The Cage - ChronoXtreme - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue: Prey

Chapter Text

Hunting was never Astarion’s favorite activity, but tonight it was especially sour.

He’d already been kicked out of the Blushing Mermaid, the Elfsong, and that awful hole in the wall restaurant down by the docks. And those were the more luxurious hunting grounds in the Lower City. Now, he was all the way down in Wyrm’s Crossing, down to the bitter dregs. Fraygo’s Flophouse loomed in front of him, covered in snow, rickety and old and filled with the poor, desperate, and criminal.

If it was the second day of his starvation, he’d have turned back. But it was the fifth day, and the hunger gnawed at him so fiercely. It distracted him from the lash stings on his back, still not quite fully healed from the morning.

Cazador had threatened a full tenday in the Kennel if he returned empty handed tonight. And Godey had made it painfully clear that at least one of those days would be dedicated to the pliers.

So on he went, slipping inside the Flophouse.

It was past midnight, and so the drunken revelry had already faded to a slow shamble. Now, Astarion had to pick from the dregs of the dregs. It certainly smelled like the dregs of the dregs too. His stomach gnawed again as a drunkard stumbled past him, the stench barely overpowering the delicious scent of blood.

If it was himself that he hunted for, he would have been satisfied with any of these poor souls. But Cazador wanted beautiful prey. Young. Pretty. Fetching. Astarion supposed that with the luxury of a full meal every single night, one could get picky with their food.

Anxiously, he leaned by the doorway, soaking in the warmth from the fire, and searched amongst the crowds.

In the past, he’d tried to restrict himself. It was something all his spawn “siblings” had done at first. Dalyria had insisted upon no one under the age of thirty — and then had crumbled after a month of hunger pains, bringing back a young man who had recently graduated from a bard college. Petras had insisted upon no men, only women. But the font of women who were willing to put up with his boorish attempts at seduction had ran dry within the first year, and soon after Astarion had caught him hauling in a tall, handsome elf, lips locked and hips rolling.

Astarion’s standards, too, had been crushed. He had vowed to pursue only those who, in his years of pretending at being a magistrate, “deserved” it. Cutthroats. Purse snatchers. Drunkards. Brothel goers.

But then hunger would eat at him, and Godey with the pliers, and Cazador telling him that if he failed to bring in suitable prey, he would teach him how again, and—

No. Tonight, he had no standards.

And of course, the night he had no standards, he found the most marvelous looking prey.

Sitting by the fire, a young man warmed his hands. His hair was shaggy, obviously self cut, and his clothes hung on his body like from a clothesline. But when he turned his face, Astarion saw the sharp cut jaw, the thin and delicate nose, the soft and full lips.

The perfect victim: young, pretty, and poor enough looking that the Flaming Fist wouldn’t get involved.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Astarion composed himself. No visit to Godey tonight. He pinched his cheeks to pinken them, give the illusion of life — even without blood for the past few days, the flesh still responded to stimulus. Then, he ran fingers through his hair, carefully arranging the front curls. Thankfully the hair wax held; his latest tub was over two years old, barely enough for a thin film. Finally, he steeled himself.

Starting was always the hardest part.

The young man startled as he sauntered over, leaning against the fireplace mantle. “Well hello, beautiful,” he drawled, putting on the easy, flirtatious smile. “You look like you could use some company.”

The young man looked up, and Astarion blinked. He’d thought him just a simple half elf — the small pointed ears gave him away. But their eyes glowed like phantom flames on black sclera. Tiefling eyes. Even more bizarre, their eyelashes and brows were a soft snowy white — Drow coloring. He couldn’t tell if the red flecked into their locks was from dye or a natural coloring. The poor state of their clothes indicated the latter.

But even more shocking than the mismatched features was the clear, obvious innocence in their posture.

“Sorry,” the young man — no, Astarion could only see them as a boy — whispered, and Astarion marveled at the voice: deep, slightly raspy, but with an uncommon softness to it. “You talking to me?”

“Who else?” he asked, grinning as he leaned down. “You look terribly lonely. And in need of a nice, warming drink.”

The boy’s eyes widened, lips parting as if to respond. But nothing came out. Instead, they simply looked at him — as if he were the most beautiful creature they had ever seen, as if he were…

Swallowing down the bile rising in his throat, Astarion smiled, offering a hand. “Shall we?”

“I-I don’t have money, sir.”

Oh, it had been years since anyone had called him sir. “Pretty boy” was the most common from the bigger brutes. “Sweet thing” from the ladies. “Charmer” and “sweetheart” and “naughty boy” and so many other pet names. He only surrendered his true name when requested, and not many requested. For most, it was enough that he was beautiful and seductive and gave them the night of their dreams.

“Such a polite boy you are,” he gushed, bending down. “But you needn’t worry about that. I’ll pay.” He’d already filched a wallet from one of the more snobby looking patrons in the Elfsong. Cazador didn’t believe in niceties like pocket money.

The boy’s face warped into a grimace, as if he’d said something wrong, and his gut tensed. “I-I wouldn’t be able to pay you back.”

Astarion laughed, that high pitched haughty chuckle that many a prey had described as darling. “Are you really that adverse to a free drink, my dear?” Then, shifting down into a much lower, sultry tone, “That beautiful face of yours is more than enough payment for me.”

The boy flushed, a softly curled hand pulled back over their heart. For a moment, Astarion saw not green eyes but blue, long black hair tumbling over broad shoulders. Not a half elf but a human, young and naive and innocent.

Yes. This boy… This boy was so similar.

He pushed the thought from his mind. He had no standards. He would do whatever it took to earn his supper, and most importantly, stay out of the Kennel. So he offered his hand, curling his two middle fingers in a subtle beckon. “It will be my treat,” he promised softly.

The boy hesitated for far too long. Astarion had to keep himself from biting his lip, shoving down the panic. Then, slowly, they took his hand, and Astarion marveled at how tough it was. And warm.

The boy’s reaction, on the other hand, was to drop it immediately, as if stung. f*ck. “Holy sh— Y-You’re ice cold, sir.”

“Oh, just a bit chilled,” he twittered, voice painfully high pitched. “The weather out there is ghastly, you know.”

To his shock, the boy actually smiled. “I do,” they murmured. “I-I don’t really need the drink, but here.” Astarion’s eyes widened as they gave up their little stool, picking up a small bag and a lute. “I’m warm enough; you need it more than me.”

Gods above. For the first time in over a year, he found himself speechless. Speechless enough to sit on the stool, close enough that he could smell them. Of course, the scent of blood overwhelmed him first, and his mouth filled with saliva. But beneath that, soap. And beneath that, the zesty tang of orange peel, mixed with and tempered by sweet, mellow honey.

“Do… Do you want a drink?” The boy cradled their lute in their hands. “I don’t have money, but the barkeep sometimes gives me something if I play. It keeps the place more peaceful. Less fighting if there’s music.”

He wanted to scream at the boy to shut up, stop talking, stop being nice to me. It made it so much worse when they were kind. “You’re a bard?” he asked, barely able to keep his voice light, flirty. “My my. I wonder what other talents those hands have.” He all but leered at him, his intent obvious.

But the bard either ignored him, or simply didn’t grasp the flirt. “That’s pretty much it,” they admitted. “I can sing all right too, but…” They flushed, then smiled. “Sorry. I’ll play a song, and then I can get you something. What would you like?”

A lump rose in his throat. “Wine. Red.”

“I’ll remember.”

Then the bard was gone, off to sit in the corner. A few drunken hoots echoed in response, and Astarion sighed as the bard plucked a few strings. It would probably be a simple drinking song, or maybe a love ballad? He’d had several conquests babble poetry, a few others try to sing.

Instead, the bard strummed the lute, and the entire tavern hushed. “There is a house in Athkatla they call the Rising Sun…”

Astarion had heard bards play at Cazador’s balls. Their songs had drifted through the dining hall, light and floaty above the debauchery and hedonism. But this song… it was low, soft and yet somehow heavy.

Then the voice changed, strong and fierce and aching, full of grief. “It’s been the ruin of many a poor soul — and gods, I know I’m one.”

This was not a performance fit for the concert hall. This was not a bard on the stage, ready to flaunt and greedily soak up applause. This was a boy, with their lute in their lap, sitting in a flophouse, singing about a mother who sewed dresses and a gambling father. It was so lowbrow and pedestrian and… and real.

They had talent, that was clear. In a few years, if they managed to break out of Wyrm’s Crossing, they could probably take the Gate by storm.

If he didn’t bring them back to be Cazador’s meal.

They looked up from their playing for a bit, an interlude of plucking between verses, and Astarion felt like a fly pinned as they glanced in his direction. Then smiled. A close eyed smile, innocent and carefree.

In that moment, he realized.

I can’t take them back to him.

There were a thousand reasons why. Someone would remember him taking away the bard for a night they would never return from. Cazador would not appreciate a meal made out of spindly bones and botched haircuts. As much as he’d crushed Astarion’s standards, his own were so very high.

The real answer was raw and instinctive. Painful. He kept it shoved down and locked away. It reminded him too much of the tomb.

Astarion rose from the stool by the fire; the bard had gone back to staring at their lute, launching into the third verse. So he headed to the bar. No luck. More drunks, mostly dockworkers and fishermen, far too girthy and hairy for Cazador’s tastes.

“I’ve one foot in the stirrup, and the other on the ground — I shall return to Athkatla, to be lost and never found…”

When he turned from the bar, he let out a sigh of relief. A new target: a taller man with a slightly crooked nose, but with a winsome smile. He sat away from the bar at his own table, looking outside at the falling snow. Though there was some gold thread in his doublet, it shone dully, some cheap brand sold down here in Wyrm’s Crossing instead of the finer stuff from the upper city. Probably a decent fellow, but no innocent — not with the way he leered at Astarion as he sauntered over.

Yes. This one would do perfectly.

Astarion leaned in, casually asked if he could sit next to him, and the hunt began anew. He asked about the dull ring on the man’s hand, simpered when he bragged about just recently joining a merchant guild. The banal flattery passed to flirtation, then to delicate touches on the arm, and soon enough Astarion was pulled into his lap to be fondled and kissed. He forced out giggles, added a moan when the merchant groped his arse, breathlessly gasped something about size when something hard prodded his thigh.

Just when he was about to mention taking this to someplace far more comfortable, a soft, low voice asked, “Sir?”

He froze, pulling away from the man lewdly mouthing at his neck to see the bard standing at the edge of the table, a single cup clutched between both of those warm, tough hands.

The heartbreak in their eyes was unmistakable.

“Wha… What do you want?” the merchant growled; he’d been steadily drinking during their entire repartee, and Astarion welcomed the reprieve from that awful whiskey breath. “Did you order something, pretty boy?”

He hadn’t. The wine was, for all intents and purposes, a gift. A gift they should have forgotten all about, the second Astarion had left their sight. Yet here they stood, as mundane as a servant. The bard’s hands shook around the cup, and for the first time, he noticed the hollowness in their cheeks.

Cold, alone, and hungry. And yet they had brought wine. For him.

“This is what you are made to be, boy,” Cazador’s voice whispered in his ear. “A whor* — but a whor* is paid. No, you are nothing more than a slu*t. So eager to spread your legs.”

He loathed those words, no matter how true they were. But sitting in the merchant’s lap, looking at the bard’s crestfallen face, he felt like a whor*.

“Thank you, darling,” he forced out, reaching out to take the wine from the boy’s hands. His breath shuddered as his fingers brushed theirs, and for a moment he caught a whiff of that scent again: orange peels in honey.

The cup slipped from their grasp, and he watched in dull sadness as the wine splashed all over the dirty floorboards. In the dim lighting, it looked like blood — yet it would never sate his hunger. “Oi!” the merchant yelled, fingers digging into Astarion’s hips so hard that he felt the bite of his nails through his trousers. “You f*cked up his drink, now get him another!”

The boy cringed, and Astarion recognized that look; it was not the first time they’d been yelled at by strangers. “S-Sorry, I’m sorry, I…”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Astarion breathed, leaning back into the man’s arms. He kissed his neck for good measure, a soft scraping of fangs. The urge to bite down, drain him dry consumed him, but he couldn’t. So he settled for making it as painful of a love bite as he could, relishing the man’s cursing. “Now, we really should get out of here.”

“All right, as you say,” the man slurred. “Come on then, show me this ‘palace’ of yours…”

The boy just stood there, eyes and face hollow, as Astarion guided his latest victim out from behind the table. “Drink that wine for me, sweetheart,” he breathed into their ear as he passed.

They had been sweet enough to give him a gift. He would give them one in turn: they wouldn’t die tonight, and maybe a cup of wine would soothe the sting of being rejected.

The journey back to the palace was miserable. He hated hunting this far out; the merchant complained about soggy boots, and Astarion’s promises of a night he’d never forget only wore thinner as the trek continued. If it had been a summer night, he’d have resigned himself to being f*cked in an alley before bringing him back to the palace. But the snow was a blessing. He only had to put up with a few gropes and some whinging before the man was inside, and then he was distracted by the architecture and the cost of the drapes.

Then it was down to the guest bedroom, to prepare Cazador’s feast.

“Good boy,” the merchant cooed as the door closed. There was no fanfare, not with his type. So Astarion suffered through his clothes being torn off, thrown naked on the bed, and thrusted into with no preparation. His hands mindlessly roamed the man’s back, throwing out a compliment or two on his stamina and size every few moments or so. Despite gushing about his huge throbbing co*ck, oh gods right there right there, harder please, the man had a perfectly average co*ck, which meant perfectly average pain. He was drunk enough to not have his hands wander, fully focused on keeping himself upright as he thrusted awkwardly, never settling into a rhythm.

The perfect place to Fade.

The boy’s face as they’d stood at the edge of the table wouldn’t leave his mind. Gods, he never should have approached them in the first place. Cazador hadn’t taken away all his standards, had he? They were far too young, far too naive. And they’d actually showed up with the wine.

A century earlier, his heart would have broken for them as it had for Sebastian, shedding what few tears he had left. Now, he just felt a hollow pang of pity.

They’d find another lover. Just as he would continue to find more victims.

An uncomfortably loud moan and the subsequent hot stickiness inside him brought him back to reality, and he grunted as the man collapsed on him. It took everything he had to not squirm away, enduring a few sloppy post-coital kisses. But soon enough, he wiggled his way out, reeking of whiskey and sem*n and sweat.

“Well done,” Cazador’s voice echoed, and Astarion watched numbly as he emerged from the shadows. “Did you enjoy yourself, boy?”

The man, thankfully, was too out of it to notice that there was someone else in the guest chamber with them. Astarion was sometimes forced to restrain the more alert ones.

“Yes, Master,” he said, completely empty as he fell to his knees.

“Say it again.”

The Command filled his mind like blood filled a blister. It smothered him, seeped into him, moved every tendon and chord of his throat and tongue. “Yes, Master. I loved it. I love doing this for you. I love you.”

All lies. But Cazador loved forcing him to utter them.

Cazador smiled, running pale spindly fingers through his sweat slicked hair. “I know you do, Astarion. Now, will you dine with me tonight?”

“Yes, master.” The hunger gnawed at his insides, and all he could think of was the boy’s scent: orange peels in honey, so sweet, so juicy, so—

A dead rat thunked against his chest, and he fell to his knees, desperately tearing into the flesh. Thank f*ck it’s not clotted. The blood was sour, rotten, but it flowed into his throat. Just two mouthfuls of blood, and then it was gone, and he felt the familiar disappointment as the hunger barely lessened.

Gods, what he wouldn’t give for a dog. Petras had earned the privilege once, when he’d brought back two victims in a single night. Maybe you should have brought the bard back, the hunger whispered sickeningly. The merchant had been drunk enough to be persuaded. The bard would need some convincing. A lie about how it was always more fun with more people, and Astarion could satisfy two at once. Or, with just how poor and hungry they’d looked, tempting them with a hot meal. A warm bed.

Cazador stalked towards the bed, and the merchant barely slurred out a “Who’re you?” before gasping as fangs sank into his neck. Astarion watched mutely as Cazador feasted, blood flowing freely in rivulets down his chest, greedy moans and slurps as the master devoured him. It was another reminder, another taunt: the master could be messy with his food. He could afford to waste blood, to not desperately lunge for every drop, as Astarion would. He had tried, before, completely forgetting the First Commandment; Cazador had broken every single one of his fingers as punishment.

Nausea curled in his stomach as he looked down at the rat he still nursed to a naked, sweaty chest. He'd been so high and mighty in the Flophouse, determined to save an innocent soul. Now he fantasized about the bard’s body on the bed besides the merchant’s, all for just a few more mouthfuls of rotten blood.

He truly had no standards.

Finally, it was over, and Cazador rose from the bed, pale skin glowing in the dim candlelight. He dragged the body out as he always did, by the hair, and Astarion looked at the merchant’s empty eyes with some sort of cold satisfaction.

It hadn’t been the boy, in the end. No one would miss this merchant. He certainly wouldn’t. Such a tiny, insignificant act of rebellion.

Those were all he had, now.

Chapter 2: Reunion

Chapter Text

The Turning had been the worst experience of Astarion’s life. Not even the Crypt had come close to the agony of being transformed, his body taken and warped and twisted, permanently changed.

However, being abducted by a f*cking mind flayer ship was solidly third on the list of worst experiences.

He had been out, prowling the streets, seeking prey, when just like that, he had been snapped away. That should have been enough — separated from Cazador, from the Master, Godey would surely give him the plier treatment no matter how much he begged or try to explain — but then one of the monsters had come for him, and despite his wriggling and kicking and jabbing, he had been utterly helpless.

Unable to resist once again as something crawled over his eyeball, sinking into the soft matter of his brain.

Then the ship had passed through the Hells, and he’d screamed and banged on the inside of his pod, begging for someone, anyone…

He’d seen a few figures. One with reddish hair, a Gith, and some black haired beauty. They didn’t stop.

Of course they didn’t. Of course no one would save him. The gods had abandoned him long ago; mortals would be no different.

Then a crash, and smoke and dust in his lungs, and crawling out of the wreckage, he felt warmth on his skin. It was so shocking that for a moment he’d forgotten about the horrific pain of sunlight. But his memory returned from so many decades ago: of his feeble attempt at escape, and the despair as the sun itself punished him for disobedience.

He scurried back into the dark, where he belonged. Hid under a strange chitinous protrusion, bit back curses and screams.

Then realized that aside from the scratches and bruises and burns of the crash, he was not injured.

It can’t be possible.

Sucking in a deep breath, he stuck out his pinky finger, then inched agonizingly close to the edge of his precious shade towards the white light. It was already more sunlight than he’d experienced in literal centuries. He could see the green on tree leaves, the glowing white sand of a beach, the sparkling blue of ocean waves.

When he slid his pinky out to the first knuckle, it did not burn.

Breath leaving him in gasping shudders, he pushed out his arm, letting the sunlight engulf his hand. Yet no ash flaked from his skin. His own skin nearly blinded him, reflecting back the sunlight, but that was the extent of the pain.

Something between a laugh and a sob escaped him as he scrambled out from the shelter of the crashed ship. The warmth of the sunlight seeped into him, clothes warm as they brushed his skin. It felt like a lover’s caress, the beautiful joy before disgust and loathing sunk in. With wonder, he spread out his arms and looked up at the sky — then winced as he remembered that looking into the sun itself was a rather stupid thing to do.

But he could walk in sunlight.

And if he could do that, what else could he do?

A few hours later, Astarion cursed up a storm as he tripped over his shoes. Again.

Wherever the nasty brain beasties had taken him to, it wasn’t to anywhere with cobblestones. Which was what his boots were made for. They were not made for trekking through sand or vines or mud. Alas, his current location seemed to be composed of only sand, vines, mud, and the occasionally squishy something from the mind flayer ship.

More to his shock, he was alone. A few corpses had spilled from the belly of the ship, but no one alive, able to answer the thousands of questions spinning in his head.

He did spot a boar, though.

Sinking low to the ground, careful to not breathe, he stalked the creature, saliva pooling in his mouth. Gods, just how big was it? A hundred pounds? More? How many of those pounds would its blood be? Gods above, he was so hungry—

The boar squealed, and he hissed out curses as it ran into the undergrowth. He’d been perfectly silent, so how…?

His answer came in the form of a humanoid staggering out of the ship wreckage with a loud crash and several choice oaths.

