the fear of losing control and hurting you, and then paying the price with his life.

Whatever the case, Astarion made a concerted effort to steel himself before proceeding with his plan. He crept from his post, silent as the grave with the practiced ease of a night stalker and crossed the camp to your tent, its flaps open to dispel some of the muggy summer air trapped within. The closer he got to his prize, to you, the further his wits were flung from him until he knelt at your side, salivating at the thrum of the pulse in your neck. He licked his lips and leaned in, intoxicated by the smell of you, fangs poised to puncture your carotid artery -

“You could ask, you know,” he felt more than heard you say. “It’s impolite to touch people without first gaining their consent.”

Astarion reeled back as if he’d been struck, a muffled curse escaping him as he hastily tried to retreat.

“Move any further and I’ll scream. I’d fancy a guess that you don’t want the whole camp to find you unwelcome in my tent, so I suggest you quit squirming away and explain yourself,” you grumbled, and though your voice painted a perfect picture of disenchantment, Astarion could see the way your body had drawn taut with adrenaline; you were prepared to fight your way out of this if necessary.

“No, no! It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he pleaded, voice just shy of frantic and hands held aloft in placation. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed - well, blood.”

The shame returned to him at a near dizzying magnitude, his last words falling flat in defeat on a final exhale, sure to be his last.

You sat up, body still tense and prepared to strike if the need arose, and scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. To his surprise and immense relief, you only questioned him further.

“How long since you last killed someone? Days? Hours?”

Though your voice held the edge of cold steel, it could not conceal the glint of curiosity in your gaze. Despite his better judgment, Astarion decided to tell you the truth, hoping to appeal to the bleeding heart of your empathy.

“I’ve never killed anyone! Well, not for food,” he sneered, then schooled his expression back into something non-threatening after remembering that he did not want to make his predicament worse.

“I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds - whatever I can get. But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

“Ah, so that was your dinner we found so carelessly discarded this morning,” you bit back.

He weighed his next words carefully after examining your body language, still finding you tense but sensing no fear.

To Hells with it, he thought.

“If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please,” he begged, eyes wide and round with desperation.

He watched in relative discomfiture as the tension drained from your posture, expression morphing to regard him with no small amount of pity as your tadpoles connected and you were granted a fleeting glimpse into his centuries of abuse and torment. It took all of his courage to not shut you out; he felt painfully flayed open and on display with what little you were able to glean from the brief brush of your minds.

To your credit, you didn’t ask about what you’d seen.

“Why didn't you tell me, Astarion?” you whispered.

“At best, I was sure you’d say no,” he scoffed, then sighed, “More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

He held his breath again, daring to hope that you might actually be amenable to helping him.

“Hells. I do trust you, Astarion. Believe it or not, I do. Would have preferred you to just ask instead of having this uncomfortable confrontation in the wee hours, though,” you chuckled.

He almost couldn’t believe his luck, or perhaps it was your stupidity, and he waved a hand noncommittally in front of him.

“Does this mean…” he breathed, his nerves alight with something akin to elation.

“Yes, you may make a meal of me,” you sighed.

“Wonderful! Thank you, truly-” he began, abruptly cut off by the hand raised wordlessly to silence him.

“But you’d better not take a drop more than you need, or there won’t be a next time,” you finished with a resolute nod.

Astarion nearly balked at your words, simultaneously blessing and cursing whatever gods would listen for leaving something so preciously stupid as you alone in his company.

“Of course, darling. Not one drop more, on my honor,” he said, placing a hand over his undead heart.

You snorted inelegantly, “Right, honor. As if you have any of that, Rogue. How do you want me?”

“You wound me, my sweet. More to the point, how don’t I want you?” he drawled, playing up the flirty charm in an attempt to ease the stiffness of anxiety that had once again overcome you.

However, it seemed to have opposite the desired effect, and he watched in disconcerted fascination as your hands balled into tight fists at your sides. You rhythmically unclenched and clenched your fists a few times before releasing a shaky exhale.