Hope welled in his chest. A survivor, perhaps? Someone who had managed to fight their way off the ship? But cold hard reality reminded him that he’d had a worm shoved into his eye. Every single other person he’d seen on the ship had been completely motionless, helpless, compliant whenever one of the mind flayers showed up. All except for that group of three.

Not a survivor, then, but a thrall. Someone sent to retrieve him, take him back to the ship. His breathing came out unsteady, hands shaking as he wiggled his boot. He still had the dagger at least. He wasn’t completely helpless. He just had to come up with a plan. Nice and simple. Though it wasn’t like he could seduce a mind flayer thrall into giving him answers.

But he could lure them in another way.

Looking at the underbrush the boar had charged into, he smiled. Right now he needed two things: safety and information. If the thrall wouldn’t give him the former, he’d settle for the latter. It didn’t seem too disoriented either. Could thralls talk? Only one way to find out.

“Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Over here! I need some help!”

To his shock, the thrall didn’t shamble forward mindlessly — they sprinted, coming over the sandy rise with the desperation of a man chasing a purse snatcher. He held himself back from snatching the dagger in his boot as they slowed to a jog. A half elf, with ruddy skin and red flecked white hair. Dull recognition twinged in the back of his mind — he’d seen them on the ship, hadn’t he? “Oh thank the gods,” they gasped. “The crash, you…?”

Astarion’s hackles raised as they staggered forward. He was the predator, and he had no intention of being the prey. “Over here,” he breathed, feigning desperation. “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.”

The thrall paled, hand fumbling to grab, of all things, a hand crossbow. “Where?”

“There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you?” He moved back, allowing them to stagger forward. “Like you did with the others?” He’d seen them attack some of the brain beasties on the ship, hadn’t he? It was all a blur.

If this truly was a thrall, the mindflayer controlling them must not be very bright. Instead of keeping their weapon at the ready, they planted their hands on their knees in an odd squat, squinting at the bushes. Then again, white hair on darker skin usually meant drow. Perhaps it really was a struggle for them to see in the sunlight.

He crept close, fetching the knife from his boot — then swore as a wild boar charged out of the grass, startling the thrall backwards. Then, oddly, they laughed. A sound tinged with mania, as if they were on the edge of tears. “J-Just a pig, sir,” they stammered.

The word made him pause. It had been years since anyone had called him sir.

He didn’t hesitate for long.

The thrall gasped as he snatched them by the shoulders, pulling them down into the sand with him. Knife at their throat, he waited for them to still. “Shhhh,” he breathed. “Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

Instead of following his very generous instructions, the thrall babbled, “Please, gods, I don’t have money.” And… And were those tears on their cheeks? “Listen, man, I just paid rent, you know how it is!”

The words were absolutely nonsensical. Great. Just his luck to get a godsdamned thrall that had gone completely insane.

He pressed the knife to their throat, edge pushed against the skin. “Wrong answer.”

Immediately, they went still. Trembling, but still.

He smiled. “Good. Now, you were on the ship, weren’t you? Nod.”

Something akin to a hiccup erupted from their mouth, but the thrall did nod. “Excellent,” he purred, drawing closer. “Now, you’re going to tell me exactly what those tentacled freaks—”

Then his nose brushed their neck, and the scent wiped every single thought from his mind.

Blood. Fresh blood. Lively and pulsing so loudly in his ears, delicious and thick, wet against his tongue. Ash, slime, something acrid and sharp. But beneath all that, the zest of orange peels mellowed by sweet honey. Sweet, delicate on his tongue. For a moment, he wasn’t lying on the ground, another body in his arms, but in Fraygo’s Flophouse, a song drifting into his ear, and something inside his chest clawing to get out—

The thrall, damn it all, used his distraction to shift out from him, and he hastily rolled to his feet, knife brandished. But they didn’t lunge forward to attack them. Gods below, they actually looked like they were crying. Tears shining in sunlight. “Y-You’ve got it all wrong,” they gasped, hands shaking. “You s-said you were on the ship. That means they took you too, right?”

He bared his teeth. “Took me— argh!”

The world vanished, disappeared, and it felt exactly like Cazador. His own identity smothered, his body no longer his own. A meat puppet, manipulated—

No. No manipulation. Just a memory, a recollection — or more like a kaleidoscope of memories. Brief flashes. The taste of candied orange peels on his tongue and sticky honey on his fingers. The sting of lute strings biting into his finger prints as he practiced, over and over.

Hunger. A familiar sensation. Hunger and cold, as he huddled in an alley clutching a purse because Da was gone, they had to make it on their own now.

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First you would have to find a doctor willing to perform such an operation. Most specialists are in the Upper City. Patriars only, you understand.”

And the soul crushing grief, he could not be fixed, he would have to live like this forever—

“Disgusting freak, get out! Get the hells out of my house!”

Getting up for the day, checking to see if the money was there. Rent had just cleaned him out, sh*t sh*t f*ck, did he have enough to buy bread? He’d make do. Busk with a few of the crowd pleasers. That’d get the coin, but then the Nautiloid, trapped in the pod, no gods PLEASE NO NOT THE WORM-

Wrenching back, he gasped as he came to with his hand on his temple, desperately swaying to regain his balance. The thrall — no, the bard, they were a bard, and Da was gone because they weren't useful enough, and they loved candied orange peels — held a similar stance, panting and gasping for breath. And somehow, Astarion acutely knew that a similar exchange had happened. For a second, they had lived in his mind, experienced his memories.

A small violation, in the grand scheme of things.

“What in the hells was that?” he panted. “I… I saw into your mind.”

The bard rubbed at their temples with the heels of their palms, as if forestalling a migraine. “Yeah, that… That happens. It’s the tadpole.”

“Then they took you, just the same as me,” Astarion realized. The game had changed. This was no thrall, this was a potential ally. One that seemingly understood far more about his newfound condition than he did.

So he relaxed, making a show of sheathing his knife. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards,” he purred. “Apologies.”

The bard smiled back, and for the first time, Astarion noticed their eyes. Green, flickering like flame, over velvet black sclera. Tiefling eyes. Now that was quite the combination. Then, they spoke, and his eyebrows shot up at the deepness of their voice. “No need. I understand; it’s… it’s been a sh*t day for all of us.”

He laughed; that was certainly a succinct way of putting it. “So it has. My name’s Astarion.” He gave a little bow, a tiny flourish of the hands. He had no idea what kind of role he was supposed to play here, but being a little over the top seemed to set the bard at ease. “I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

“You too?” The bard’s posture relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

There was no obvious pity in the bard’s tone, but he rankled anyway. “I’ve survived worse,” he replied snippily.

The bard’s eyes widened at that. Then, they extended a hand. “I’m Nanne. Nanne Morn.” Interesting name. Neither tiefling nor drow. Astarion took his hand, giving it a firm shake — then winced as Nanne immediately dropped it. “Gods,” they gasped. “Y-Your hand’s cold. Are you all right?”

sh*t. He plastered on a smile. “Just some poor circulation. Unfortunately, it runs in the family.”

“Oh.”

“Now,” he said, “I’d hate to cut our lovely little introduction short, but you did have the opportunity to wander the ship. Did you learn anything about these worms?”

Nanne’s face faltered, hands clasped in their lap as they stared at the sand. “We… We’re in trouble,” they murmured. “They’re tadpoles, like I said. In around seven days, they’ll turn us into mindflayers.”

He reeled. “Turn us into…”

Then he laughed. What else could he do?

Of course. Of course he couldn’t savor his newfound freedom from Cazador. Of course this adventure into hell promised a fate worse than death. He’d be changed, again, into something far worse than a vampire. And it was already beginning. “Of course it’ll turn me into a monster,” he whispered bitterly. “What else did I expect?” Freedom? Actual, honest to gods freedom? They’d never answered his prayers before, and they wouldn’t start now.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he yanked himself away, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. Yet all he saw was Nanne, their eyes soft, eyebrows furrowed together in concern. Pity.

No. He did not need pity. And he would not let himself succumb to this… this tadpole. He had survived over two centuries of torture. His body was finally his own again, and he would not let a damn worm take it away from him.

“It hasn’t happened yet,” he said, clinging to that fact to keep his voice and body still. “If we can find an expert — someone that can control these things — there might still be time.”

Nanne’s eyes lit up, and curiously those emerald flames actually sparked, flaring for a second. He’d never seen eyes do that before. “You’re right. There’s dead fishermen nearby; we’re close to some kind of village. They might have a healer, someone that can help…” Then, Astarion blinked as they swallowed. “S-Sorry. I should ask. Do you want to come with me?”

It was a question he didn’t expect. No one asked him what he wanted. He’d half expected for Nanne to run away after brandishing a knife, and now had half expected them to leave and beckon for him to follow. Why ask, when the answer was obvious?

“You know, I was ready to go this alone,” he admitted. “But maybe sticking with you isn’t such a bad idea. Safety in numbers, after all.” The bard wouldn’t be too difficult to subdue, and they seemed the naive type. They’d surely allow for him to travel with them. He flashed them a brilliant smile, the one that everyone described as charming. “And anyone that can crash a mind flayer ship and walk away seems like a good person to know.”

Nanne laughed softly, ducking their head, and he saw the flush on their cheeks.

This was going to be very, very easy.

“All right, I accept,” he demurred with another little bow. “Lead on.”

The relief that spread through the bard’s body was palpable. “Great. Thank you. I… I feel a lot better, not having to go this alone.”

“I’ve been told my company has that effect on people,” he said primly. “Now, where do you suppose we go?”

“I guess we search the beach for the others,” Nanne said. “And I’ve got to get my pack; I, uh, dropped it when I saw you. You really looked like you needed help.”

Excellent. He was traveling with a dimwit. But something else worried him far more than his new companion’s lack of intelligence. “Others?” Astarion balked. “There’s more than just us?”

“There… There was this girl, on the ship,” Nanne babbled. “And a Gith lady? We should find them. Strength in numbers, like you said.”

“A fine point.” He gestured to the path. “Lead on. And I promise, I have no intentions of jumping you again.” Anytime soon.

“Course. I understand, honestly.” And they said it so easily, as if they’d really meant it. So not just a fool. A trusting fool. Even better.

They began walking on the sandy path up a hill. Astarion watched in dull amusem*nt as Nanne picked up their pack, then cradled the lute on the ground as if it were their firstborn child. Though they did seem to have the sense to be embarrassed when he cleared his throat. “Sorry,” they murmured, hanging it on their back by the strap. “It’s just… it’s expensive.”

“Of course.”

They looked at him as they continued walking. “So, Astarion.”

“Yes?” he asked flatly.

“That whole thing back there. You thought I was a mind flayer thrall?”

He bristled. “Well, you can hardly blame me, considering our circ*mstances. We’re standing in the wreckage of one of their ships.”

“I know. It’s just… if I really was a thrall, why would I help you kill one of those brain things?”

He paused.

That… That was a good question.

His pause made the bard laugh, and he hated that. “Foolish boy, always so quick to think with the wrong head. Your intelligence is lackluster as always—”

“It’s fine,” they breathed, wiping their forehead and pushing aside their bangs. Honestly, their haircut was a complete and utter travesty; either they cut it themselves or they’d been scammed by the worst barber in Faerûn. “We… We’re tired, it’s been a sh*t day, we can… We should rest. For a little bit. Then find the others.”

He questioned which out of them really was the fool as they sat in the shade of the mind flayer wreckage.

Chapter 3: Tent

Chapter Text

They did indeed find the girl on the ship, banging on the door of some mausoleum. Shadowheart, she’d called herself. Astarion joked that her parents had clearly meant well, giving her such an ominous name, then felt a twinge of something like triumph when Nanne had failed to hold back a snort.

Next, they found a wizard stuck in a portal — no matter how stupid Astarion’s ambush plot had been, he could triumphantly say that he hadn’t at least gotten stuck in a waypoint — and Nanne had insisted on pulling him out.

Then, they insisted on rescuing the Gith woman from her cage, and Astarion watched as Nanne somehow persuaded the two tiefling hunters — tieflings? Where in the hells were they? — to run along before shooting down the cage with an expert aim of the hand crossbow.

It was around then that the sun began its retreat down the horizon, and a pang of longing welled up in Astarion’s throat.

Already, the events of the day felt like a dream. And surely it would evaporate just like a dream. Surely he would wake up in the Kennel, retrieved after attempting escape, and this time Cazador would flay him again, perhaps twice this time, before taking him to the guest room and—

“Astarion?”

He whirled around, all smiles. “Ah, hello there.”

Nanne smiled back, though it was a touch more confused. “Do you not have a tent?”

Gale, being a wizard, had his own little bag of holding, from which he had procured a whole damn pavilion singlehandedly. The cleric — Shadowheart, and gods bless her but that was such an awkward name — apparently had something similar, complete with herbs and trinkets. The gith, Lae’zel, had a pack, setting up her tent with militaristic proficiency.

As for Astarion, he’d been out on the prowl when the mind flayers had snatched him. The only thing he’d been allowed to take, besides the clothes on his back and his bag of beauty supplies, was his shroud. Vampire’s resting place and all that. It wasn’t a requirement for spawns as it would be for Cazador, but it was both a piece of comfort and a reminder of the worst day of his life. So he was permitted to take it.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to suffer without,” he sighed.

“At least there won’t be rain,” Nanne offered.

“Oh, not a cloud in the sky,” he agreed. “I’m merely unused to curling up in the dirt.” His lip curled at the thought; the Kennel was disgusting, but at least it provided some protection from the elements.

“You don’t have to, actually.” To his shock, Nanne held up a bundle of cloth, with rather long sticks pointing out. “Those tieflings left this behind when I scared them off. Everyone else looks set, but you don’t, so…”

A tent. An actual, honest to gods tent.

But there would be a cost for this. There would always be a cost. Shelter was not given, it had to be earned.

“Oh, what a darling you are,” he purred, taking the bundle from Nanne’s arms. “I’ll have to invite you inside once I finish pitching it.” He popped the p, letting his eyes rake over their figure.

It would not be awful, repaying them for the tent. Aside from that wretched haircut, they actually had quite the handsome face. Their clothes didn’t fit exactly right, but clothes wouldn’t be involved in this scenario. His eyes caught the slant of their collarbone, the plush softness of their lips. A pretty person, through and through. He could do far worse, starting with the gith, who had decided to pitch her tent right next to his chosen camp spot.

“Here, I’ll help,” Nanne said, and he blinked as they took the bundle back. “You’ve never pitched a tent before, have you?”

A sour taste coated his tongue. “I am perfectly capable of such a task.”

Nanne actually flinched. “Ah. Right. Sorry, sir.”

Again with the sir. The term felt uncomfortable, some nasty wriggling thing beneath Astarion’s skin. Cazador was called sir. Never him. Though the servants at the palace referred to him as Master Astarion, it was always a slight. He could be master of nothing, compared to the Master, and ruling over cattle was much less impressive when dirt poor shepherds could do the same.

But Nanne expected him to play the part of haughty nobleman. He’d spun a story about him still being a magistrate in Baldur’s Gate. Someone grand, important — someone who could, in theory, reward Nanne with quite a handsome sum if they allowed him to tag along. It wasn’t quite a lie. He had been a magistrate, and he could reward Nanne in various handsome ways. The annoying little details about the magistrate position being two hundred years ago and his reward being his handsome self instead of coin he’d conveniently omitted.

So he performed. “Apology accepted.”

Nanne nodded curtly, setting out the tent and tent poles. “It goes like this,” they said softly, showing him how to lay out the cloth flat on the ground. Then they arranged the poles, sliding them through holes and cloth tubes. Soon enough, they stood in front of a tent. Not the most luxurious of accommodations — there was a large hole he’d need to patch in the side, and it had all sorts of mud flecked on it — but shelter.

“Sorry,” Nanne said, as if forestalling some argument from him. “I know it’s no pavilion, but…”

“It’ll do for now,” he said, holding himself as Cazador did: back straight, stop slouching, boy, chin held high. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them shift from foot to foot, staring at the ground. “And what about you?” he asked, curious. There were four tents in camp now, and five occupants. “If you were expecting to share…”

“… I wouldn’t be opposed, if it’s with a delicious thing like you.”

But they furiously shook their head, and he paused, biting back the line. “Oh no,” they said quickly. “It’s yours, I promise. I like sleeping under the stars, honestly.”

Something told him that was a lie, but he didn’t question it. In fact, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Relief. Payment would come later, but at least he could prepare for it. Hopefully whatever civilization existed out here in this wilderness had a bath. Right now, the only option was a river, which he couldn’t exactly bathe in without dissolving into ash.

But, if he was immune to sunlight, perhaps running water wouldn’t burn him either.

“As you wish,” he said lightly. “Now, I’m sure you must be exhausted after all that hard work. Why don’t you turn in for the night? I’ll take first watch.”

Their brows shot up. “O-Oh, are you sure? You must be tired too.”

He laughed. “I can hardly sleep after what happened today.” And honestly, he didn’t feel tired. He’d spent the last two hundred years awake at night, after all. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me. Though I do appreciate the tent.”

They smiled back, hesitant and cautious. “No problem.” Then, they hesitated. “I could try to help fix it up?”

He shrugged. “If you’d like.”

Humming softly, Nanne raised their hands, then gestured to the tent. Astarion jumped as the fabric glowed, radiating its own light. When the light faded, the front flap to the tent was free of soil. Another soft hum, finished with a whistling flourish, and the soft glow returned, spreading around the tent. It took a few minutes, but soon the fabric was spotless. Nanne winced as they looked at the hole. “I’d patch it, but I’m terrible with a needle,” they admitted. “Even if we had one.”

So strange, how they apologized for a completely unnecessary kindness. It reminded him of someone. Dalyria? Aurelia? But no, they never apologized for kindness; they’d never spared him any besides some general niceties. That meant nothing, in the Szarr palace.

“Oh, you’ve done more than enough for me,” he said. More than anyone’s done for me, honestly. He paused, looking at them with a curious look. “And you’re still certain you don’t want to share? It’s spacious enough.” Perhaps that was it, then. They’d banked on performing a kindness to earn shelter.

Yet, bafflingly enough, they shook their head. “I’m certain. I…” They smiled, but it was a thin, wan look. “I’m used to sleeping outside.”

“If you insist, then.”

Nanne shuffled away, leaving him to his thoughts, and a shockingly clean tent. Though his stomach ached, throat dry, it would take some time for the rest of camp to fall asleep. The sun had just sunk beneath the horizon while they’d set up the tent. The others would require around eight hours of sleep, unless the gith demanded otherwise, but they’d most likely ease into the night instead. He doubted he was the only one finding themselves restless. So instead of slinking out to hunt, he slipped inside of the tent. His tent.

It felt strange, sitting on the clean groundcloth. Nanne was right in that it was no pavilion. But it was, in some small way, his. They’d promised that they wouldn’t ask to share, and he’d keep them to that. Which meant that for the first time he could remember, he would trance alone tonight.

The thought left him surprisingly uneasy.

There had always been someone there when he tranced. On a good day, the other spawn siblings. Gods bless, he wouldn’t have to listen to Petras’s snoring — though he had the sneaking suspicion that Gale would take his place in that regard. The man had puffed and wheezed their way around the wilderness, drawing a few eyerolls from Lae’zel.

On a bad day, when he was in the Kennel, Godey would keep watch. Delightful Godey, who so enjoyed poking and prodding him just when he’d fall into trance. Make him angry, make him snap, then use it as an excuse to punish him again. But even Godey was better than—

He swallowed, rubbing his hands on the rough texture of the tent floor. No. You’re free of him now.

But for how long? If he tranced, would he fall back under Cazador’s grasp? Could he somehow track his spawn, no matter the distance? He’d never even managed to make it to Rivington when he’d tried to escape all those years ago, but surely they were far away from Baldur’s Gate, wherever they were. That was little consolation when he recalled Cazador’s powers. The ability to summon the dead, summon wolves, wolves that could track him by scent and drag him back.

Or would he even need them? His scars ached on his back: the poem Cazador had carved into him so long ago. Was it some sort of tracking sigil? Could Cazador use them to summon him back, somehow? To Teleport him? He’d carved it into him after his disastrous escape attempt. Perhaps… Perhaps it was no poem at all. Perhaps, just as he’d attained freedom, he’d be snatched back.

But no, if that was possible, he’d be back in Baldur’s Gate already, locked in the Kennel for a month. Or… worse.

Huffing out a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his curls — then grimaced when he felt slime crusted to his locks. Ugh. He really needed that bath.

But before that, he still needed those two things: safety and information. He’d gotten about all the information he could wring out of Lae’zel and Gale about ceremorphosis; they had less than a week before they turned into mind flayers. Honestly, he didn’t know if that was worse than being recaptured by Cazador. Would he even believe Astarion if he told him everything? That he’d been snatched completely against his will, abducted by monsters?

Yes. Yes, he would. But he wouldn’t forgive him. Forgiveness had never been Cazador’s wont.

Nails digging into the cloth, he took a deep breath. Allies. He needed allies. Safety. A cure for the tadpole — no, some way to control it. And then to run far, far away, before Cazador ever found him.

“Astarion?”

He paused, turning towards the tent flap. It wasn’t open, but he heard Nanne’s voice through the cloth. “I brought you some dinner. It’s not fancy, but…”

Pushing aside the cloth, he saw Nanne squatting there. He blinked as he saw the two objects in their hands: an apple, red and shiny, and half a loaf of crusty bread.

“Here.” Nanne thrusted the objects towards him. “Gale says he’s a cook, so hopefully the food will get better, but for now, this is all we’ve got.”

Oh. Right. This was supposed to be food.

“I suppose if it’s all we have,” he sighed, taking the objects in his hands.

“You’re welcome.” Nanne paused, then added, “We’re going to sit around the fire, if you want to come join us. Food always tastes better when it’s shared.”

Sometimes, his marks had invited him to eat with them. He had, to keep up the ruse that he was alive, then suffered through regurgitating the whole mess after he’d made a meal of them. He wasn’t keen on repeating the experience. So, with a charming grin, he held back open his tent flap. “As… delightful as that sounds, I do so enjoy my privacy. We’ve been walking together all day; surely you understand.”

“Oh.” Nanne smiled, but he could see the twinge of disappointment color their features. “Okay. Well, if you need anything, we’ll be out here.”

“And you’ll be the first to know if I do,” he purred.

Then he saw the way their eyes followed the bread and apple in his hands. He’d seen that exact same expression on his siblings’ faces when Cazador fed them, holding up rats both living and dead. The hollowness to their cheeks, the way they played with their fingers to distract themselves.

Hunger.

Mortals needed to eat, didn’t they? They had spent all day walking along the beach, not stopping to eat. And from what he recalled from the assault of memories in his mind when their tadpoles brushed, Nanne was no stranger to hunger.

“To be honest,” he said slowly, “I find myself with a lack of appetite.” He held up the apple and bread. “At least for fare like this.”

“Are… Are you sure?” Nanne asked. He heard the quiver in their voice. “I know it’s all we have, but you… you should…”

He laughed. “I’m sure we’ll find something better tomorrow. Go on, take them.”

And Nanne did, hands darting out and snatching the bread and apple. “Thank you,” they said, and this time their voice broke. “I-I hope you rest well.”

He gave no response before slipping back inside of the tent. But he did watch from the hole in the tent wall as the others gathered around the fire. Nanne pulled out a knife and cut the apple in half; when their hands shook, he found himself licking his lips, desperate for their hand to slip and blood to spill. The scent would be exquisite, undoubtedly. But alas, no such thing occurred, and Nanne handed half of their apple to Shadowheart before devouring the rest themselves. In just a few seconds, they consumed the entire thing: core, seeds, stem, and all. They moved onto the bread next, tearing it with their hands and splitting it amongst the group before eating just as quickly as they had the apple.

If he let his eyes blur, he would have mistaken Nanne for Petras or Yousen, eagerly sinking their teeth into whatever vermin Cazador gave them.

Swallowing, he shucked his doublet, letting the cool air wash over his skin. Next, he reached for his bag, spreading the ragged burial shroud on the ground. A rather poor bed, but it would do — and he’d certainly slept on worse.

But now, he held the hope that somehow, in the future, he could sleep on much, much better. And he could eat much better as well. His mouth watered at the thought of prey that wasn’t decaying rats. That boar… he’d have to track it down. Once the chatter around the fire had died down, he slipped outside the tent, checked to see that everyone else had retired for the night, then skulked into the undergrowth.

Chapter 4: Options

Chapter Text

Astarion’s first meal in this new, tentative freedom was a badger.

Cazador had never taught him to hunt, much less for any prey larger than a rat. He’d caught a few around the palace when the hunger had truly gnawed him to the bone. It helped that he could hold his breath and had no heartbeat. The main disadvantage in hunting, he realized, was his undead stench. Though covering it up with perfume helped with luring in sentient prey, animals had far sharper noses.

Still, with a combination of hungry tenacity and his natural stealth, he managed to catch the creature before it dug underground. His first bite was half fur and dirt, but the second taste was extraordinary. Warm, free flowing, and over a dozen swallows instead of the two or three he could coax out of Cazador’s dead rats. It was utterly glorious, sublime even. It didn’t come close to sating the hunger, but it was far better than any rat.

In that moment, he swore to never go back. He’d die before settling for breadcrumbs again.

When the rest of the camp woke, they were none the wiser to his absence and true source of dinner. They packed up camp, and Shadowheart mentioned a strange door that she hadn’t been able to unlock the day before. Arriving at said door, Astarion made sure to pick the lock with a flourish. “Easy,” he sighed, pushing the door open with a swing.

What was not so easy was surviving a fight against skeletons, then encountering some sort of lich… thing. And after the lich asked some random questions that Nanne answered (something about the measure of a life, Nanne’s response boiling down to “all lives are precious”, which was absolute horsesh*t), they ran into bandits who had tried to break into the tomb from the other side.

He’d killed men before, on Cazador’s orders. He felt nothing when he knifed one of the bandits in the back, grabbing her by the mouth and muffling her cry as he laid her down gently on the stones. But then hunger, fierce and brutal despite the fresh animal blood, reared its all devouring head when he saw her blood pooling on the ground below.

“Astarion?”

He turned, barely able to break away from the scent of freshly spilt blood by focusing on Nanne’s. Orange peels and honey. Sweet. Familiar.

Their own face was pale, a grim rictus. “Let’s go,” they said quietly, moving sluggishly towards daylight.

That was when they had all decided to call it a day and head back to their tentative camp — and found the same lich waiting for them.

Nanne paled, leaving the group to see to their tents. Gale mentioned something about cooking dinner with the supplies they’d found, moving over to the fire with half a strand of sausages and a wedge of cheese. Thankfully, that musty mausoleum had a few creature comforts Astarion had snatched up. First, a woven rug, which he spread in front of the tent; it wouldn’t do to track mud inside. Then a stool with a nice cushion, a rickety table that Astarion covered with a rather lovely looking doily, and a mirror. All perfectly normal aristocratic things to have. Still, it could do with a few cushions. Hopefully there was an actual town around here somewhere instead of just brain beasties, badgers, and bandits. Oh, and of course, who could possibly forget the skeletons?

By the time Nanne made their way over, the tent actually looked rather homey — on the outside. “Ah, welcome to my new abode,” he said, straightening up and sweeping his arm towards the tent. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice,” Nanne said with a smile. “You got all this from that mausoleum?”

“Oh yes. It’s amazing what a pinch of graverobbing can do to spice up your home decor,” he replied. Then grinned as the bard tried — and failed — to hold back a laugh. “But I presume you didn’t just come over here to evaluate my camping furniture.”

“Just wanted to let you know that Withers will be staying with us,” Nanne explained. “Hopefully just over by the river. Away from the bedrolls and tents and all that.”

Withers must be the name of the lich. A very apt name, judging by how the man was literally skin and bone. “So,” he mused with a smile. “Any particular motivation for having a skeleton tag along? You’re not getting all philosophical about our approaching doom, are you?”

Nanne huffed out another laugh; interestingly enough, they didn’t open their eyes once they finished. “No, gods no. I mean, I never said he could come along. He’s just… there. I asked him to leave and he said no.” They shrugged, their gaze rooted to the rug beneath their feet. “Figured I’d rather not piss him off. He seems important.”

“Hmm. Well, far be it from me to complain.” It would be a touch hypocritical to whine about undead within the camp’s borders — though Nanne didn’t ever have to find out about that juicy secret. He smirked. “But as things go to complain about, it seems our approaching doom isn’t quite so eager to arrive yet. Two days, and not a tentacle to be seen. Not even a hint of fever.”

“So far,” Nanne countered. But they smiled back, a quirk of their lips. A small victory. “I’m hoping it stays that way.”

“Naturally,” he replied. “But I was thinking — what if it doesn’t?” Eyes crinkled, he waved his hand in a little tease, fingers pinched as he gestured to their chest. “Of course, first sign of change, and I’ll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours.”

Nanne’s smile turned far more wry. “Damn. And here I thought you’d promised to not jump me again.”

He laughed. “Oh, there are far more interesting ways to go. Though if you’d like the knife again, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Sounds messy. Wouldn’t want you to stain your shirt.”

He grinned; it seemed their leader had a bit of playful streak. Delightful. “How thoughtful of you. But now I’m curious. How would you choose to die, if it really comes down to it? Knives? Poison? Strangulation?”

Interestingly enough, Nanne seemed to actually ponder the question. “If we really only have a few days left…” He could see the color leave their cheeks, fingers nervously tapping on their thighs. “How’d you like to go?”

He smiled; he’d half expected them to dodge the question anyway. “Well, I don’t really think poison is for me.” At least, not if it was anything like feeding on a diseased rat. Cazador had given him a few. Some as punishment, some as a “reward.” Even the most foul, rotten ones he’d sunk his teeth into without restraint — then immediately regretted it when he felt his insides sear and twist. A very… unique agony. “Nor stabbing, come to think of it.” Best not to give their fearless leader any ideas about staking. “I’ve always felt decapitation was a fine choice. One good swing—” He bit back a laugh as Nanne flinched away from his arm swaying in front of him, mimicking the slash of a sword. “And then… nothing.”

Not that he’d ever actually allow Nanne to cut off his head. They’d find a solution to the tadpole, a way to harness its power. They had to.

“But we were talking about you,” he reminded them, smirking as they swallowed nervously. “So, what will it be?”

Again their fingers tapped against their thighs — not a fluttering of fingers nor a pat of the thighs like he did to settle himself. Instead, it followed a strange rhythm, three fingers then two then five.

“Poison,” they murmured, voice surprisingly soft. “It should be painless, at least.”

So, their leader didn’t like pain. Understandable. “A fine choice,” he murmured. “I can think of some nightshades that are deliciously fatal. If they’re mixed well, you’ll just close your eyes and drift away.” He idly picked at his nails. “Probably similar to urchins freezing to death on the street. It looks peaceful — just like falling asleep.”

Nanne bristled, a shudder of breath he could hear in the quiet temple. Their brows furrowed, eyes narrowed as their hands balled in fists at their sides.

Of course they’d be angry at the thought of urchins dying. They had a bleeding heart, naturally. “I’ve seen it before,” he clarified, softening his voice into something more placating. “Tragic, but true.”

“It’s not peaceful,” Nanne ground out, and his eyes widened at how gritty their voice had become, almost a growl. “The entire time, you’re afraid. Begging every god you know to wake up in the morning. Because no matter how bad it gets, you have to… Tomorrow has to be better.” Their lips pressed together in a firm line. “I’m not giving up on us yet.”

Astarion had wondered why the others had chosen so quickly to acquiesce to Nanne. Shadowheart was haughty, Gale had “arrogant know-it-all wizard” down pat, and Lae’zel was… Well, he doubted Nanne could last more than two seconds in a fight against her. As for himself, Nanne was a rather convenient shield to hide behind. Best to let the innocent, naive person walk in front and take the brunt of a trap’s explosion.

Now, he had to reconsider. There was a fire in Nanne’s eyes that had nothing to do with tiefling blood. Nothing so leeching and arsenic as anger, either — though he did still sense a great deal of righteous fury in that glare.

More importantly, they knew pain. They didn’t avoid it because they were innocent or naive. They avoided it out of experience. That changed everything.

He wouldn’t go so far as to consider Nanne a kindred spirit. They were still far too young for that. It just meant a different approach. So, spreading his arms, he smiled. “Of course. And don’t believe I’ve given up either; I was just getting ahead of myself. This is all a worst case scenario, obviously.”

Nanne nodded firmly. “It won’t happen. It can’t.” And the look of desperate terror in their eyes was so very familiar to Astarion. He’d felt it before, when released out into the Lower City after days of starvation, seeking yet another warm body for Cazador to feed upon. It was the look of someone who would do anything to survive after clinging by the skin of their teeth for so long.

There was an impulse to mock them. To tease them about their impending doom. To take the look in their eyes and snuff it, grind it to dust. Yet he paused.

“If the last day has taught me anything, it’s that the impossible is more likely than you think,” he said quietly. A vampire walking in sunlight. A bard cowing a githyanki. A lich joining their company and sitting at the edge of camp, completely harmless. He smiled. “Now, let’s get some rest, shall we? The sooner we start tomorrow, the better our chances of keeping this… hypothetical.”

Nanne rubbed at their face, and he paused as he saw the circles beneath their eyes. “Right. You’re right. S—”

“That’s an awful habit you have,” he pointed out. “Keep on apologizing for things that aren’t your fault, and I might just have to hold it against you.” He grinned as they stammered, rubbing at their face again. “See you in the morning. And sweet dreams, darling.”

He could hear them swallow. A little gulp at the pet name. Biting back a laugh, he looked them in the eyes and gave them a pretty bat of the eyelashes.

“Right, good night,” Nanne said quickly before making a hasty retreat.

Hm. Were they not interested in men? He’d seen them conversing frequently with Shadowheart, asking how she felt about the progress of their journey. He rubbed at his chin as Nanne began to make their rounds, asking after the others, rolling his eyes as he saw Gale preening at himself using a little illusion. And of course, after Gale came Shadowheart; Nanne seemed to avoid Lae’zel, which was understandable. Talking with a cactus might make for a less prickly experience.

But once the camp fell quiet, he caught Nanne’s eyes as they glanced back at him. The tips of their ears were a dusky red, a stark contrast to the clay earthiness of their skin.

He winked back — then chuckled as Nanne immediately turned back to their bedroll with scarlet cheeks.

The next day brought a druid grove packed with tiefling refugees, more bickering between Shadowheart and Lae’zel, and a rather handsome warlock.

“Friends call me Wyll,” the man said, shaking Astarion’s palm with gusto.

“The famed Blade of the Frontiers,” he replied. “I’ve heard quite a bit about your exploits.” And quite the luscious gossip about how supposedly Mr. “Hero of the Sword Coast” was actually a relative to the Grand Duke. “Welcome to our merry little band of weirdos.”

Wyll laughed, and it was a rather pleasant sound. A touch more refined than he’d anticipated. “Of course. I appreciate the warm welcome, especially if it means tracking down that devil.” His gaze darkened, glancing nervously around the squalid refugee camp. “I worry that if we delay any longer, she could wreak untold havoc. The tieflings are so vulnerable here.”

Great. Yet another bleeding heart. And a monster hunter to boot.

Despite the man being awfully gorgeous, Astarion kept his distance — no need to invite trouble — and made his way back to Nanne. “So, which poison are you going to pick? The druids or the githyanki?”

Nanne stared at the ground, arms folded. “I don’t know.”

If the choice was up to Astarion, he’d leave the stink and mud behind that second. Surely the githyanki smelled better than the washed up tieflings. At least, he hoped; he worried he’d never get the scent of sweat and desperation out of his clothes, much less out of the cushions he’d stolen from one of the tieflings’ wagons. But Nanne, interestingly enough, chose both routes. First, speaking with Zorru and wheedling a location out of him after telling Lae’zel to stand down — he relished the look of scandalized deference on her face — then barging into the druid’s chanting circle before rescuing the tiefling who’d tried to steal their oh so important idol.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat as the girl dashed past. Death was a rather harsh punishment for thieves; even he’d never gone so far when passing a judgement or a ruling, from what he could remember. No wonder Nanne had been nervous before about this. Investigating this cure really was akin to picking poison. Either trust the druids who so clearly wanted everyone else out before they spent the rest of their days hugging trees, or trust the githyanki who would want them dead on a good day.

Afterwards, Nanne spoke to Nettie, and the metaphor became far too literal for his liking when he saw her grip that thorny branch. But she provided a name, “Halsin”, and claimed he could cure them of their parasites. He saw how Nanne’s eyes lit up at that — and then rolled his own when they promised to rescue the druid immediately. After accepting wyvern poison from her.

He honestly couldn’t tell whether their leader was an idiot or not. More frustratingly, he couldn’t tell if their leader being an idiot was good or disastrous.

“How good of a druid can he be when he’s been captured by goblins?” he muttered, filching a few sprigs of rosemary as they passed. He was starting to run low on his perfume, though he’d been able to save a few precious drops by abstaining from using it on his thighs. No need for that yet.

“A healer’s talents may not lie in combat,” Gale said pointedly. “And I believe our leader is rather wise to keep our options open. Better to not rely on just one potential cure.”

Hmm. That was probably the smartest thing he’d said yet. And he did make a good point. Keeping options open was rather important, at this juncture.

They’d gathered a few more provisions for dinner at the grove. Gale presented his stew with a dramatic flourish, then encouraged everyone to dig in. He smiled at Astarion as he passed the bowl to him. “I’m aware your palate is more refined, but I did bring a pinch of allspice with me. It pairs well with the venison.”

“I prefer my meat rare, actually,” he said primly. “Rare as can be. Dripping.”

Gale rolled his eyes, but Nanne tore themselves away from their bowl to look at him wide-eyed. “You get sick if you eat it like that,” they said, wiping their chin.

“And you’ll get sick if you eat everything like that, darling,” he shot back. “The stew’s not going anywhere. Honestly, it’s like you want to die before we sprout tentacles.”

Nanne lowered the bowl as they stared at the fire, face pale and drawn. Wyll, meanwhile, glared at him with the force of a thousand suns. “I’m sure Astarion’s just worried you’re going to choke,” he said soothingly, perfectly at odds with the venom dripping from his eyes. “But gods know there have been days when I’d eat tree bark just to stop my stomach gnawing on itself.” He clapped a hand on Nanne’s shoulder; Astarion felt no small pang of frustration at the little smile Nanne flashed him. “We’re lucky to have such a fine cook traveling with us, eh?”

“Best food I’ve ever tasted, Gale,” Nanne agreed, shoveling another spoonful into their mouth. At least they weren’t literally inhaling it like they had been before.

Staring down at his own bowl, Astarion poked its contents with his fork. Then stared at Nanne as they finished even before Lae’zel, spoon clattering against wood. The firelight accented the gaunt look to their face, the hollows in their cheeks.

“Here, darling,” he murmured, sliding over his bowl.

Nanne stared at the bowl wide-eyed — then looked up at him. “I… You’re not hungry?”

“Not for this slop,” he replied; Gale behind him made a rather indignant coughing noise. “But you seem to be. Best to give it to someone who appreciates it.”

Nanne did take the bowl, much to his relief. But they stared at him the entire time as they took his fork and put it in their mouth.

He supposed their suspicion was perfectly reasonable. It wasn’t like any of his siblings had ever been willing to give each other their rat, living or dead or otherwise. And when Petras had bragged about the master giving him a dog, he’d woken up the next night screaming and covered with rashes while Violet cackled and slipped a head of garlic into her trunk.

But he had to keep his options open. And his “sacrifice” would hopefully smooth over any ruffled feathers.

After dinner, while everyone else cleaned and prepared for bed, he laid down in the grass. It would take some time for everyone to settle down so he could hunt. And under Cazador, leisure was a foreign concept. He might as well relish it now, before…

Sighing, he looked up at the stars. They were actually rather lovely tonight. A poet would have used terms like “diamonds sparkling on blue silk” or “twinkles of dew on velvet.” The air had begun to crisp up in a way that he’d never felt before in the Gate. Even with his nightly prowls, he was often inside taverns or hostels, not outside. Breathing fresh air, having enough free time to look at stars, blood that wasn’t from rats, putrid or otherwise…

He wouldn’t give up these little freedoms, not after having a taste.

And when Nanne wandered over after talking to Shadowheart, he felt a thrill of victory. “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“Hmm?”

“The stars, I mean,” he clarified. “I could take or leave your chin,” he added, winking up at them. Nanne did seem to like their witty little repartee.

Yet, oddly enough, they tensed, head bowed. “Sorry, am I bothering you?”

He frowned; maybe the tease had been a misstep. Or maybe they were still sour from him chiding them at dinner. “No,” he said earnestly, “just thinking. Have you decided yet which route we’re going to pursue? I don’t envy you the decision.” Even if their tadpoles weren’t going to turn them into mind flayers anytime soon, it would still be a tough choice to make.