“Do you plan to bite me sometime before the sun rises or not? If you’ve changed your mind, I’d very much like to get some sleep before we have to spend another day meandering through this blasted forest, hunting down an impossible cure for our stowaways,” you huffed out.

“My apologies, do get comfortable,” Astarion mumbled as he scrambled to kneel at the edge of your bedroll once more. He brushed the wisps of your hair away from your neck, fingers trailing down the delicate column of your throat almost reverently. He wanted to savor this moment, this first.

“Will it hurt much?” he felt the rumble of your words through his fingertips.

“Not terribly, but it will be uncomfortable for a moment. I will try to be gentle,” he murmured back, steady gaze leveled with your apprehensive one.

“Get on with it, then,” you gritted out, turning your head to expose more of the tender flesh of your neck.

Astarion leaned in, once again overwhelmed by the smell of you in this close proximity, but no longer dogged by the feeling of malaise at what he was about to do. He gently dragged his fangs up the column of your throat, searching for your pulse point. He heard your quiet gasp and felt the slight shudder that ran through you, one of your hands flying up to nestle in the silvery curls at the nape of his neck and the other twisting in the furs of your bedroll. It was then that he struck.

The first splash of blood across his tongue was like the finest wine he’d ever tasted. He vaguely registered the sound of a groan, but whether it was yours or his, he wasn’t sure. Everything beyond your lifeblood spilling from the puncture wounds in your neck and his tongue lapping at it was hazy with his euphoria. He could taste the salty musk of your sweat coupled with the ferrous tang of your blood, the fleeting sweetness of your desire giving way to a deeper, more buttery contentment.

He quickly lost himself in the act of drinking from you, gulping down great mouthfuls of your blood like a man having stumbled across an oasis after spending too many long nights parched in the desert. He drank deeply and greedily, rational thought all but gone as he slaked his bloodlust.

Eventually, he registered the bitter taste of your fear and felt the fingers buried in his curls tighten and pull.

“Astarion,” you garbled in warning, “that’s enough.”

Reluctantly, and with no small amount of effort, he pulled back.

“That - that was amazing,�� he mumbled in awe, tongue darting out to clean the blood from his lips and wiping up the droplets that spilled down his chin, only to lick his fingers.

“And strangely intimate,” you laughed breathily.

“Indeed. My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel… happy!” he breathed, voice full of wonderment.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you fight,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

“Shouldn’t take long,” he smirked back, “So many people need killing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

He stood and turned to exit, then thought better of it and paused at the mouth of your tent. He looked over his shoulder to find you seated upright, looking at him expectantly.

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

He didn’t miss the way your face fell as he turned to continue out into the waiting darkness. This time, it was guilt that made his gut churn unpleasantly. As to why, though, he couldn’t say.

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scarredwithcruelintentions · 7 months ago

Text

chapter 3: a desperate revelation

Find the masterlist here!

CW: Astarion talks about his abuse.

W/C: 2,795

A/N: My dog had heart surgery last week... please send all the good vibes for her recovery!

After the arduous fight with the Hag, Astarion wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bedroll. Shadowheart had mended the worst of their wounds with a healing prayer, and your quiet songs of rest had bolstered their energy for the trek back to camp. Once out of the bog, the fading rays of the sun’s light were visible once more.

He paused a moment to marvel at the way they painted the sky in various hues of pinks and oranges, a sight he had long since given up hope of ever seeing again. He tried to convince himself that any day spent in the sun was a day worth having, no matter how fleeting a retreat it might be.

A plaintive sigh escaped him at the prospect of returning to the shadows after being blessed by the warmth of the light.

“Copper for your thoughts?” you intoned from behind him, startling him out of his quiet reverie.

“For nearly two centuries, I’ve known nothing but darkness and pain. To stand in the sun, after so much tragedy and despair, is nothing short of a miracle,” he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder, it would shatter the beautiful illusion he’d come to know and he’d instead find himself a psychotic wreck, locked in a mausoleum somewhere at Cazador’s behest again.