They rubbed at their temples with the heel of their palms, much as they’d done when they’d first met. “First, we’re going to help Wyll catch his devil. Then… we can’t just leave the tieflings to Kahga or the goblins.” They folded their arms again, tightly over their chest. “Going after Halsin would take out two birds with one stone. We get a cure for the tadpoles, we help the tieflings.” Yet as they spoke, their voice hesitated, halting and slow. Not in a placating way either. “I’m going to bring it up tomorrow.”

“And then after that, I suppose there’s no knowing what comes next,” he murmured. “If we do find this Halsin, will we find out how to bring the worm under control? Will this little adventure of ours be over?”

Nanne smiled thinly. “What? Are you going to miss me?”

He laughed, climbing to his feet. “Why not? You’ve been to the Hells and back, survived the crash, survived everything that’s followed — wizards, warlocks, goblins, and Lae’zel.” Nanne let out a soft giggle, head ducking. “No, no, lift up your head,” he chided warmly. “I’m not easily impressed by people, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”

They paused. “I… thought you didn’t like me.”

Ah, that was it. Perhaps he’d stuck a little too close to the haughty nobleman act. So he smiled, brilliant and beautiful and alluring. “You have your charms, darling. More than you’d think.” And it wasn’t a lie. They were rather good at being charming. Not the charming that Cazador had forced him to learn, then perform. It was that fire in their eyes, mixed with the innocence. Jaded, yet hopeful. Rather similar to their new Blade of Frontiers, now that he thought of it. And thrown together with being kind to a fault, they radiated the sort of earnestness anyone could fall for.

Not him, though. He knew better than to fall for good intentions and well wishes. Nothing in this world was given freely — least of all kindness. One day, Nanne would come to collect, and he would be more than ready.

“A-Ah, well…” Nanne’s head ducked again, arms still folded tightly. “I’m just trying to get through this in one piece. Like you.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “We’re more similar than I thought.”

Astarion didn’t recall much of his life before the Turning. He remembered being young for an elf, and Cazador had never failed to remind him that he had been worthless, small and pathetic. Naturally, in his eyes, the Turning had been the best thing that had happened to him, instead of the worst experience of his life. He did know that his skills with a lockpick and pickpocketing hadn’t been taught to him by Cazador. The magistrate position had been real. Real enough to earn him a nice spot in the Lower City’s cemetery, but clearly not grand enough to be considered a great loss. No one had come looking for him, after all.

It was likely that he’d started out similar to Nanne: poor, desperate, hungry, searching for something more. Judging by the state of their clothes, they hadn’t found it yet. And well, his own search hadn’t gone too well, if conning his way into being a magistrate had ended with him in Cazador’s thrall.

Perhaps they saw the worm as he did. A chance to start over again.

“Astarion?” Nanne asked softly, and he jolted. “You’re… staring.”

He stammered, blinking quickly. “A-Ah, was I? I just…” Something dark and shameful coiled in his stomach. Letting the mask slip was unforgivable. Unbearable. They’d ask questions, they’d see, they’d know—

He smiled. “...I just need to get some air. Clear my head. I’ll see you in the morning, I’m sure.” Then, softer, “Sleep tight.”

Two rabbits later, he felt fuller, but still unsated. His head was clearer, but there was still a dullness to the world around him, a fuzziness to his thoughts that he knew wasn’t from exhaustion. Sitting on a fallen log, looking up at the stars, he wiped his chin.

If they managed to bring the worms under control, he needed a plan. A way to keep himself safe, to ensure he wouldn’t be thrown out of camp. He’d already developed somewhat of a rapport with Nanne, but it was exactly as they’d said — if their journey came to a close in just a few days, then he’d be no better off than how he’d started. Alone, stranded in the wilderness, with no one to defend him from Cazador.

But, if Nanne had a particular reason to like him, to want him to stay…

It would be easy. They were earnest, yes, but simple. Easy to seduce, to manipulate. All he had to do was promise them a night they’d never forget, and they’d consider him useful. After all, it wasn’t like they could get pleasure anywhere else in this wretched wilderness.

Yes. It had to be them.

Chapter 5: Complications

Chapter Text

The only problem with Astarion’s nice, simple plan was that everyone else apparently had the exact same idea.

They quickly found Karlach, the devil Wyll had been desperate to hunt down — and who was no devil at all. Then they’d spent the rest of the afternoon slaughtering some bandits posing as paladins. And then came the twist Astarion hadn’t seen coming.

“You fight well,” Lae’zel said abruptly as they rested in the shade of some trees, after Karlach had spent the last hour tearing apart the tollhouse — honestly, a fantastic idea. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to burn down the Szarr Palace and watch the cinders blow away in the wind. If not for the fact that her touch would apparently sear his skin off, Astarion would have switched targets from Nanne to Karlach immediately. A shame, that.

Nanne smiled back at Lae’zel, eyes closed; Astarion had noticed that the bard had an interesting reluctance to look anyone in the eye. From anyone else, it would come across as suspicious; from them, he found it merely peculiar. “We make a good team.”

“Chk. I have a confession.”

“Oh. All right.”

“I was too hasty to judge you,” she began, passing a whetstone over her greatsword. “I thought you witless, gutless, and unimpressively bland.”

Astarion had to bite back a laugh as Nanne, taking a bite of sausage, paused.

“Now,” she continued, “you have earned my respect. You have led us to victory in every battle so far, and have proven yourself capable of negotiation. Your body may be weak and frail, but you possess a true warrior’s spirit.”

“That’s, uh… Thanks?”

“And you’re hardly bland. Your scent is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end.”

Astarion couldn’t blame the poor bard for choking. Shadowheart looked two seconds away from gagging as she sorted their potions and elixirs. Gale’s nose was pressed so deeply into his book that if it closed, his face would be squashed. The only people in their group deprived of this kind of entertainment were Karlach and Wyll, who sat some distance away chatting with each other like old friends instead of a devil hunter and his erstwhile prey.

Lae’zel stared evenly at Nanne as they recovered, thumping at their chest. “Oh gods, I… Wow. Are you, um… What?”

“I want to taste you,” she said simply, as if they were discussing the weather. Astarion wheezed in a breath, shaking from trying to hold back his laughter as Nanne’s skin glowed from the force of their blush. “Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same.” The force of her gaze pinned Nanne in place as they squirmed. “Do you?”

Shadowheart made a disgusted noise as she stood up and walked out into the sun, hauling her bag of potions. Gale hadn’t turned a page in the last two minutes. And Astarion, enjoying the sunlight on his face, watched as Nanne’s face moved from abject terror to soul crushing depression to a very plastered-on smile. “That’s awfully kind of you,” they said. “But, I, er… I’m not really looking for that sort of thing right now.”

sh*t. What in the hells did that mean? That they weren’t interested in sex? Just a polite misdirection to let Lae’zel down gently?

“Chk.” She stood up, sliding her sword onto her back. “Your loss, then. Do not return mewling and begging when you realize what you’ve turned your back on.” And then she was off to pick through the undergrowth.

The silence was deafening.

Then, Gale snapped his book closed. “Well!” he said, overly cheery. “I’ll see about fixing up some lunch! Can’t exactly keep exploring on an empty stomach.” His retreat could have outpaced a horse as he scurried away, leaving Nanne and Astarion alone.

Nanne stared at the ground as if it were an abstract painting. “I… That was… something.”

Astarion grinned. “Don’t worry, darling — as far as propositions go, it could have been far worse.” Tasting you was far from the most obscene thing he’d heard in the Gate’s taverns. It was far from the most obscene thing he’d ever said to a mark either.

They nodded, rubbing their face with the heels of their palms.

“Though she did have one thing right,” he commented idly. “You do smell lovely.”

Nanne bolted upright, eyes wide as they stared at him.

And he couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh no, don’t worry. I’m not about to lick your sweat, darling.”

But worry coiled in his gut at Nanne’s loud sigh of relief as they leaned back against the tree.

That worry turned to annoyance as that night, he spotted Gale playing with his little magic tricks again. Except this time, Nanne wandered over, evidently curious. Astarion had seen the bard perform some magic — flashes of light during battle to disorient goblins, a thunderclap or two to stun — but he’d never peg them the type to go after the wizard.

He did his best to ignore the chatter, then Nanne’s delighted laughter, with a trashy romance novel they’d found abandoned in the tollhouse basem*nt. Some rags to riches piece, the typical “saintly heroine endures all sorts of indignity before being saved by a strapping prince” fare. Hopefully the smut would be decent, at least.

The lights faded behind him. And then a soft “Oh,” by Gale, morose and soft. “How… How quickly it fades.”

The words filled him with a quiet melancholy as he turned the page. He knew that feeling well. Happiness was something he’d never had a chance to experience under Cazador, but the bastard knew how to crush hope.

As they packed up the next day, he sidled over to Nanne, a practiced smile on his lips. “So, I noticed you and the wizard getting cozy last night.”

“Hmm? Oh, the magic thing?” Nanne shrugged, rolling up their bedroll. “It was nice. Gale’s very talented, and I figured it’d be good for me to pick up more spells.”

“Is that all?” he asked, blinking.

“We did talk a little about his cat.”

“Really?” He smirked, leaning in. “It seemed a bit more… magical than that, darling. You’re certain the only sparks flying were from spellcasting?”

Nanne laughed softly, ducking their head again — a clear nervous tic. “Hopefully I didn’t singe your tent with any.”

“Oh, now you’re just playing coy,” he complained. “Honestly, there’s nothing going on between you and the wizard? Not even a flirt?”

Nanne stiffened, oddly. Astarion frowned as they turned to look at him, hands clutching their pack and bringing it to their chest like a shield. “I… I’m not really built for something like that.”

He blinked. Nanne could have just denied the accusation, or simply said they didn’t like the wizard in that way. The way they phrased it was more than just strange, it was downright bizarre. “No cravings for companionship?” he asked, genuinely curious.

He’d heard of people who had no desire for sex or romance. After two hundred years of debauchery and playing the rake to anyone who would listen, he could understand why. But if Nanne was one of those types, his plan would be dead in the water before it could even start.

“Companionship. You mean…?” They swallowed. “It’s just not a good time right now. Hard to get in the mood when we could sprout tentacles any day now,” they joked, though their voice came out too shaky.

So it wasn’t that they were adverse to sex. That eased his concerns somewhat. But for some reason, they abstained. They weren’t a paladin or a cleric — that would be the easy explanation. They didn’t seem the religious type either; when they’d come upon that shrine to Selûne, Nanne had eagerly rounded up the potions and vanities to sell.

It could be that they just didn’t know each other very well. He’d met those kinds before in his hunts: people who couldn’t trust a strange man with a too-easy smile. Most people like Nanne wouldn’t.

If that was the case, they’d just have to get to know each other. Intimately.

As they began the trek back to the druid’s grove — Nanne had promised Karlach that they would take her to Dammon, the tiefling blacksmith — the woman herself bounded up to them with wide eyes. “Soldier! You’re a bard, yeah?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I am.”

“Well, go on then! Play us a song! Marching’s always easier when there’s a tune to keep you in step.”

Astarion blinked as she gestured at the lute. It occurred to him suddenly that aside from a few strums during combat, he’d never actually heard Nanne play the thing. Or sing. Perhaps they had stage fright?

Yet they smiled back easily, swinging their lute around so it hung in front of their stomach instead of across their back. “Got a song request?”

“Hah!” Karlach snorted. “Mate, it’s been years since I’ve heard anything. Play your favorites! Something new!”

“Ah, well, it’s not new, but…” They strummed a few chords, fiddling with what Astarion assumed was the pitch of the strings. “I hope you like this one.”

Then they began to play. “There is a house in Athkatla they call the Rising Sun—”

Astarion stopped dead in his tracks.

“It has been the ruin of many a poor soul — and gods, I know I’m one.”

He knew that song. He knew that voice.

“Now the only thing a gambler requires is a satchel and his luck — and the only time he is satisfied is when he’s in his cups…”

He could smell smoke and spirits and sweat. Could feel wine seeping into the floorboards beneath his feet, soaking his flimsy boots made for cobblestones.

“Oh mothers, tell thy children not to do as I have done — to live a life of sin, lust, shame, and strife in the house of the Rising Sun.”

“Astarion?”

He jumped, looking wide eyed at Wyll. The rest of the group had gone up the trail, leaving him behind as Nanne finished the song. “Are you all right?” he asked softly. “Karlach shouted for you, but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Just lost in a memory, I suppose.”

“Are you certain you’re not harmed?” Wyll asked. His hand lifted, moving towards his face. “A concussion—”

“Don’t touch me,” Astarion snapped, batting his hand away. “I’m fine, thank you.” He marched up the trail, fingers gripping the straps of his pack with white knuckled fervor as Nanne played a much quicker ditty. Karlach clapped along, but faltered as she saw his face. Her lips parted, as if to ask him a question, then clearly thought better of it.

He had no idea why the song set him so on edge, made him so sour. He didn’t need to know, either. But he had to purposefully unclench his muscles as he walked, and when he loosened his jaw, he realized he’d been grinding his teeth.

After running into a vicious pack of gnolls, they all decided to make camp, and Astarion headed straight to the river to wash the blood out of his curls. They’d crossed running water earlier to find Karlach, and thankfully no one had pointed out his hesitance when he stood on the riverbank. They likely thought he was just worried about ruining his boots.

Stripping down, he bit back a hiss as he waded into the chilly water. At least Cazador’s refusal to provide his spawn with hot water had dulled his sensitivity. Dunking his head, he furiously scrubbed at his curls, then sighed as he hid under the water for a bit.

That song. That stupid, bloody song. He knew that he’d heard it before, in Nanne’s voice even, but that was impossible. They’d never met before the Nautiloid. So where…?

Probably a tavern of some sort, while he’d been out fetching prey. Yes, now he could recall. The Blushing Mermaid, maybe? But they sang shanties, and that had been a proper bard’s song. Far more mournful than any drinking song he’d heard of.

Did it really matter? It was just a song. A… good song, he admitted to himself, reluctantly. Most songs he’d heard were at Cazador’s wretched balls, ensemble pieces to accompany dances. Only occasionally had he heard a bard sing along to a lute, and those were usually ridiculous “hey nonny nonny” songs. Or they were overwrought with poetic lyrics about love. A song about a gambling man trapped in a life of sin was rather refreshing. Pedestrian.

After a few more minutes of scrubbing, he dressed himself, then made his way back to camp. Yes. Just a good song. That was all it was, and all it had to be. And Nanne’s singing voice was rather lovely. Floaty and airy on the high notes, gravelly and tough on the low ones. They had actual talent. Maybe, perhaps if he asked nicely…

Any thoughts of requesting another song died on his tongue when he caught Shadowheart talking with Nanne in a soft, low voice.

Gods damn it, why did everyone in this camp want to get into Nanne’s pants?

He didn’t hate the woman, honestly. She worshipped Shar? Fine. That was no concern to him, considering how no god had ever answered his prayers. And she’d patched up his injuries somewhat when he’d taken a stray blade from one of those bandits in the mausoleum. But the absolute last thing he needed was for her to make a move now.

They finished the conversation all smiles, and he dredged out his sewing kit to begin repairing his doublet — bloody tree branches had torn a hole in the sleeve. When Nanne walked by, he didn’t look up. “So, that looked like a riveting conversation.”

“Just a talk.”

He smiled up at them through his eyelashes. “Oh? A pleasant talk, I take it.”

Nanne flushed. “Just making up for a missed chance is all.”

Well, if that wasn’t portentous. Great. Fantastic. So it wasn’t that Nanne was nervous about sex — they just liked Shadowheart more than anyone else in the party. And despite their joke about their tadpoles preventing them from getting in the mood, he could read in between the lines. What better way to destress from impending doom than sex?

It seemed his plan was just as f*cked as Shadowheart was going to be. Or, well, Nanne. Shadowheart didn’t seem the type to take things lying down.

“Well now,” he purred, “you’ll have to tell me all about it in the morning.” Batting his lashes, he flashed them his most charming smile. “Have a fine evening, dear.”

“Thanks,” Nanne responded, smiling back, and something twinged in his chest at the look.

Just a few hours later, when most of the camp had gone to bed, he saw Nanne walk into the woods with Shadowheart, a bottle of wine and two cups between them. He waited until they were out of sight, then crept out in the opposite direction. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach almost as fiercely as the hunger did; best to soothe one of them tonight.

After gulping down boar blood until his stomach almost burst — he should honestly steal some jars from Gale to store in case he felled larger prey — he looked up at the stars and considered. Karlach would be his second choice after Nanne; he’d overheard Nanne talking with her, and she’d mentioned feeling pent up. And she was rather lovely to boot, in a sort of “dog with a wagging tail” way. If only bedding her didn’t carry the risk of second degree burns.

Gale wasn’t an option. He cut a fine figure, but it was clear he’d grown attached to their little bard, and he didn’t seem the type to move on easily. If he was to survive, Astarion needed to be better than just a rebound.

Lae’zel? She seemed all too fond of carnal pleasures. He wasn’t sure if he’d survive the encounter, though — at least, not without bruises. And she held far too great a disdain for Faerûn; she would never consider protecting him from Cazador to be worth the trouble, even if he gave a stellar performance.

That left Wyll. Self righteous, Blade of Frontiers Wyll. He was certainly charming enough. The only issue was the fact that he was a self-styled champion of the common, honest folk — and that definition wouldn’t include him. Would he be able to tell that he was a vampire? Nanne probably thought vampires storybook myths, or at the very least a danger they’d never experience in their lifetime.

Keep your options open. It’s the only way you’ll survive.

Sighing, he wiped off his chin and stumbled back to camp, stomach full of blood and anxiety.

Breaking his trance in the morning, Astarion looked over at Nanne’s bedroll — and found it surprisingly occupied.

Hmm. So, either the tryst hadn’t gone well, or they were just trying to keep it on the downlow. Understandable; it wasn’t like the camp had much privacy. He’d already seen Lae’zel fully nude (on accident, even), and knew that Gale enchanted his briefs (“wizard” and “pervert” went hand in hand, apparently). And Lae’zel and Shadowheart were already at each others’ throats. Best to not start sharing tents right away after Nanne had rejected the gith’s proposition, he supposed.

Something tight coiled in his chest as he looked at Nanne fast asleep in their bedroll. The sun had barely begun to crest over the horizon, painting the camp — and their face — in soft pinks and hazy oranges. It brought out the red in their clay skin and their silvery hair.

They were half-elven — half drow, judging by the eyebrows and lashes. That made their age harder to judge. But in this moment, they looked… young.

It was the sort of youth that had drawn him to his more innocent targets. The ones that had never been kissed, never caressed, before he’d come along and show them how. His “type,” Cazador had told him mockingly.

“Do you think that by sullying them, you can regain something you have lost?”

Pushing that delightful thought out of his mind, he went to the river to wash up, slipping into Gale’s tent to steal a few jars. The man was still snoring loud enough to rouse the dead — Astarion included — as Astarion rummaged through his shelves and found a few nice, large jars. No cracks in the glass, good quality: perfect for a blood bank. By the time he snuck out, Nanne was up and coaxing the fire back to life, blowing on the embers.

He must have stumbled, or perhaps the jars clinked together. Nanne turned, looking at him wide-eyed — then eyed Gale’s tent before their eyes darted back to him even wider. Their lips parted, the obvious question on their tongue.

Astarion furiously shook his head, made a gagging face, and then held up the jars. Nanne’s lips formed a silent “oh”, then wheezed out a laugh as they turned back

Something about them sitting in front of the fire, warming their hands, struck a chord in him.

Soon enough, the rest of the camp rose with the sun, and he noticed Shadowheart stumble out of her tent with her makeup smudged. Oh my. So things had gotten messy last night — from pleasure or from pain, he couldn’t tell.

But Nanne was all smiles once she appeared, and Astarion watched in defeat as they walked over with a few hunks of bread and an apple. Hmm. Apparently they were something of a romantic, if they were bringing her breakfast.

He should just ignore them. His nice simple plan had gone up in smoke. No, he should be trying to chat up Wyll right now, who was speaking with Gale as he cooked up a hot breakfast. Compliment that stone eye, simper over that toned body.

Instead, Karlach looked at him with a wince as he wandered over, whistling innocently. “Uh, soldier?” she said, flames flickering around her skin as she jabbed her thumb at Nanne and Shadowheart. “Best not go over there right now.”

“Oh?” he asked, grinning brightly. “Have our two lovebirds finally broken the ice?”

Karlach laughed, but it was a nervous thing. “Don’t think that’s what’s going on, mate.”

Indeed, from what he could pick up from his elven hearing, this wasn’t exactly a tender moment between lovers.

“...thought you were going to kiss me,” Shadowheart said lowly. A deep breath, then, “I… wanted you to kiss me.”

Oh, now this was juicy.

He listened keenly as Nanne let out a heavy breath. “I… I’m sorry.”

“No,” she replied, too flippantly. “Clearly I misread the situation. Apologies.”

“I’m sorry,” Nanne said softly, and interestingly enough, Astarion heard true regret in their voice. “I…” Another exhale, then, “I’ll leave you be.”

Karlach winced again, her sharp intake of breath whistling through her fangs as Nanne walked past. “Ouch.”

“Ouch indeed,” he murmured.

He took some time before swinging by Shadowheart, packing his things in the meantime while everyone else ate breakfast. Gale had gifted him a Bag of Holding to stow his things in; maybe the man wasn’t as insufferable as he’d thought, and the involuntary gift of jars certainly helped. Once the bag had swallowed up his whole tent, cushions and all, he slipped over to Shadowheart’s neck of camp, hands clasped behind his back. “So,” he said casually, “I heard that things got… heated, between you and Nanne last night.”

“Funny,” she said coolly. “Your ears must not be very sharp, considering I saw you blatantly eavesdropping the entire time.”

Damn cleric of Shar. “Oh dear,” he said, injecting pity into his tone. “So last night was a flop?”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. “Why am I even having this conversation with you?”

“Just curious is all!” He leaned against the cliff face, examining his nails. “A shame you didn’t manage to tangle under the moonlight. The wine was a very nice touch, I’ll give you that. Steal a bottle from the tieflings, or have you been saving it for a special occasion?”

An exasperated huff left her lips as she grabbed her pack. “Believe what you’d like.”

“Oh come now, darling.” He planted his hands on his hips. “I’ve seen how you look at them. Don’t tell me that Shar doesn’t condone any earthly pleasures. I thought it was priests of Ilmater that had to remain celibate.”

“Anything that impedes my lady’s mission is a liability,” she snapped back. “Which includes you, if you keep making a pest of yourself. Go stick your nose somewhere else; it certainly doesn’t belong here.”

But the knew that look in her eye. Far from being stuffy, that was the look of a woman scorned.

He held up his hands in surrender as he retreated. “All right, as you wish.” He barely turned around before he grinned. Giddy, he stalked over to where Nanne was packing their things. “Now, darling, I don’t mean to pry, but—”

“Curious about what Shadowheart and I did last night?” Nanne asked, not even bothering to look up at him.

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “It seemed a rather romantic idea.”

Nanne bent over, crawling to grab something from the ground, and Astarion stared as their hips lifted into the air. That shaggy mop of a haircut was a travesty, but gods bless, that ass more than made up for it. “Just a drink between friends.”

His jaw dropped. “Friends?”

Oh, that poor, poor girl.

A missed chance for a kiss, he could understand. Even he had experienced it once or twice, misreading the cues. But Nanne hadn’t misread a cue so much as proven themselves illiterate when it came to romance. It was wine under the moonlight for gods’ sakes.

Nanne straightened up, slinging their pack onto their shoulder, and looked at him briefly. In the sunlight, their eyes looked like emeralds sparkling on dark velvet. “I wanted to give her time to talk about her feelings. She worships Shar, and she’s always kept to the shadows, even in camp. So I thought I’d take the time to just talk. I know what it’s like to be different.” Their voice faded, sinking deeper into melancholy. “To feel like there’s no one to talk to.”

“So, that’s it? Drinking wine in the forest as friends.” Gods above, what was he going to have to do in order to sleep with them? Just flat out say “I think we should have sex”? Strip naked and hide in their bedroll?

“She brought the wine. I don’t really care for it.”

Astarion blinked. “Not a good vintage?”

Nanne’s eyes grew hazy, distant as they stared at the horizon just to his left. “Don’t like it at all. Just reminds me of a night I’d rather forget,” they said softly.

Now that was interesting. Most people used alcohol to forget said nights. But he filed that bit of information into his memory. More wine for him, at least.

“Astarion?” Nanne asked.

“Yes, darling?”

“I’m happy to tell you all this, but why do you care?”

Ah. Perhaps he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d hoped. “Just curious is all,” he lied easily. “When you’re stuck in a dull office all day, gossip is worth its weight in gold.”

“Oh.” Nanne smiled again, an amused little twitch of the lips. “Well, if it’s gossip you’re after, I think you’ll like this.” They leaned in, and he barely stopped himself from flinching as they cupped their hand to their mouth, whispering in his ear. “I think Wyll has a crush on Karlach.”

“Oho,” he breathed, lips split wide in a grin. “Now that is quite delicious.”

Astarion didn’t fancy himself the type of person to have an easily soured mood. But finding his dinner stone dead in the middle of the road took his mood from “relatively sunny” to “ready to run for the hills” in two seconds flat.

They’d stopped when they’d heard screaming — and of course, because it was Nanne, they had to go help the idiots who were doing the screaming. It had turned out into a solid lead, in the end. Apparently, a new religion was starting up in Faerûn, worshipping a goddess called the Absolute. Which, considering this cult was backed up by mind flayers, Astarion wasn’t too keen on soliciting for future prayers.

The far bigger concern was the fact that the sods duped by this cult were looking for survivors of the Nautiloid crash.

“We’ll keep an eye out if we see them,” Nanne had said slowly. “In the meantime, you should go back home. Stay safe out there.” It was their wont, to always resolve things peacefully. He supposed it made sense — but killing them would have been far more fun.

Any sense of fun evaporated when they returned to the main trail to find an exsanguinated boar lying in the middle of the road.

sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, f*ck. He hadn’t fed on it in the middle of the road. He’d dragged it away, hadn’t he? In the dark? Away from camp, certainly. So how in the hells had it ended up here? Perhaps other animals had dragged it off for food? But no, no other bite marks.

Then he smelled it. Grave rot, surrounding the boar’s corpse.

He hadn’t been careful enough. Hadn’t thought that other animals wouldn’t tidy up his mess, because they could literally smell the undeath surrounding it. Stupid, stupid, brainless Astarion. Thoughtless boy, wretched child, stupid.

“That’s… odd,” Nanne said slowly.

“Who cares about some pig?” Astarion sighed, folding his arms tightly. If he had a pulse, it would be hammering.

“A pig randomly dropping dead in this forest?” Gale rubbed his chin. “My first thought is failed ceremorphosis, but a mind flayer tadpole wouldn’t even attempt to invade the creature.”

“There’s not some disease going around, is there?” Karlach asked, scratching at her horn. “Hey, Wyll, you’ve been around here for a while, right?”

“Yes, and I haven’t heard of any illnesses spreading around the region.” His hand fell to his rapier, because of course it did. “This doesn’t seem to be the work of an illness."

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed. “It isn’t.”

Oh, wonderful. She was a cleric. He was trapped in a party of do-gooders with the self-proclaimed Blade of Frontiers and a f*cking cleric. With his meal staring right at him with glassy, beady eyes.

“The pig is dead,” he snapped. “Staring at it won’t bring it back to life. Who cares how it died? It’s dead, let’s go.”

“No, it is more than that,” Lae’zel said. “Fresh meat is rare.” She punctuated that statement by pulling out a very large knife. Astarion flinched as she began hacking at the corpse immediately. “It would be foolish to waste this boon. You can cook game like this, wizard?”

“I, er, yes?” Gale looked like he was about to be sick, and Astarion for once felt exactly the same.

Especially when Nanne squinted. “There’s no blood.”

Lae’zel paused. Astarion’s stomach, damningly filled with the missing blood, churned. Squatting in front of the pig, Nanne immediately parted the fur at the boar’s neck — as if they knew exactly what to look for. He squirmed as two holes gaped in the beast’s flesh.

“sh*t,” Wyll hissed.

Great. So the resident monster hunter knew that there was a vampire skulking about.

“I should have noticed before,” Shadowheart breathed, eyes wide. “The grave rot. You can smell the undeath.”

Gods f*cking damn it.

“It’s just a dead pig,” Astarion huffed, but his voice shook too much, and he hated the fact that he’d said anything at all. “Who cares how it died? Lae’zel can butcher the damned thing and maybe we can have a decent supper for once instead of cheese wheels and sausage. Can we go now?”

Nanne looked at him with flat eyes — and somehow, that scared him more than a glare. “These marks are strange,” they said softly. “They scare you. Why?”

Oh gods, what a question. But, he realized with a start, he had a way out.

“Of course I’m terrified, darling,” he said lowly, adding a few extra quivers to his voice. It wasn’t difficult, not at all. “It’s been drained of blood with wounds in its neck. That means… That means it’s been killed by a vampire.”

Something deflated in Nanne’s posture, as if they were a plant wilting from lack of sunlight. “So it’s true, then.”

He made a show of nodding frantically. “I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to worry you. Vampires are ferocious creatures.” He smiled thinly. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep watch tonight. We won’t have to worry about nocturnal visitors. Now please, let’s go. If we stay any longer, it might catch our scent.”

Lae’zel was still hacking at the corpse with that fearsome knife. He quickly turned away; if he stared at the blade for too long, it would be far too easy to imagine it stuck between his ribs.

“You’re right,” Nanne said softly. “We should go.” Then, looking at him, they smiled faintly. “This is why you’ve been staying up every night, isn’t it?”

His blood ran cold. “What?”

“To protect us.” Their smile widened, the skin around their eyes crinkling as the flames in their eyes popped and sparked. “You’ve been making sure the vampire won’t attack us.”

His jaw rolled somewhere on the ground.

Then, nervously, he laughed. “Oh darling, you’re making me out to be some hero. It’s just a coincidence, honestly. But I promise that tonight, I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

“Thank you.” Nanne’s eyes closed, as they so often did after a few seconds of conversation. “I’ll sleep better for that.”

He found himself keeping his word, that night.

They stopped just before arriving at the ruins of a village; Lae’zel had spotted the goblin ambush up ahead, and so they’d retreated back across the bridge and down by the river to set up camp. Gale roasted the meat she’d harvested from the boar, and the smoke rankled in the back of his throat. Lae’zel worked on setting strips of meat out to cure while they ate, clustered around the fire. Chatting. Karlach laughing. Nanne pulling their lute out onto their lap and playing after the plates had been cleared and washed.

If they knew he was the reason they’d eaten that bloodless pig, he’d be dead before he saw the sun rise again.

“Astarion?”

He blinked, shaking his head as he saw Nanne standing above him. “Ah, darling,” he purred. “Come to interrupt my brooding?”

They chuckled, then clasped their hands in their lap. “I meant what I said, earlier,” they said softly. “Thank you.”

They were too trusting. Too kind. That would get them killed.

“Of course,” he simpered. “But you should turn in for the night. Get your beauty sleep.”

“Right. And you’ll be keeping first watch?”

“Of course. Just as soon as you turn in,” he lied.

They looked at him for a long, long moment, eyes flickering in the dim firelight.

Then, softly, “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

He watched as the camp turned in for the night, retreating into their little tents. All save Nanne, who wandered off into the woods, probably to piss. When they came back, hugging their chest, they curled up next to the fire in their bedroll, a dark lump next to the dying embers. And all too soon, everything was quiet and still, except for the birds in the trees. Sitting in his pile of cushions, knees to his chest, he looked at the sky. No hunting tonight. The hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he couldn’t risk being caught, not when he was so close to being discovered.

Just one night. Then he could feed again.

Nothing attacked the camp. No one stirred or screamed. He was the most dangerous one here, so why did he feel so on edge? Like something or someone was about to creep up behind him and slit his throat?

After an hour, he climbed into his own tent and curled up beneath his burial shroud. He’d found a few pallets he’d stacked together to make a bed. Worse than the lumpy mattresses in the dormitory, but it would do. Yet he couldn’t shake that feeling of danger, raw and instinctive. In the end, he should have listened to it and stayed awake for a few hours longer.

When he closed his eyes and began to trance, Cazador was there waiting for him.

Chapter 6: Eat You Alive

Chapter Text

The old fear turned in his gut as he felt his master’s breath on his neck.

“You have forgotten your commandments, boy.”

The forest stretched around him for miles, dark and hazy, ever shifting. Yet no tree or bush could hide him. He’d tried, in the beginning — oh gods, how he’d tried. Wrapping himself in the curtains like a child. Curling up underneath desks and tables. Even crawling under beds, teaching himself how to hold his breath and be perfectly still.

“Shall I recite them for you?”

Shaking, shoulders hunched, he plastered a smile onto his face. No. No point in hiding, not when he was so close. “Oh yes, Master. I’d be delighted.”

The Master ignored the sarcasm. sh*t.

“First. Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

“And I haven’t! It was just a boar, Master.” He laughed nervously, hands shaking. Just a boar, Master, just to gain enough strength to come home, I would never leave, never never never even though that’s all I want—

“Second. Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

And here he was, caught in the forest. He could never hide his secrets forever. The Master always, always found out. But this time he had a reason! A justification!

“Yes, of course, absolutely,” he babbled, still grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “It’s just that I was kidnapped by a mind flayer, and—”

“Third. Thou shalt obey me in all things.”

He fell still. Held his breath. Resisted the urge to curl himself into something small and hide. Because he wasn’t in the palace. He was in the forest, away from Baldur’s Gate, and he was not a slave any longer.

The rules had changed.

“Fourth. Thou shalt know that thou art mine.”

Cold fingers closed around his neck, nails digging into his skin and tearing as he was wrenched around. His own fingers grasped the hilt of his knife — yet slackened as they stared into such familiar, glowing red eyes.

“You are a long way from home, boy,” Cazador said sharply.

The air inside him left his lungs in a pained rush, as if the entire world pressed against his chest to squeeze it out of him. Everything a cage, meant to snare him, catch him.

But when he felt Cazador’s other hand slide up his side, he turned the gasp into a snarl. “Stop.”

Cazador’s lips curled up into an amused smile. “You dare to give me an order? You have grown bold, boy.” He leaned in close, breath as cold as death against his throat, just over the Turning scars. “Do you think distance alone is enough to protect you? That this feeble band of adventurers you’ve fallen in with will save you?”

“I’m free of you now,” he spat, co*cking his fist back, swinging—

Only for Cazador to catch his fist with lightning speed.

“Lie to yourself, boy, but not to me,” he chided. “You are exactly what I have shaped you to be, even now.”

You were going to fall on your knees and beg for forgiveness. Weren’t you?

Cold nails dug into his cheeks as Cazador forced his jaw open. “Two hundred years, and yet the second you leave my side, you curl up and sleep in the dirt. Oh Astarion,” and he sighed, leaning in, “you forget what I have given you. What I saved you from.”

His skull cracked. Blood ran down his neck.

“And yet you give me not even a smidgen of gratitude.”

Fire burned in his chest as he looked the bastard right in the eyes. “I’ll never f*cking thank you, you son of a bitch,” he hissed.

Cazador didn’t scowl, or recoil, or even glare at him in annoyance. Instead, he just smiled. That sickening, haughty, smug smile. “When you return to my side, you will.”

“I’ll never—”

“You will. You are mine. Forever.”

Sweat dripping down his forehead, knife clenched in his hand, Astarion lunged—

And found himself in his tent. Alone.

Chest heaving, he forced himself to breathe. That was what Dalyria had said, deep breaths to calm and soothe, even though he didn’t need air anymore. But no matter how many times he blinked, he could still see those red eyes in the corner of his vision, ready to command him to return. To climb out of this tent, walk all the way to Baldur’s Gate, and report to Godey to be flayed alive again. Surely… Surely that would be a fitting punishment. Surely, Cazador wouldn’t send him back down there.

It took too long for the fear to lessen.

Taking a shuddering breath, he sheathed his knife and stalked out of the tent, the cool night air washing away his sweat. Rubbing at his arms to generate some warmth, he looked up at the stars. It was a cloudier night tonight, but he could see some still peeking through, twinkling so far away.

His scars ached, though he could never tell if it was from some devilish magic, the memory of that awful night of Cazador’s “composition”, or if his skin had stretched too much. Probably an unholy mixture of all three.

Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the stool in front of his tent, running a shaking hand through his curls. It had been four nights, and no one had shown up to take him back to Cazador. Nor had any Compulsions manifested in his brain, blocking out his thoughts. Had he… Had he actually done it? Was he truly free?

No. Not as long as the son of a bitch lived — and not as long as he had to rely on the worm. And if Cazador knew that Astarion, his most beloved, hated spawn could walk in sunlight and he couldn’t? He’d never be allowed outside ever again.

But, there was another side to that coin, he realized. If he could walk in sunlight, cross running water, go into homes uninvited, then…

Then Cazador’s “commandments” were meaningless.

The rules have changed.

His breath quickened as he clutched his head in his hands. Thou shalt obey me in all things. He’d never been good at that rule, and the fact that he was standing here was proof enough. Thou shalt remain by my side unless directed. Broken already, and for four days. Thou shalt know that thou art mine.

Never again.

And then, finally, first: Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

The only commandment he hadn’t broken so far, he realized. The first, and the one that had actively tormented him for the past two hundred years. And even though this morning he’d been full, bloated even, with the boar’s blood, now he only felt empty and miserable, his mind fuzzy. It wasn’t thinking blood.

The wind shifted, brushing his skin, and he stiffened as a familiar, maddening scent filled his nostrils. Orange peels and honey, mixed with woodsmoke.

Nanne.

The others were asleep in their tents. The thin cloth was a flimsy barrier, and he didn’t even have to be invited inside now — but Nanne was right there, lying by the fire in their bedroll. Asleep. Helpless.

The perfect victim: young, pretty, and just feet away.

His feet moved without thought, as if their scent dragged him off his stool like a leash. Silently he crept forward in the dark, keeping low to the ground. He didn’t breathe, his mouth watering as he sank to his knees by their bedroll.

Nanne’s pulse thundered like a drum in their chest, their eyelashes fluttering. Gods above, could he hear their blood flowing in their veins?

How badly do I need to know?

The scent was maddening. Intoxicating. His fingers curled in their bedroll, crushing fur in his grip as he looked at their face. The hollow cheeks had begun to fill. They would have blood to spare. Just a taste. Just one drink. Just to see if he could, if it was possible.

Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he swallowed it down. He leaned in, fangs extended, ready to drink—

Something sharp prodded his ribs.

“I don’t think I taste as good as a boar,” Nanne said.

Astarion jumped back, hands outstretched, then paled as he saw Nanne rise to their feet, a sharp stick broken in two clutched in their hands. “sh*t,” he breathed.

A stake. A crude stake, but a stake. A godsdamned stake.

They knew.

“No, no,” he panted. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear!”

Nanne’s eyebrow quirked up, and he suddenly felt very small and stupid. Because it was exactly what it looked like. “Astarion,” they said flatly. “Do not bullsh*t me. You have fangs. Your eyes are red, but you're not a drow. You’re cold to the touch, you have two giant as hell holes in your neck, and you don’t eat.” They glared at him. “You’re really trying to pull this when we found the boar you ate this morning?”

He swallowed. Both to stop the saliva from leaking out of his lips, and because, well. Nanne was right. Devastatingly right. He’d become soft. Complacent. Thinking they were an idiot because they charged in to solve every problem. They’d thanked him for protecting them from the vampire, for gods’ sakes!

But no. From the way they spoke, they’d figured him out long before the boar.

Yet they didn’t call for help. They weren’t shouting for Wyll, Blade of Frontiers, to slay the monster, or for Shadowheart to cast Turn Undead. Instead, they looked at him with dull, tired eyes. “I hoped…” They let out a heavy breath, shoulders shaking. “I meant what I said. About thanking you. I thought you didn’t want to hurt us. That’s why you drank the boar.”

“I don’t — I wasn’t going to hurt you!” he pleaded, sinking back; Nanne was too far away to lunge for his heart with the stake, but he saw their crossbow lying next to their bedroll. “I just… I just needed… blood.”

Even now, that orange peel and honey scent made him salivate. Oh gods, just a taste. A single drop on his tongue, and he’d endure a stake in his heart. He’d suffered far worse for far less.

Something changed in Nanne’s posture. Their shoulders lowered, stake held in a far looser grip. Yet when Astarion took a step forward, they flinched. So he stayed still, hardly daring to breathe. He needed to be at his most alert, his sharpest. He could not get distracted by a damned scent.