He tracked your approach in his peripheral vision, mentally preparing himself to broach the topic of his past, of his Master’s cruelty. You stopped at his side and gazed out into the encroaching darkness with him, listening along as the song of birds gave way to the chirp of crickets. The stars began their winking, and the ambiance of rural night crept over them in a subdued melody.

“Without darkness, there would be no light,” you said quietly.

He peered over at you, watching as the moon started its trek across the indigo sky just above your head. You glanced at him, and your eyes met his for a moment. He did not expect the sorrow that he found in their depths. He opened his mouth, but no sound left his lips, the icy fingers of fear choking him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, preparing to spill his darkest secrets upon reopening them.

“Come, friend,” your hushed voice met his ears. “We are not far from camp. We may speak there.”

With that, the moment was broken. Astarion opened his eyes to see your retreating form, and silently thanked whatever gods still were for the extra time to gather his strength. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion sat alone in his tent, lost in his thoughts. He could hear the chatter and laughter of his companions just beyond its thin walls, but he didn’t even have the heart to observe from afar tonight. He waited in trepidation for you to come find him, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the closed cover of the book in his lap. Even reading had proven to be an unhelpful distraction.

“Astarion?”

He recognized the lilt of your soft voice and cleared his throat.

“In here, darling,” he called, unwilling to move, lest his legs were to carry him far from this conversation, far from camp in cowardice.

You parted the flaps of his tent with a small smile, a question in your eyes. He waved at the space in front of him, a silent go ahead to enter and sit. You nodded imperceptibly and sat down, crossing your legs and setting your lyre in your lap.

Astarion raised a brow at the instrument.

“Do you ever go anywhere without that?” he asked, curiosity coloring his voice.

“Never,” you grinned. “It’s the source of my connection to the Weave.”

He scoffed, “A lyre?”

“Well, not the lyre specifically,” you blushed, “but the music it creates. Any instrument will do, but this is my instrument of choice.”

“I see,” he said, though he really didn’t.

“Would you like me to give you an example?” you asked kindly.

“Please, be my guest.”

He watched as your delicate fingers plucked a soft melody on the instrument, caressing the tune from them with practiced ease and fondness. The mellifluous sound of your voice began its harmony, and a sense of peace like he had never known washed over him. He was enchanted by your performance, finding it a strangely intimate experience with no one else to accompany the two of you.

All too soon, the final chord resonated in the cavern of his chest with a quiet hum.

Astarion opened his eyes - not remembering having closed them - and gazed at you. The warm feeling from earlier had returned at the start of the song, and had slowly spread its way through his limbs with each progression until he felt light and fuzzy, an unusual and somewhat dizzying sensation. A slight flush had spread across your cheeks and into the bodice of your nightclothes as he regarded you with a soft expression.

“That was lovely,” he murmured, loath to break the tranquil quiet of the moment.

“A Song of Calm for my tense, toothsome friend,” you smiled, voice lowered to match his own.

“Ah! Well that explains the sudden silence in my mind.”

He cracked a wry smile and delighted in your answering giggle. Stillness enveloped the tent once more, and your expression morphed into one of concerned sincerity.

Here we go.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“I don’t want to say a damned thing,” he bit out, rage and fear laced in his voice. You recoiled at his tone, and it took conscious effort for him to soften it. “But that won’t do anyone any good.”

You remained silent, waiting patiently for him to continue. He heaved a great, mournful sigh, and began.

“Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power - I mean power over people,” he said with carefully construed apathy, “The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn and he became my tormentor.”

His eyes had fallen to the space separating him from you, avoiding the questions he knew he was sure to find in yours.

“How were you turned?” you asked in a whisper. “Did he attack you?”

Astarion sighed again.

“Not him, no. A gang of thugs, the Gur,” he sneered, “attacked me, angry about a ruling that I’d handed down as a magistrate.”

“I see. Is that why you were on edge with the hunter today?”

“Indeed. They’d beaten me to death’s door when Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were ‘eternal life’ or ‘bleed to death on the street’, I took him up on the offer.”