“That boar we found,” Nanne said quietly. “How long ago was it?”

“It’s not what you think,” Astarion pleaded. “I’m not some monster!” He swallowed hard, cringing as the saliva flowed so easily down his gullet. Humiliating proof to the contrary. “I feed on animals! Boars, deer… kobolds. Whatever I can get.”

“Astarion—”

“I-I’m just too slow right now,” he admitted. “Too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could… I could think clearer. Fight harder. Please.”

“Astarion,” Nanne said softly. Calmly, even. “How long ago did you feed from the boar?”

The question barely registered in his mind. His hands shook, and if he had a pulse, he knew it would be racing. “What?”

“When did you last eat?” Nanne asked gently.

Oh. He wracked his brains. When… When had he last eaten? The boar, obviously, but that blood was gone now, evaporated from the stress of being discovered. The only thing he could think of was rats, and Cazador’s fingers running through his curls, and the acrid taste of dead blood—

The twitch of the tadpole in his mind jolted him back to reality. A caress, as if fingers gently stroked his brain matter. It was alien. “What’s this?” he breathed, fingers to his temple. “What’s happening?”

Then the memory unfolded again, this time in shocking clarity. Cazador’s lips, dark and smeared with human blood, commanding him to feed. Crimson eyes boring into his soul. His teeth, spurred by the neverending hunger, sinking into a dead rat, greedily feasting on what few mouthfuls he could suck from its corpse.

“Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

It never filled him. Never came close to satisfying the bottomless maw within him. It was only ever enough to ensure that he could survive. That he would obey.

When the memory faded, he spotted Nanne’s fingers resting on their temple. His lip curled as he realized what they’d done, this violation.

Then he froze as two tears fell from Nanne’s chin, the same time as the stake clattered on the ground. “That f*cking monster,” they breathed, “made you eat rats?”

“I…” He stared down at the ground. “Yes.” He sucked in another deep breath, and the sweetness of Nanne’s scent only reminded him of the sour taste of dead rat. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked for me. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you.” Swallowing yet another mouthful of saliva — gods his gums ached — he took a tentative step forward. “But I do trust you. And you can trust me.”

He’d spit whatever lies necessary to taste that blood. Just a droplet. He could feel his self control slipping by the second.

“I do,” Nanne said, after thumbing at their eyes; wiping tears, Astarion realized belatedly. “I believe you. And I trust you.”

“Thank you,” he breathed. But he couldn’t give away his desperation too quickly; he saw how Nanne’s shoulders quivered, and he couldn’t believe it was from pity or compassion. “Do you think you could trust me just a little further?”

Their eyes went perfectly round, black tea saucers with emerald flames. “You mean… You want to drink my blood?”

sh*t, sh*t, go back. Charming Astarion. Delightfully flamboyant Astarion. He put on the smile, stepped back a bit. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

Just a taste. Just one drop.

Just one lick of that orange peel and honey.

Nanne’s weight shifted from foot to foot. They swallowed hard, a gulp, and it reminded Astarion himself to swallow before he started drooling.

Then, softly. “Okay.”

Astarion almost fell to his knees. “Really? I…”

Why?

Nanne answered simply, as if they could detect his thoughts — or perhaps their tadpole connection still lingered. “You need it.” Then they swallowed. “I know what it’s like to be hungry. And if I can help you… then it would be cruel of me not to.”

The words made no sense to him. This wasn’t an exchange that could benefit them in any way. But he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, and his body ached. “Of course,” he breathed, all smiles, all placation. “Not one drop more than what I need. Now, let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

Nanne’s jaw went slack as he gestured to the bedroll. “Oh, I-I…”

“Darling,” he all but snapped. “You just agreed to let a vampire feed on you, and now you’re balking at lying down?”

“Right, sorry, I’m sorry.” Something dull twinged in his chest at the way Nanne said those words quickly, reflexively. They laid down on the bedroll, arms limply lying at their sides, and Astarion knelt at their side.

Finally.

Leaning down, his fangs extended, and he lunged.

Beside him, a faint gasp rang out in the camp. But sound, sight, touch, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the sweet taste on his tongue.

Blood. The blood of a thinking creature.

He found his latch quickly, instinctively clamping down into soft, tender flesh. Another gasp, and he almost shoved a hand over Nanne’s mouth to silence them. All he wanted to focus on was the nectar flowing past his lips, down his gullet and into his belly. So sweet, so juicy, orange peels in honey, sliding just as thick over his tongue. Zest filled the air, and he gulped it down greedily.

Fingers tapped on his shoulder, but he ignored them, just as he ignored their squirming, quivering body beneath his. He could feel himself awakening. The mind fog finally clearing, his senses sharpening. He could feel every thread of the fabric of his shirt, the ache of the curl of his toes, and most importantly: the taste of the blood welling in his mouth.

Had he enjoyed sweets in his previous life? He couldn’t remember. But he knew, immediately, here and now, that nothing would ever taste as delicious as the droplets of blood on his tongue.

Clutching their head and lifting them from the ground — such an easy motion, now that he had their blood in his muscles — he drank and drank and drank. Their shaking began to still, hands sliding off his back and thudding down on the ground. There, that was it. With Nanne asleep, he could finally have his fill. After two hundred years of starvation, finally he’d be satisfied.

Then fingers curled in his hair, yanking hard, and he snarled. “Stop,” Nanne wheezed, right in his ear. “Please.”

For a moment, he saw them standing before him, a cup of blood clutched in both hands. Alone. Cold. Tired.

Hungry.

I can’t take them back to him, won’t—

He jerked back with a gasp, blood dribbling down his chin as he regained himself. “Of course,” he panted, shivering as the night air washed over him. He was so alert, so alive. “I was just swept up in the moment.” Then he grinned. “But it worked. I feel… good. Strong.” Then, to his shock, “Happy.”

The happiness did fade a tad when he heard Nanne’s groan. Then saw them weakly claw at their neck, crimson streams trickling between their fingers. “That makes… one of us,” they wheezed.

“Oh dear,” Astarion murmured. “Are you all right?”

Nanne flopped back onto the bedroll, looking rather like a dying fish. “I think you almost killed me.”

“But! I didn’t,” he pointed out. “And that’s what matters.”

The groan from Nanne’s lips protested that idea.

Gods, they looked so absolutely pitiful. Their skin had grown a few shades lighter, and were there bags under their eyes? He’d seen similar ones on his siblings’ faces when they’d gone for too long without blood. Their cheeks were hollow again too, flesh stretched taut over bone. They shivered, the chilly night air pricking their skin into gooseflesh.

Cold, alone, and hungry. And yet they had given up their very blood. For him.

So, sucking in a deep breath — for gods sakes, he drank so much, and his mouth still watered at their scent? — he reached down and tucked the blankets around them. “There,” he said. “Better?”

Nanne grunted.

Astarion rolled his eyes; what had they expected, a hug and a kiss to make it all better? “Look at what you’ve gained, at least! Don’t I look healthier now?” He certainly felt healthier.

“You’d better slaughter all those goblins tomorrow,” Nanne mumbled. But they managed to keep their eyes open, twin emerald flames watching him in what he presumed was an attempt at a threatening glare.

“Oh I shall. And there’s always plenty more people that need killing.” He tittered out a laugh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” It was a bitter disappointment, realizing that he was sated, but not full. Would he ever be?

But no. This was far better than what he’d endured before. He would never, never go back to rats. The memory alone of that blood — orange peels steeped in honey, sweetness and zest, returning back to life — would sustain him.

Swallowing thickly, he tucked the blankets underneath Nanne’s chin. “This is a gift, you know,” he murmured softly. “I won’t forget it.”

“I’m going to talk to him.”

“Why?” Shadowheart snapped, loud enough that the whole camp heard. Astarion rolled his eyes, but at the same time, a fang dug into his lip.

To say that the camp had their eyes on him was the understatement of the century. Nanne had woken up groggy, pale, and clammy, with two bite holes puncturing their neck. And with no rabid beasts attacking in the middle of the night, the culprit was obvious.

He hadn’t dropped his tent yet, but he’d packed up all his meager belongings: his burial shroud, a few cushions, a bag of a hundred gold pieces he’d filched from the camp supplies. All enough to run off and start over, if this ended poorly. Now that he had actual thinking blood running in his veins, he realized just how stupid he’d been. Relying on their leader to avoid ratting him out? Attacking them in the middle of the night? Bluffing about the boar, drawing even more suspicion to himself? No wonder they all thought him some foolish dandy.

At least he’d picked Nanne to be his (somewhat willing) meal. They spoke softly to Shadowheart, tone even and measured. “You didn’t see what I saw, last night.”

“Clearly not. He’s a vampire.”

“He could have killed me. He didn’t.”

“He came close. Are you sure this is wise?”

“We need everyone we can get, Shadowheart.”

Wyll and Karlach clearly didn’t agree with that idea. The Blade of Frontiers sat by the dead fire, rapier laid across his lap. Karlach sat at his side, flames so strong it was a miracle Wyll didn’t catch fire. And right next to his own tent, Lae’zel had her greatsword on the grindstone. It would have provoked a headache if not for what he’d done last night; instead, sweat ran down his neck.

The grinding drowned out the rest of Nanne and Shadowheart’s conversation, leaving him to stew in his own thoughts. That was, until Nanne shambled over to him — and it was a shamble. His stomach flipped again as he saw their sallow skin, the dark circles under their eyes, the two scabbed puncture holes on their neck.

Still, what’s done is done and all that. So he smiled, plastering on some good natured charm. “Good morning,” he purred. “How are you feeling?”

“Like dogsh*t,” Nanne said, their voice raspy. His smile faltered — until he saw a flicker of mirth in those emerald eyes. “But I’ll live. I’ve gone on worse benders.”

Astarion chuckled. “An alcoholic, are you? I didn’t take you to be the type.”

The mirth faded, Nanne’s lips pressing into a thin line. “Just twice. My Da taught me better.” Swallowing hard, they rubbed at their neck. “Can I sit?”

“Of course.” He gestured towards his stool and watched as Nanne sat themselves down very carefully. “Just be glad I’m not a true vampire, darling. You could have woken up as a spawn like me instead of just a little dizzy.”

“A spawn?” Nanne blinked, looking up at him. “I don’t… There’s kinds of vampires?”

He sighed. “Yes, darling. Not all vampires are sired equal. I am a spawn — all of the hunger, but very few of the benefits.”

“And the man who made you eat…”

His teeth ground together.

Nanne seemed to notice. “Is that the reason why you don’t burn in the sunlight?” they asked, voice soft, soothing. “Because you’re a spawn?”

“Oh no, I should be cinders right now,” he clarified. “This is the first time I’ve been able to stand in the sun in two hundred years without turning into a pile of ash. Someone, or something,” and he tapped his temple, just as Nanne had done last night, “wants me alive. The rules have changed now. Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation — they’re all perfectly mundane activities now.” He smirked. “As for my other quirks, we can figure those out in time.”

He’d packed away the mirror he’d looted from the crypt. Still no reflection. Perhaps it just needed time.

“Well, if you need help, just ask.” Nanne smiled faintly. “We’re in this together.”

“Oh, you’re such a sweetheart,” he simpered. “And don’t worry — you won’t be getting any more surprise midnight visits.” He leaned in, grinning. “I’ll stay up, to make sure the nasty vampire doesn’t invade camp.”

Nanne actually laughed. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Honestly, I’m just glad you’re being sensible about all of this.” He swallowed as he saw Wyll and Shadowheart rise from the embers of the fire. “It seems everyone else is gathering up their torches and pitchforks.”

Nanne too rose to their feet as the others drew close. “Soldier,” Karlach said quietly, flames flickering as she hefted her axe. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Nanne replied firmly.

“He’s a vampire,” Wyll said sharply. “And he’s proven that he’s not able to keep his fangs off our necks.”

Nanne sighed. “I let him bite me, Wyll.”

The rest of the group froze — Astarion included. Because that was, well, only kind of true.

“I understand that certain… hungers must be sated,” Gale said softly, and that was not who Astarion expected to provide a voice of reason. “But you were in an awful state this morning.”

“Fangs really did a number on you,” Karlach agreed.

“The vampire is a drain on our valuable resources.” Lae’zel’s sneer had him rankling. “We already have parasites afflicting us; why should we suffer another?”

“That’s enough,” Nanne snapped. “He doesn’t eat our food, he feeds from animals, and he can keep watch. If we’re going to survive, we stick together.” They folded their arms. “You don’t like that, you can leave.”

Astarion blinked. The protection was… welcome, but he didn’t understand. He hadn’t done anything for them yet. Why? Why defend him so soon?

“Fine.” Wyll took a deep breath. “As long as none of us start waking with holes in our necks.”

“I suppose, in our own way, we’re all turning into monsters,” Shadowheart said. “What’s one more?”

Astarion fought to keep himself from baring his teeth.

“Good,” Nanne said. “Then it’s settled. Astarion said that my blood will help us fight the goblins today; we’ll head out once we’re packed.” Nanne sat back down on the stool, grimacing as they rubbed their neck again. “Any other questions?”

Astarion watched in stunned silence as the rest of the party trailed away, leaving the two of them in front of his tent. “Darling,” he began, fidgeting, “as much as I appreciate you being my grand protector… why?”

Nanne didn’t respond for a moment, staring at the dirt in front of them.

Then, softly, “It’s what I wished someone did for me.”

He blinked. That was… not the answer he’d been expecting. “And what monstrous secret do you have?” he asked lightly. He gasped, hand mockingly held to his chest. “I knew it! You’re a werewolf.”

Nanne chuckled, shaking their head. “No. Just a dumb kid that mouthed off too much.” They looked up at him with those flickering eyes, and he noted with a small degree of satisfaction that some color had come back to their cheeks. Apparently the feeding drain was temporary — or they just bounced back quickly from having several pints of blood taken from their system. “Gale also eats magic items, Shadowheart’s a cleric of Shar, Karlach burns everything she touches, and Wyll’s patron is a bitch and a half. Feels a little silly to point fingers at each other when we’ve all got problems.”

Astarion chuckled. “Point taken. Though you must have some problem of your own behind that normal facade of yours.”

“I mean…” Nanne ran their fingers through their hair, pushing back ragged strands; he noticed a few split ends. “If we don’t get back to the Gate before the end of the month, I’m going to get evicted.”

Astarion stared at them incredulously. “We could be turning into mind flayers any second now, and you’re worried about paying rent?”

They shrugged weakly.

He sighed. “I suppose there’s value in having one normal person here. And I do appreciate the defense.” He’d have to make it up to them; no more beating around the bush.

Yet Nanne’s next question jolted any thoughts of seduction out of his head. “The man I saw. Last night, in that memory. Who was he?”

His lip curled. “Why do you insist on exhuming the past?”

Nanne flinched. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“Just what?” he snapped.

They shifted on the stool, moving to stand — and his stomach churned as he realized what he’d done.

“I was a slave,” he answered softly. “Kept by the Szarr family.”

Nanne’s weight settled back down on the stool, their eyes wide.

“I was… I was never able to resist their commands,” he admitted. “That was why I fed on you last night. Not just for the hunger, but to prove that I didn’t have to…”

“That you’re your own man?” Nanne asked softly.

Another surprise. He hadn’t expected the bard to understand. He nodded curtly. “But now I’ve been conveniently lost,” he said, smirking with savage glee. “And they will never control me again.”

“They could before?” Nanne asked, eyebrows nearly disappearing into their hairline. “But you… You can fight. Can’t vampires climb walls and turn into bats and…?” They trailed off, staring at the ground. “I don’t know what I’m talking about, do I?”

He chuckled bitterly. “It’s fine; most don’t bother with the distinction. You saw how Wyll acted.” Nanne winced. “Yes, in theory, I could do all of those things, if another vampire deigned to let me sup on their blood. Once a vampire spawn does that, they’re free: a true vampire.”

“So a true vampire bites you, you bite them?”

He chuckled bitterly. “Yes… and no. The problem is that once you’re a vampire spawn, they completely control you. If they say that you can’t harm them, then you’d sooner be able to pluck the sun out of the sky.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Your… sire has to allow you to bite them. And why would they do that? They wouldn’t lose a servant to create a competitor. Trust me.” He looked them in the eye. “It doesn’t happen.”

Nanne’s eyelashes fluttered as they closed their eyes. “And yet, you’re standing in sunlight. It’s like you said, the rules have changed.”

“They have,” he agreed. “For now.”

Nanne wrung their hands for a few moments, eyes still closed.

Then, softly, “First problems first. How are we going to feed you?”

He blinked. Then smiled. “Already looking for another nibble?” he teased.

Nanne huffed out a laugh. “I’m serious. You can feed from animals, but if that’s not enough…” Their hand rubbed over their bite again; the scabs must itch, he realized.

“No innocents,” he promised. “You have my word.” It was an easy promise to make; Nanne was perhaps the only person in camp who wouldn’t try to murder him if he fed from them, and half of them would whip out a stake if he went for the tieflings. “Only villains that we need to kill anyway. You know what I am now. And if I happen to drain the occasional bandit during a fight, what’s the harm? They’re just as dead.”

“Like the goblins today?” Nanne asked, smiling as their eyes opened.

“Just so,” he purred. “Though I’ll be shocked if their blood tastes anywhere near as good as yours, darling. You have a lovely bouquet.”

Nanne actually flushed, and a grin split his lips. Oh? Now this is interesting.

“Listen,” they said, pressing their hands between their thighs; did their voice actually quiver? “I know…” They took a slow, steadying breath, then began again. “If you really need blood that’s not from an animal, I can give it to you. But we’d need to talk about it first.”

“Of course,” he said instantly. “That sounds eminently reasonable. And you are our leader — best not to overtax you, if we can help it.” He smiled, dipping into a short bow. “I shall await patiently until you suggest that we dine together. But until then, no more midnight surprises. You have my word.”

Nanne nodded, standing from the stool. “Good. And I promise,” and he froze as they looked at him in the eyes, despite how their face twisted into something akin to discomfort, “you’ll never have to go hungry again.”

The words sat heavily in his stomach, full of their blood, as they moved to their bedroll to roll it up and pack it away. It was a promise, and so far Nanne had kept their promises. But soon enough, their generosity would run out. Nothing in this world ever came for free. They would expect payment for giving him their very blood, and he was ready to settle the debt.

The only question was if his payment was something Nanne would accept.

Chapter 7: Wishing Well

Chapter Text

For all that Nanne insisted that making their way into the blighted village would be a bloody battle to the death, Astarion was not surprised one bit that they smooth-talked their way in instead.

Certainly better for him than knifing every disgusting goblin in sight; he could conserve their blood in his belly, despite the dirty looks the other members of their party tossed at him. Still, it was rather amusing to see Nanne earnestly tell the goblins that they were there to write a song about a rotten, decrepit village that hadn’t seen civilized company in several decades. And when Karlach’s tail stuck straight up into the air, yelling “Infernal iron!”, his hands were far steadier holding his lockpicks than they had been in years. Just a few twists and the tumblers clicked in a little under three seconds, instead of the oftentimes minutes he’d spent on locks before.

Now, more than ever, Astarion resented Cazador for his damned commandments. If this was how the bastard felt every time he drank from one of the poor sods he’d lured back for him, then no wonder he could snap fingers like twigs. Astarion felt… almost alive again.

Nanne, on the other hand, could only stand a few hours of picking through the village for clues about this “Absolute” cult before they had to lean against a wall, ashy and shaking. Astarion sighed; they’d looked fine just this morning. “Shadowheart! Our fearless leader needs you!”

“No, I’m fine,” Nanne protested, wobbly getting to their feet — and then teetering dangerously to the side before thudding against the wall again. “Okay, maybe not.”

Astarion hadn’t taken that much blood. Naturally, Shadowheart, with her venomous glare, begged to differ. “Head between your knees, drink this,” she said stiffly, handing Nanne one of their potions. “And next time, maybe reconsider letting a vampire drain you half dry.”

Nanne, head already between their knees, just gave her a thumbs up. Not sparing another glance for Astarion’s direction, the little Sharran stalked off to rummage through some more trash heaps, leaving the two standing there. Well, squatting and looking like they were trying not to lose their lunch in Nanne’s case.

“You should sip that, darling,” he said, nudging the little potion bottle with his boot. “It should help.”

With shaking fingers, Nanne uncorked the bottle, taking a sip. Then, grimacing, they set the bottle back down. “Gods, that’s foul.”