He repressed a violent shudder at the memory and ploughed ahead, “It was only afterward that I realized just how long ‘eternity’ could be.”

“I take it he was rather lacking as a master,” you intoned gravely.

“He had me go out into Baldur’s Gate and fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find by whatever means necessary. It was a fun little ritual of his - I’d bring them back and he’d ask me if I wanted to dine with him. And if I said yes, he’d serve me a dead, putrid rat.”

He could still taste it even now, the fetid blood of overripe rodent corpses. He wanted to gag and retch at the thought.

“Of course, if I said no, he’d have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse,” he shrugged matter-of-factly.

“Astarion, that’s terrible. I’m so bloody sorry,” you sniffled.

He looked up at the sound to see the glistening tracks of tears running down your face in the glow of the oil lamp, more yet unshed making your eyes glassy. He didn’t know what he expected your reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Thank you, but this isn’t about the sympathy,” he continued uncomfortably, “it’s about knowing what we might be up against. The Gur hunter won’t be the only one looking for me, what with his favorite plaything being misplaced.”

“Plaything?” you nearly choked.

“Yes, he always did say that my screams sounded sweetest,” he intoned bitterly.

He did not raise his eyes at the sound of your sharp gasp, fearful of what your face would betray.

“Vampire spawn are less than slaves - we’re puppets. All he need do is speak and our bodies obey. The things I’ve done, seen… felt. Well, there are some things better left unsaid,” he finished, voice hollow.

He looked up again to find tears streaming freely down your cheeks, eyes puffy and nose running with your sorrow, the whimpers and sniffles of your sobs echoing in the silence. He was unsure of how to console you, so he simply looked away, giving you time to gather yourself.

“Fuck, m’sorry,” you garbled, and he looked back to see you dashing tears from your eyes. “How insensitive of me. You don’t need my tears to make this wretched retelling any worse.”

“It’s quite alright, dear. It isn’t called a sob story for nothing, after all,” he chuckled, trying for levity to lift the stifling gloom of the atmosphere. His attempt wrested a watery giggle from you, so he considered it a success.

Once your sniffling had died down, a comfortable silence settled over the tent. He had gone back to staring at the empty space of his bedroll between you and him, and a new plan slowly began to unfurl in his mind. You seemed to like him well enough, but was well enough going to keep him safe in the dire straits ahead?

He was broken from his musing by the gentle strings of your lyre, a different melody this time but with a similar effect. The dulcet tones of your harmony flooded him with that strange, tingly warmth again, and he made up his mind in that moment. You were an unalienable ally with your charisma and quiet authority, and he needed to do whatever necessary to stay in your good graces.

Resolute in his decision, he listened intently to your music, laying back on his hands and closing his eyes to bask in the beauty of it. Your songs transitioned smoothly from one into the next, and he soon found himself drifting into his nightly meditation with unprecedented ease. He didn’t even register when the music had stopped, only noticing when your hushed voice temporarily disrupted the blissfully quiet calm of his mind.

“Goodnight, Astarion.” ______________________________________________________________

He rose early the next morning and was pleased to find you already awake. You were breaking your fast with some sludgy gruel the wizard was stirring while Wyll regaled you with animated tales of his heroics. He rolled his eyes at the warlock’s prideful display, but noticed you listening intently, gasping and asking questions at all the perfect intervals. The warlock regarded you with a smile far too fond for his liking, and he found himself calling out to you before he was even sure of what he was going to say.

“Darling, a moment, if you please?”

You gave Wyll a sheepish grin and excused yourself, setting the bowl of lumpy porridge on your stool and sauntering over to him. Astarion snickered to himself at the way the warlock’s face twisted.

“Good morning, Astarion,” you said brightly, smile more radiant than the morning sun.

“Good morning, my sweet. How did you sleep?” he asked, laying the charm on thick.

“Alright, I s’pose. You?”

“Vampires don’t sleep, dear, though I’ll say that last night was the closest I’ve come to it in two centuries,” he replied, trying for his most disarming smile.

“I’m glad to hear it,” you responded softly. “If you’d like to dine with me tonight, I’d be happy to lend my neck.”