Astarion wouldn’t know. Cazador had never deigned to give him healing potions after a session with Godey. Leaving him to rot in the Kennel had been his preferred method of healing; why waste potions when in just a few hours, his skin would be good as new? The only exception had been…

His scars itched. Leaning back against the ramshackle wooden wall behind him, Astarion twisted and rubbed along the coarse material, disguising the motion as just trying to get comfortable.

“You don’t have to stay,” Nanne said, voice still thin and weak.

“Nonsense; you’re the most interesting thing here,” he teased. “And I do rather like spending time with you.”

“Sorry, fresh out of gossip material,” Nanne mumbled, the heels of their hands pressed to their temples.

He chuckled. “Oh no, darling, it’s much more than that. I’ve been thinking, actually.” He’d waited long enough; the sooner Nanne ate out of the palm of his hand, the better. “You were so very generous giving your blood to me. I think I should repay the favor. It was quite the noble sacrifice, after all.”

Nanne blinked, looking up at him in obvious confusion. “...What do you mean?”

Gods above, they really were slow. So he sat down next to them, legs spread, chest open as he leaned back on his hands. “We could take an evening to ourselves,” he murmured sultrily, keeping his eyelids low. “Get away from camp — get some privacy. I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere intimate.” He tasted the word on his tongue.

Nanne kept rubbing at their temples with the heels of their hands, and he bit back a scowl. Come on. That was obvious. And they did seem to like him; he’d caught their blush that morning. Or had it just been a trick of the light? Their skin was rather red already.

“It sounds… nice,” they murmured eventually. “To get away from it all.” Then, to his complete and utter bafflement, they reached for something at their side. “Maybe we could read this together?”

The book Nanne slid to Astarion was old; everything in this village was old. It was also a book of, apparently, poetry.

“You like to read,” they said softly. For some reason, that sent a shiver down his spine — and not a pleasant one. “You probably finished your old book by now.”

Were they watching him at night? But no, if they had, they would have discovered his nightly hunts. Still, the fact that Nanne had noticed him reading was… unsettling.

“Oh. Not a fan of poetry?” Their lips twisted into an unmistakable frown as they slid the book back.

“Not really, no,” he admitted. “But I appreciate the thought, dear,” he tacked on hastily. The last thing he needed was for them to think he was slighting them.

“Sorry. The rest were all alchemy books.” Nanne took another draft from the potion bottle. “I’ll try and keep an eye out for any more.”

It wasn’t often that a mark made him speechless. But he could think of nothing to say as Nanne got up and offered their hand to help him. And then they were gone, picking their way through the ruins as they caught up to the others. At the very least, they didn’t look on the verge of keeling over. But Astarion’s sour mood still lingered.

It wasn’t an outright rejection. And Nanne had seemed receptive to the idea of being alone with him. But that wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough when he needed blood, and it wouldn’t be enough to prevent him from being ousted. No more subtle approach. That night, he would have to lay on the seduction thick enough for it to get through their skull. Then he could stop worrying and actually enjoy his precious freedom for once.

He should have known that with Nanne, there was always something to worry about. Like rescuing a gnome tied to a windmill.

Honestly, of all creatures, a gnome?

And Astarion made his displeasure violently clear when Nanne spoke with the goblins, kindly requested that they release the creature, and then had the gall to act shocked when the leader pulled his weapons on their band anyway. “Darling, are we seriously doing this?” he snapped, yanking his daggers from his belt.

Nanne’s response, much to his irritation, was to shrug.

The problem with goblins, Astarion discovered, was the fact that they traveled in packs.

It didn’t matter that he’d knifed two already, and was currently in the middle of draining a third. Unsurprisingly, the little beast tasted horrible, mud and sweat and… gods knew what else tacked to his skin. But thinking blood was thinking blood, and he felt that same rush of invigoration, that same thrill of energy as he dropped the corpse.

When his knife tore into the fourth goblin, slicing the jugular felt like running a hot knife through butter.

“Is that all of them?” Nanne panted, lowering their crossbow; idly, he noticed that they were somewhat splattered with blood. Not a terrible look, honestly. “Everyone okay?”

“Get me down from here!” the gnome screeched.

All of that work for a bloody screeching gnome.

But, that was none of his concern. Let the fearless leader get them down from the windmill. He set to rifling through the goblins’ pockets, slipping gold pieces into his own wallet before setting aside a reasonable amount for the rest of the camp. His doublet was falling to pieces, and he desperately needed something that would stop a blade. Knowing Nanne, this was only the beginning of all the fighting they were going to do. Maybe he could salvage the lace? Or the velvet. Maybe even preserve the entire doublet for when he returned to Baldur’s Gate.

Idly, he heard Nanne conversing with the gnome. “That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it?” the gnome spat. “Press me into your service? I know your kind.”

“I’m half drow, thanks,” Nanne said dryly. “Never seen a hint of Menzoberranzan.”

Interesting. So he was right, half drow. Though the other half was a mystery still. If he had to bet, he’d say tiefling — and that was certainly a bizarre combination.

He half listened to the rest of the conversation, pocketing a few knives to replace his that were going dull already. Soon enough, Nanne’s boots crunched against gravel as the gnome scurried off. “Find anything good?”

“Oh, just a few grimy coins and some blades,” he sighed. “Nothing fascinating. Did the ungrateful little thing even give you a reward, or did you just let him walk away?”

“He’s got a pack stashed around here somewhere. Said we could have it.” Nanne smiled as they squatted next to him. “I’d be acting like a jackass if someone tied me to a windmill, too.”

“One day, that bleeding heart of yours is going to get you killed,” he muttered, pocketing another gold piece.

Nanne stiffened at his side.

He rolled his eyes. “It was only a joke, darling. I’m sure, as our fearless leader, you—”

Nanne’s body crashed into his, elbow lashing into his throat, and for a paralyzing second, all went dark. When he could see again, coughing and gasping for air, he watched in stunned silence as Nanne loomed over him.

Then screamed as a bottle of acid exploded all over their face.

Astarion had been witness to several of Cazador’s more creative torture methods. He’d been racked, flayed, flogged, and branded. But the bastard had never thought to use acid on him before, and neither had Godey.

Which meant that this was the first time he’d seen acid corrode flesh.

The first time he smelled it too.

Nanne crumpled immediately, grabbing at their face, and Astarion watched in horror as clumps of their hair fell to the ground, charred and blackened. And then the screaming started, half their face angry red, skin peeling and shriveling, glass fragments drawing blood—

Nausea overpowered any sense of hunger he might have felt as he turned away to gag.

“f*cking bastard!” he heard Karlach roar; she beheaded the goblin just a few seconds later. “Are there any more?”

Belatedly pulling his daggers out, he looked around the area frantically, then shook his head. Lae’zel agreed, huffing out something about the perimeter being secure as she sheathed her sword. “We were careless,” she muttered. “Allowing one to get away.”

As if to punctuate her words, Nanne let out another cry. Despite his nausea, Astarion turned around — then winced. Shadowheart had taken away Nanne’s hand, her own glowing as she whispered incantation after incantation. His stomach still churned as Nanne gasped the entire time, tears leaking from their good eye as their other eyelid slowly repaired itself. Steam rose from their skin as their corroded flesh sloughed off from their face. He’d thought that healing magic would be quick, but this was slow. Hideously, painfully slow, with new flesh regrowing under the old at a snail’s pace.

It looked disturbingly similar to his own vampiric regeneration.

Rubbing his throat, Astarion winced; speaking of vampiric regeneration, he shouldn’t be feeling any pain from that shove at all. Why had Nanne…?

Oh.

That acid bottle was supposed to hit him instead.

He should be the one sitting there, covered in acid, screaming while Shadowheart repaired his face — or worse, lying on the ground while the others left him for dead. Why heal a vampire, after all? A parasite, as Lae’zel had so kindly labeled him. Nanne had taken the blow, spared him the pain. Spared him the agony of his flesh melting from his face, disfiguring him, and if he didn’t have his looks, then what good was he? A pretty vampire could be tolerated. An ugly one?

His own fingers traced his features, hands shaking as he sat down on a nearby crumbling bit of stone wall.

“You’ll be all right,” Wyll said softly, rubbing Nanne’s shoulder as they cried through the whole thing; he couldn’t blame them, not with his own penchant for screaming through pain. “You got lucky; you’re not joining the one-eye club today.”

Good gods, could they have actually been blinded from that throw?

But why? Why risk themselves so blatantly for him? They’d done the same for the gnome — it wasn’t like they had great taste — but the rest of the group clearly thought of him as a bother at best. And it couldn’t be mere camaraderie alone; no one would be that generous after only a handful of days spent together. They’d known that Shadowheart would heal them after, surely, but they were still in pain.

No one… No one had ever done anything like this before. Except…

No.

He would not think of that night.

“It should be all healed now,” Shadowheart said wearily, sweat dripping from her nose as she finally lowered her hands. “How do you feel?”

A sniffle, a shuddered gasp. Then, softly, “M-Much better, thank you. Thank you, Shadowheart.”

“Gods, soldier, that was brave, taking that right to the face!” Karlach winced. “But uh, maybe next time, just shout?”

Nanne nodded, rubbing at their face — then wincing as more charred hair crumbled between their fingers. “Right. I think we’ve done enough for today.”

“Of course; we should take stock of our newfound supplies,” Gale said cheerily. “And I believe Astarion has something he’d like to say to you.” He looked at him expectantly.

“Er… thank you,” he mumbled.

Shadowheart rolled her eyes, but Nanne shook their head. “Glad you’re okay,” they rasped. “We… We can set up camp by the river.”

So, after just half a day of exploring the village, they made camp. Not a bad thing, honestly — Astarion had managed to find soap, which meant a proper bath. Finally. Karlach, ingeniously, had even managed to heat some water by finding an old metal bucket and holding it in her hands until the water steamed. It was no washbasin, but gods above, it was something. Wiping down his skin with hot water made all the aches and pains of the day disappear.

Nanne went after him, taking the bucket of water before he could say anything. They hummed, that same tune they’d used to clean up his tent, and soon enough the water was steaming and clean again. “Thanks,” they whispered, voice far too small and floaty as they staggered towards the river. He did not miss the glazed over look to their eyes.

Swallowing thickly, he went back to resewing the tears in his doublet. No. Best to not approach them tonight.

After a stretch of time — long enough for him to look worriedly at the treeline — Nanne stumbled back into camp. Astarion winced as he looked at their hair: a massive patch on their left side completely missing, the rest staticky and wild from soap. If not for the fact that they’d lost the hair — and almost half of their face, before Shadowheart healed them — protecting him, he’d have openly laughed.

Karlach welcomed him back with open arms. Well, an open mouth, anyway. “Soldier! We match!”

A few chuckles, including some from Nanne. “Sorry, Karlach, you wear it lots better than me.”

“Nah, mate, you just need a bit of styling!” She reached out, as if to ruffle their hair, then clearly thought better of it. “Oi, Gale, can’t you magic them up some hair?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m afraid I don’t have that spell in my book. It would be rather convenient, though.”

“No barber’s tools, either?” Karlach frowned, tail drooping.

“I have a razor.” Astarion whirled around to see Lae’zel beckoning to Nanne. “Come. If we leave your hair as is, you risk it being caught in battle.”

The gith knew how to cut hair? He got to his feet, pushing his doublet aside. Now this he had to see.

Nanne shambled over, sitting on the ground in front of Lae’zel. The blade that Lae’zel pulled out was far larger than any razor Astarion had ever seen, but it looked plenty sharp. She tended to hone her blades to absurd degrees; he’d been jarred out of his trancing more than once by her using her grindstone at the arsecrack of dawn. Nanne sighed heavily, rubbing at their temples with the heels of their palms. Then, resigned, “Just shave it all off. It’ll regrow.”

Astarion’s blood ran cold as Lae’zel took their chin in her hand, razor pressed to their scalp. “As you say.”

“What?” he snapped, and the camp went silent.

Nanne, predictably, flushed. “What?”

“You’re going to shave their head?” he thundered.

Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed. “A practical—”

“No! Absolutely not! I forbid it!” Nanne’s haircut was terrible enough before they’d been doused with acid. To save you, that wretched voice in his head reminded him. But shaving all those locks off? There were certain travesties he could not allow.

“Come here, darling,” he said firmly, pointing to his stool. “We can salvage this.”

To his surprise, Nanne actually came over to his tent. “Astarion…”

“Sit,” he ordered.

Nanne sat, hands wrung in their lap. “You really don’t have to.”

“And let the gith destroy this lovely hair?” he asked, eyebrows arched imperiously; he didn’t miss Lae’zel’s hiss of “Kainyank.” “Yes, I believe I do. Now, one moment.” He’d managed to find a barber’s kit in the grove. He’d honestly done that merchant a favor, what with the druids so intent on closing it off forever.

Laying the kit on his table next to the mirror, he pressed down on Nanne’s shoulders until they were level. Then, plucking the strands of hair framing their face, he pulled them up. Thankfully, most of the acid damage was on the left side. With a side part…

“Wyll, be a darling and fetch some water,” he called out. “They need a wet cut.” As Wyll did as asked — bless the obnoxiously selfless hero types — he ruffled and tousled Nanne’s hair, noting how it fell. “Definitely shorter,” he mused, experimentally parting their hair with a wider toothed comb.

“Won’t that be more of a pain to manage?” Nanne asked, their voice shockingly small. “I don’t want to trouble you. I don't know how to…” They gestured helplessly at his own coiffed locks.

He paused. “Is that why you kept it longer?”

Nanne said nothing.

“I’ll teach you,” he said idly, wetting his hands and massaging water into their locks; Karlach had heated it again, blessedly. “It’s nothing too difficult.” Once their hair was properly wetted, he started with the most burned side. An undercut for that part, then — very fashionable, these days, judging from his latest conquests — and more hair on top.

Nanne said nothing as he worked, and soon the camp returned to their idle chatter. Karlach struck up a conversation with Shadowheart, Wyll and Gale debating magical something or other, Lae’zel honing her weapons. Occasionally, Astarion asked Nanne to move their head to the side, but they seemed content to sit there in silence as he worked. Better than Petras, who would dunder on about terribly stupid things; Astarion had always exposed too much of that horribly thick forehead as revenge.

As Nanne’s hair dried, he styled it with his fingers, experimenting with how the locks laid. They had a rather savage cowlick in the back, but the texture of the hair itself was perfect for laying. Not too thin and fine, but not so thick as to be unpleasantly coarse. Even better, the contrast between drow off-white and red was far less sharp. Instead of looking like they’d badly tried to put highlights in, Nanne’s hair shifted in hue, akin to a pale bloodstone. “Ah, this is perfect, darling,” he murmured, snipping at an angle, then feathering the bangs. “All you’ll need to do is comb it to the side — get the comb wet first — and you’ll break hearts.”

Nanne laughed softly. “Hopefully I won’t be breaking mirrors too.”

Astarion scoffed. “With my expertise? Hardly. Tilt your head back.”

They did as bade, eyes closed as the back of their skull pressed to his sternum. He didn’t miss the soft “Oh,” Nanne exhaled as he ran his fingers through their hair, ruffling it to see how his latest adjustments lay.

So their leader was a deeds before words type. Now it all made sense.

It took a few more minutes of work, evening out rougher areas, but soon enough he was done. “There,” he breathed. “Perfect.”

Nanne smiled. “Thanks, Astarion.” Their eyes flickered, emerald flames sparkling. “You could make a killing as a hairdresser, you know.”

“Hah!” He waved his hand dismissively. “There's plenty more hidden talents I've got up my sleeve, and hairdressing is far from the most lucrative. Now, off you go.” He shooed them away from the stool, admiring his work. Nanne, for their part, hesitantly felt at their haircut, fingers running through where he’d fluffed up their fringe as it dried.

It hit him, then, that unlike his siblings, they could actually see his haircut.

“Here, darling,” he said, turning them to look at the mirror on his side table. He grinned. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

Nanne remained disappointingly silent — but they made up for the silence by having their jaw drop nearly to the ground. “That… That’s me?” they asked breathlessly.

Astarion rolled his eyes. “You’re the one with the reflection, darling, not me. Yes, that is you.”

Nanne’s hands drifted over their face with trembling fingers. Gods above, did they have tears in their eyes? Astarion actually felt a lump rise in his throat as they looked at their reflection in wonder.

It was impossible to not feel a stab of jealousy in this moment.

“Asta… Astarion,” Nanne whispered. “Thank you.”

It was just a haircut. Yet when Nanne looked at him, it was like he'd just handed back their long lost child. And their too-wet eyes had his stomach in knots.

He should open his mouth. “There are far more tricks up my sleeve than hairdressing. I could show you some.” “Now I can see those gorgeous eyes — careful, I could get lost in them.” “Such a handsome devil you make, darling, I should have seen it sooner.”

Nothing came out.

Nanne's gaze turned back to the mirror, soft little huffs of breath passing their lips as their fingers hovered over their cheeks. “I…” He realized, belatedly, that those huffs were laughter. Or were they sobs? A rough sniffle later, they rose from the chair. “I've never looked this good in my life.”

“It suits you,” Wyll said kindly, looking up from where he’d started the campfire. “Quite a clever lad you are, Astarion, learning to style hair like that.”

He rolled his eyes — but praise was praise. “When you have hair this good, you pick up a thing or too.”

The laughter that rang through the camp was far louder this time — and relief settled in his stomach as Nanne laughed with them. Idly, he wondered if those tears in their eyes had actually been there at all, or if it was simply a trick of the light.

It wasn’t as good as Nanne’s blood, but Astarion had to admit: bear’s blood was magnificent.Far better than that goblin dreck.

His belly positively sloshed as he stumbled back into camp, doublet torn to shreds. Whatever. It was fine. He didn’t need that ratty old thing anyway. It was Cazador’s and f*ck Cazador, and f*ck all the nobleman’s clothes he’d forced him to scrounge from his “conquests.” He’d get some sort of armor. Pretty it up, somehow. They’d go back to the grove, yes? For Karlach and her engine. Though he doubted the unwashed druids knew anything about fashion. Not a hint of silk there. Ugh.

Bottles clinking, he made sure to roll, not toss, them inside his tent. Precious bear blood — no more wasting it all like that boar! Yes, he was very efficient with his blood drawing now. He’d thank Gale for those bottles later. Very nice glass.

“Astarion, you’re back.”

The voice was breathy. Relieved? Aroused? He scrambled to his feet, reaching for his dagger. Then paused as he saw Nanne standing on his rug. “There you are!” he slurred, laughing as he stumbled towards them. “My friend!”

Nanne’s eyebrows vanished into their hairline — but they did smile. Of course they smiled. He was the most charming vampire rake in the world. Why wouldn’t they fall for him? “At your service,” they replied, dipping into a little bow.

“Oooo,” he cooed, giggling. “Now, now, don’t make promises you can’t keep, darling!” He laughed again — then, oddly, hiccuped. “Oh. Oh, that was disgusting.”

“Oookay,” Nanne said, their eyes sparking and flickering in the dark. Pretty, that. “You’re sh*tfaced. Come on.” Astarion blinked as they held out their hand. “Let’s go ahead and lie down, hm? And then drink some water, small sips. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not drunk, darling. Just high on life!” He grinned, planting his hand on his hip. “I just feasted on the most delightful woodland creature: a bear. He took some of my blood, I took all of his.” Nanne’s eyes went round as dinner plates, and he grinned. “Oh, come now. Don’t ruin that face with a frown. Are you worried about me?” he simpered.

“I, er, yeah? You attacked a bear?”

“And lived to tell the tale! And I even brought—” He grimaced as he swallowed down another hiccup, “—leftovers!” Giggling, he held up some of the bottles that hadn’t rolled into the tent. See? He wasn’t drunk. He’d thought of rolling them instead of throwing them. Very smart of him, actually.

Nanne smiled — or did they grimace? He honestly couldn’t tell. Some combination of the two. “Doesn’t taste as good as humanoid blood though, right?”

“Oh, nothing comes even close to your—” He paused; while Nanne seemed comfortable enough with the idea, Lae’zel and that giant sword were just a few feet away. “As other things I could be drinking,” he swapped out hastily. “Very sweet. But if you want to make merry, plonk will do just as well as fine wine.”

“And you got smashed on plonk. You really should lay down, Astarion.”

He sighed, waving them away. “I’m not drunk, you silly bard. Besides, in a few hours, it’ll all be gone.” He sat down on his stool with a little “oof.” “The eternal curse. Always hungry, never satisfied. Still, it’s better than the rats and bugs Cazador gave me.”

All right, that was a grimace. “Sounds… delicious.”