Astarion could swear he felt his undead heart give a flutter of a beat before going dormant again.

“Why, there’s nothing I’d love more darling! But, are you sure you’re feeling up to it so soon after the first time?” he asked, his portrayal of concern surprisingly effortless.

He watched as you pulled a pendant out of your decolletage, holding it up so that it glinted in the light. He could feel the faint thrum of the Weave surrounding it.

“I went hunting through my things last night when I remembered I had this. It’s an amulet of restoration. Shadowheart confirmed for me that it will counteract the effects of blood loss,” you beamed.

“My, my. Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, as you noticeably retreated into yourself.

“I only wanted to help,” you mumbled, eyes downcast.

In a desperate attempt to salvage the conversation, Astarion shifted the subject back to the amulet.

“And wherever did you find such a pretty bauble?”

Your answering grimace and accompanying flush was an unexpected reaction.

Oh, this must be good.

“I nicked it from the druid grove,” you said sheepishly.

“Aren’t you full of surprises, my dear,” he responded with a hearty laugh.

“Shut it, Rogue,” you grumbled at him good-naturedly.

“Never! And in answer to your earlier question, I would be more than delighted to dine with you.” He bowed dramatically, earning him a few bright peals of laughter.

“Your tent, or mine?” he purred. He made a show of watching the way your flush deepened and crept its way down into the plunging neckline of your nightclothes.

“Erm, I’d assume you’d be most comfortable in your tent,” you responded, wringing your hands with eyes downcast once more.

Well, that won’t do.

He reached forward slowly so as not to spook you and tucked a finger under your chin, gently raising your face so he could catch your eyes.

“I can make myself comfortable anywhere for you, dear,” he breathed, watching closely as your lips parted in a silent gasp and pupils dilated infinitesimally wider.

Just as he was about to celebrate this small victory, your eyes cinched shut and a pained expression flitted across your face. He dropped his hand instantly, taken aback by the dramatic shift in your reaction.

“S’not you,” you gritted out, confusing him further. You opened your eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Just a bad memory,” you clarified, standing tall in a display of faux confidence.

It was a tactic he knew all too well, and he could see right through it to the rigid way you held yourself. He felt his face fall with a doleful kind of understanding.

She, too, has endured much torment.

“Ah yes, those I am quite familiar with. We all have skeletons in the closet. An unfortunate side effect of living…” he paused, “and unliving, I suppose.”

You chuckled, easing up again.

“I’m taking Lae’zel, Wyll and Gale with me today to look for the missing druid. We’ll let you know what we find,” you changed the subject, meeting his gaze.

He felt a pang of disappointment with the chill of fear quick on its heels and fought to keep his face neutral, but was ultimately unsuccessful. You caught a glimpse of something, however fleeting, in his eyes that turned your countenance steely.

“He won’t have you, Astarion. You don’t need to go back to him,” you said, suddenly vehement in your determination. It only increased his panic.

“You don’t know Cazador,” he relented in a whisper, “He could have spies anywhere. I could be gone long before you make it back. If he finds me, I will have no choice but to return.”

“He won’t find you. You’re safe with me,” you murmured back, reaching out to take his hands. It was an odd sensation, being held, made odder still by your initiation of the contact.

“Then take me with you,” he begged, just shy of desperate.

He could feel your thumbs sweeping over the backs of his hands, no doubt a placating gesture to ease the burn of your next words.

“Not today. You need to rest after yesterday’s events.”

“How rich, coming from you,” he snapped, withdrawing his hands from your grasp abruptly.

He caught the hurt that flashed across your delicate features before you managed to school your expression, straightening your spine and squaring your shoulders.

He sighed in defeat, “I suppose I will see you tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” you nodded and turned to leave.

You took a few steps away from him and paused, turning halfway back toward him.

“And I mean it, Astarion. You are safe with me. I will watch your back, so long as you watch mine.”

With nothing but your parting words for reassurance, Astarion returned to his tent, succumbing to the biting cold of dread’s barbed claws.

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