“Oh, just as delicious as you’d expect,” he drawled. “And never enough to fill one’s belly.”

“But why would he do that to you?” they asked softly. “Your… that man. Cazador.”

“I existed,” he said bitterly. “That was enough for him. Any chance the bastard had to feel powerful, he took. He reveled in it — it was proof he could do whatever the hell he wanted.” He let out a heavy breath. “But that was the past.” His teeth ground together. “And I will never grovel for him again.”

No more getting on his back for breadcrumbs. No more putting out for only a rat. If feeding from a bear made him feel like this, then Nanne’s blood would give him the power to be free. Forever. And then, once they found out how to manipulate the tadpoles, how to enthrall other people, well…

Well, that was getting ahead of himself. Nanne wasn’t even in bed with him yet.

But they did smile at him. Softly, kindly, with that stupid placid concern. But it was a pretty face, especially with their hair all nicely cut. What a good job he’d done. “True,” they murmured, and he leaned in, listening to that nice, soothing voice. “You have the chance to start over now. To be more than what he expected you to be.”

“Exactly!” he crooned. “I knew you had fine taste, darling. I can be better than him. Stronger, more powerful, more—”

Their smile slid off their face like melting ice off a roof.

Oh. Of course.

“You meant, ‘be kinder’, is that it?” He sneered. “Pet bunnies, that sort of thing?”

“I meant just getting away from him,” Nanne said softly. He blinked as they sat down on the ground next to him. “Not even thinking about him at all. You’re free now; that’s what matters.”

Of course they wouldn’t understand. They were young. Naive.

So he laughed — coldly, bitterly, loudly enough for them to flinch away and think. “Is it, now? What good is ‘freedom’ if I’m always watching the shadows? You have no idea what he’s like. The things he can do, the way he can control people. He can summon wolves, ghouls, his other spawn just with a thought.” He stared at the fire sourly. “He could walk into this camp right now and nothing we can do would stop him.”

“He can do that?” Nanne asked. “Walk into camp, right now?”

“I…” He paused. “Not during the day. He has to sleep in his coffin. And I’ve never heard of him leaving Baldur’s Gate.” He swallowed, staring at the flickering fire. “I’m surprised he hasn’t done anything by now. No hunters, no wolves, no… nothing.” He’d always said that the spawn meant nothing to him, that they were all just means to an end. But Cazador was never the type to let things go — including his spawn.

The night air felt too cold and still, suddenly.

“So then, we’re safe,” Nanne said. “For now.”

“‘For now’ isn’t good enough,” Astarion snapped, “I’ll be safe when I’m powerful enough to grind Cazador into the dust.” He grinned. “Powerful enough to do whatever the hell I want.”

“That’s not what power means, Astarion,” Nanne said quietly.

“Darling, you’re smarter than that.” He looked at them, sitting beside him, beneath him. “You can’t look at the world and tell me I’m wrong.”

And they flinched. Again. Because he was right, and they knew it. But still, they spoke evenly. “There are bad people out there, I’ll give you that. But there’s also good people. People who do care, and who want to help, and who are kind. People like Wyll and Karlach and Gale and Shadowheart—”

“You mean the people that, if you hadn’t spoken up, would have staked me and left me for dead in a heartbeat?” he snapped.

They fell silent.

“If the world is supposed to be good and fair, then it’s doing a piss-poor job of it,” he said coldly. “Yourfriends didn’t save me from Cazador. No one wanted to help me. No one cared what I went through.It was the mind flayers who rescued me from two centuries of hell, and it will be the mind flayers that keep me out of it. They’re the ones who gave me this strength. You should take it too, unless you want to end up dead or worse.”

Nanne let out a heavy sigh, rubbing their face. Then, softly, “You’re drunk. Get some sleep.”

He wasn’t drunk, and never had been. The euphoria of drinking all that bear’s blood had long passed in the midst of this… whatever the hells this conversation was. From time or from Nanne’s words, he didn’t know. But still, if that was what made them feel better, if that was how they could trust him, he’d play along. “You’re right,” he sighed, picking up his blood bottles. “I should sleep it off.”

Nanne’s shoulders relaxed; idly, he noted they had been hunched the whole time before. Then, softly, “I felt angry like that too, at how unfair it all is. It kept me alive for a while. But then it eats you up, and you just feel… empty. If you let it do that, then he wins.”

His lips curled down into a sneer. They were hardly older than a child, and yet they spat platitudes at him?

But they were young. Naive. It was that naivety that would play to his advantage. He could suffer a few trite sentences about how he needed to “move on” and “forgive and forget.” Soon enough, they’d come around.

So, instead of responding, he pulled his bottles into his tent and curled up with his shroud, letting the familiar texture and scent lull him into trance.

Chapter 8: Run Me Like a River

Chapter Text

Astarion waited three more nights before he began his seduction in earnest.

It was only practical; Nanne still needed time to recover from being splashed with acid, and they’d insisted on returning to the grove to repair Karlach’s engine. From there, it was rooting through the rotten confines of the village, where they’d discovered a necromantic tome. And curiously, despite Gale practically drooling all over the thing, Nanne had turned and given it to him instead.

“Why, how thoughtful of you,” Astarion purred. “I’m always happy to help you take a load off, darling.”

Naturally, the double-entendre made a whistling noise as it flew over Nanne’s head. “You’ll take good care of it, right?” they asked, their face still somewhat wan. “I don’t want Gale to eat it.”

He giggled, especially when Gale let out a pained whine as he slid the tome into his bag. “Oh, of course. The book’s completely safe in my keeping.”

Gale, who had never been particularly kind to him, but somewhat polite, made no secret of his glares he shot at him that night at dinner. Astarion stuck out his tongue at him when he turned to stir the camp’s pottage; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nanne disguise their outburst of laughter as coughing into their elbow.

The next day, after crawling out of the village’s well after murdering a truly ridiculously enormous spider (“There is no boot big enough,” Wyll had said with utter disgust, and Astarion agreed), Shadowheart drew near to him. “So. I noticed that none of the rest of us have woken up with puncture holes.”

“I’ve been on my best behavior and you know it,” he said primly.

She chuckled darkly. “Hilarious. But out of curiosity, if you had to pick one of us besides Nanne… who would it be?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he drawled. “Wyll. Young, righteous — he’d have a good flavor for certain. The dreaminess helps too.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “Careful. You might just make your resident donor jealous.”

Astarion looked around, then froze as Nanne looked at him with an expression he had no idea how to read. But the second their eyes met, they looked away, suddenly very intent on rooting through the apothecary’s ledger, even though they’d already read the tome yesterday.

Ordinarily, he would have cackled at the obvious jealousy seething from them. But Nanne was his true target, not Wyll. And…

Their shoulders were all hunched up. He’d seen that look with Dalyria when Leon had pestered her about being a physician general when Victoria had grown ill. The rictus of pain on her face. The shame.

“Well, there’s no need for that,” he found himself saying. “Their blood is positively divine.”

A page turned. Slowly, their shoulders sank down, and he grinned. Shadowheart’s response was to roll her eyes as she left — though he did notice her clutching her hand, her lips pressed together in a thin, hard line.

Soon enough, it was just the two of them in the hollowed out shop, and Nanne pressed the book closed. “If you’re hungry,” they said softly, “you can feed on me tonight. If you’d like.”

His breath caught in his throat, stomach lurching at the offer. But no, he couldn't afford to pass up this chance. “Why, of course, darling.” He drew closer. “I'll visit you tonight, once you're asleep. I wouldn't want to intrude upon your rest.” Nanne's cheeks reddened as he stood only a few inches behind them. “And while you're at rest,” he breathed, “I will eat you right up. Just enough to satisfy me, and just enough to have you wishing for more.”

A little shiver ran down their spine. A tiny quiver of their frame. And a familiar tang suffused the air, bleeding through their orange and honey scent.

Relief and disgust churned inside of him in equal measure. They were aroused by him.

Then, quietly, voice wavering, they said, “Whatever you need.”

And just like that, they were gone, walking out of the ruined apothecary and leaving him alone in the wreckage.

Gods above, why did they have to be so damned confusing?

Even worse, Nanne didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. And when they looked at him and he caught them looking at him — it wasn’t hard, really — they jerked their entire body away like they couldn’t stand the sight of him. That clearly wasn't true, judging by the flush on their cheeks, but it did mean his seduction would have to be put on hold for yet another night.

It bought him some time. He needed to prepare more cologne.

That night, after the others had gone to sleep, he crept out of his tent and found Nanne asleep by the fire. Curled up in their bedroll, the blankets pulled up to just below their nose. Easing himself behind them, he took a moment to take in their scent. The tang and zest of orange peels, mellowed by honey and sweat and blanketed with smoke. It was… familiar.

Comforting, oddly enough.

This time, he was certain to keep ahold of himself as he sank his fangs into their neck. He drank without breathing, cutting off the scent — and keeping his hunger in check as he took one mouthful, three, five. And oddly, as the energy of their blood seeped into his veins and invigorated him, peeling away the fatigue and the muddiness of his mind, he found it easier to keep himself in control.

It was utterly delicious, the best thing he’d ever tasted still, but when he pulled away, he could think. Not the drunken euphoria of bear’s blood, not the feeble spurts of energy of lesser creatures. He felt… sated.

Whole.

Hastily, using the remaining scraps of his torn doublet — he now had to settle for a leather jerkin that would easily stop blades but was quite hideous — he pressed the cloth to their neck and took steadying breaths, waiting for the blood to clot.

And as he waited, he plotted.

Nanne was attracted to him, which was good. The bad was that they weren’t taking the bait. He had his suspicions on why. Lae’zel intimidated them, but they hadn’t been intimidated by Gale or Shadowheart. No, they’d referred to them as friends. Chatted with them, laughed with them — not as often as they laughed for him, but often enough. One fact was clear, though, as he thought back to those interactions.

Nanne wasn’t nearly as ignorant about sex as they pretended to be.

When he’d snuck out of Gale’s tent after borrowing his jars permanently, Nanne had caught him — and instantly thought the two of them were f*cking. They blushed at his innuendos, despite ignoring them. They’d read far too much into his declaration that he’d drink Wyll’s blood out of the rest of them. And, most damningly, they were all too aware of what Lae’zel’s proposition meant. So, they weren’t stupid, per se. Instead of fighting a horde of goblins, they’d talked their way in. They’d noticed that Astarion read books at night, and hells, they’d been able to sniff out that he was a vampire before he’d ever lunged for that pretty neck.

So then, if they weren’t innocent when it came to sex, they’d turned down everyone else’s overtures for a completely different reason. And thinking back to Shadowheart’s conversation with Nanne, he could think of a reason why. It was clear the girl had been attached. Too attached, perhaps. Nanne had mentioned wanting to support her, to be her listening ear, as a friend alone.

If Astarion approached him as a friend, a comrade, he’d be shot down immediately. But a night of harmless fun? No attachments, no relationship? Perhaps then they could be persuaded.

But words wouldn’t reach Nanne. They couldn’t be enticed with pretty niceties and flirtations alone — at least, not enticed to act on any desires they might have. They needed a direct, blunt approach. And they needed to want him so badly, so desperately, that they wouldn’t hesitate.

He could do that.

So, the next evening, when they drew straws for who would get to bathe first, he made certain he was the one holding them. And then, with short precise squeezes of his thumb, he made certain that everyone else drew a long straw — except for him and Nanne.

“You can go first,” they said, because of course they would say that. So he thanked them profusely, gathered his bathing supplies, and headed to the river.

He did make sure to wash; he wasn’t going to just stand there in the water waiting for them. But he took his time, lathering up the soap and scrubbing slowly, making sure to get under every nail and push down his cuticles.

When he heard leaves rustling and Nanne’s boots treading grass as they walked down to the river shore, he dunked one last time and made certain to emerge just as they rounded the bend.

They gasped. Rather loudly.

Arching his back, he sighed as if to himself, running fingers through his curls, fluffing them slightly. And then, just to make certain their eyes were riveted to him, he let his hand trail down his throat, tracing his clavicle for only a second before sliding down his chest. Briefly letting his fingers dance over his abs, outlining them, before his hand slipped back into the water, as if it were a perfectly natural movement.

It was a risk. He half expected Nanne to run away at the sight of him naked, even if it was only a topless view. But that risk paid off as he looked at them with lidded eyes, drinking in their face.

Lips parted, eyes round as tea saucers, they stared at him, utterly transfixed. Pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. He could hear their heart hammering in their chest. Smell the tang of their arousal.

Nausea twisted in his stomach. He forced it down.

“I-I’m sorry,” they panted as they backed away, clutching a reed on the shore as if to tug themselves back. “I didn’t mean, I thought you were—”

“Stay,” he rasped, voice husky and dark. “I don’t mind.”

They half turned anyway, and he would have felt fear, if not for how their head didn’t turn with their body. “Astarion?” they whispered, and he saw their confusion.

Slowly, he waded out of the water. He bit back a grin as Nanne squeaked out an “Oh gods,” whirling around entirely. But they didn’t move. Instead, he wrapped a towel — as close to one as they could get out here, anyway — around his waist and sidled up to them, his chest a hair’s breadth away from their back. “I waited for you,” he breathed into their ear.

He felt more than saw their body shudder.

“I’ve been waiting for a long time, actually,” he murmured. Slowly, carefully, his fingers touched their shoulders; they flinched, then fell still. “Ever since I drank from that delicious neck of yours, you’ve been in my thoughts. My trances. You’ve driven me half mad.”

Nanne’s breaths came out unsteady. “W-Why?” Their heart hammered like a drum in their chest, blood pumping ever quicker. It suffused the air with that delicious orange and honey scent, and he took in a greedy breath.

“Because I want you,” he whispered back. “Not just your blood. All of you.” Slowly, so slowly, he brushed his nose against the tip of their ear — felt their pulse spike, saw their thighs press together. “To touch you. To taste you. To hear you cry my name.”

Their hands lifted from their sides to clasp together, as if in prayer. “I-I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked softly. “Why can’t we indulge in each other? That’s all it has to be, darling. No strings attached.” That was what they feared, wasn't it? Expectations, attachments. That was fine; Astarion didn't require either. They’d both get exactly what they needed: seduction from a devastatingly beautiful vampire, and someone on his side in case Cazador came calling or the rest of camp decided keeping a spawn wasn’t worth the trouble.

“You don’t…” They swallowed, throat bobbing. “You can’t want this.”

By the tone of their voice, he knew that “this” meant “me.”

Hmmm. Perhaps he’d gotten it wrong after all. No matter. He changed tack quickly. “But I do,” he breathed, half sigh, half moan. His hands slid down to Nanne’s arms, nose brushing against their neck. Then, rougher, “I…” A pause, as if he was actually in torment, as if confessing something dark and dirty, “I ache for you, Nanne.”

They trembled. From desire? From fear? They still smelled aroused, that telltale tang. But it was subdued, faded. And oddly enough, he smelled the salt of tears.

Sorrow? Fear? Joy?

But they didn’t respond. They didn’t say anything, and he could hear their breath steadying and their arms sliding out of his grasp. This… This wasn’t working. Lips against their pulse, he swallowed hard, stomach wrenching and tight. What did he have to say? What did he have to do to get them to want him?

But no. They did want him, he could literally smell it. He just had to silence the little voice in their head telling them no. But what…?

“You need it. And if I can help you, then it would be cruel of me not to.”

Of course. He should have realized it sooner. But gods, this was a new low. Breath shuddering, he licked his lips.

Then whispered hoarsely, “Please.”

He’d never had to beg for sex like this. Never. Not for brothel goers, not for cutthroats and purse snatchers, not even for sweet young virgins. There was only one man that had forced him to beg, and he would never get down on his knees or lie on his back for him again.

But this… He could do this. He had to. And honestly, what was one simple, miserable “please” compared to the other indignities he’d suffered? It wasn’t nearly as devastating as Cazador forcing him to beg for him, to feign attraction and desire for a monster. It wasn’t nearly as humiliating as some of the other things he’d had to beg for: clothes, a hairbrush, needle and thread, potions when seductions had gone wrong and turned into beatings.

So why did he almost break and flee back into the river when Nanne turned in his arms, wide eyed and breath unsteady?

Why did he recoil when he saw in their eyes not just naked lust, but shock mingled with sorrow?

“I need you,” he breathed, and that was true, and it was wretched, and he loathed that fact with every fiber of his being. “I need this.”

Nanne’s lips parted, hands shaking as they unclasped and laid limp against his chest. “Okay,” they whispered, and all he could feel was relief, hot and burning and palpable. “O-Okay, whatever you need. I can… Whatever you need.”

Somehow, that felt better than them simply agreeing to sex. Better, and so much worse.

“Oh darling,” he sighed, and a soft little whimper left their throat as he buried his face against their neck, lips brushing where their bite scar had yet to heal. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that.”

Swallowing thickly, they nodded, their ear brushing his cheek. Then, voice meek and halting, “D-Do you… Do you want to… now?” It was slight, but he could smell it. Mixed with the heady arousal and the tearsalt, fear.

The nausea curled ever tighter as something sickly cold crawled under his skin.

Instantly, he pulled back, laughing lightly. “Oh no, darling, we mustn’t rush this.” He smiled; he could feel their body heat radiate towards him, almost scalding in the chilly night air. “Why not tomorrow night? I’m far too exhausted to get up to anything right now.” They nodded in agreement, and for the first time, he noticed circles under their eyes. “Besides… a little anticipation is a good thing, isn’t it?” He winked.

The relief in their smile was palpable as they nodded again.

“Wonderful,” he breathed. “And while I’m all too excited to finally engage in some depraved carnal lust, I’m no beast.” He let his voice soften, grow husky and deep and “aroused” again. “I want to savor this.”

Nanne shuddered again, and he didn’t miss their legs squeezing together — and the way they canted their hips back, away from his. “Tomorrow night, then.” The words came out unsteady, unsure — as if they were in a dream.

“Tomorrow night,” he agreed. That would give him time to prepare, press the rosemary he’d filched from the grove and mix it with oils to add to his perfume. It would give them time to recover from him drinking their blood.

All he had to do was wait. And all they had to do was fall for him.

Despite himself, anxiety crawled through Astarion for the rest of the next day.

He wasn’t a blushing maiden who’d never been kissed; the sex part he could manage just fine. But what if Nanne lost their resolve? What if he’d done something wrong, and bungled his chance? What if the time came to meet up in the clearing — he’d staked it out earlier, a nice secluded little place away from camp — and they didn’t show?

He shouldn’t worry. If Nanne didn’t show, he wouldn’t be locked in the Kennel or worse, brought to Cazador for “remedial lessons.” Immediately, there would be no consequences to his blunder. But he would be alone, stranded out in the godsforsaken wilderness with a group that didn’t care if he lived or died.

No, he needed Nanne to show up.

So the entire day, he watched them. Flirted with them. Every time they came up to him, he had a nice quip ready. “Why, hello there, gorgeous.” “I did miss that face, you know.” “Hello, darling.”

Sometimes they ducked their head. Sometimes they giggled. But every time they blushed, and that eased the anxiety somewhat. Their attraction was still there. And by the end of the day, when they looked at him, they smiled. It was faint, but it was a smile.

He didn’t join the others as they clustered around the campfire for dinner. But as they slowly began to trickle into their tents, leaving their campsite barren, he sidled forward. “A quiet evening, for once,” he murmured, settling behind them.

Nanne jumped, and he chuckled as they whirled around. “Nine f*cking hells, Astarion,” they wheezed out, hands covering their chest.

He grinned. “Caught you off guard, darling?”

They sputtered for a few seconds, taking a few deep breaths. “I… Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. But you do look like you need to relieve some tension.”

Nanne’s eyebrows shot up.

“And I do mean sex, to be clear,” he said quickly. “We’ve been waiting long enough.”

Nanne’s head ducked, their entire face a brilliant scarlet. “I know.”

So they did know what they were getting into. Still, he had to make sure. “This is what you want, then?” he asked lowly. “No second thoughts?”

He’d never had to ask before. His normal targets responded very easily to being enticed. Yet there was something skittish about Nanne in this moment, and the previous night when he’d propositioned them. He felt… off kilter. Unbalanced.

They took another heavy breath. “No second thoughts. But, um…” They looked around. “Where are we going to…?”

“Oh, not here,” he breathed with a laugh. “No, let’s find a little piece of nowhere all to ourselves, hm? Where we can forget all this madness for a moment.” Carefully, he propped up their chin with his knuckle, smiling as he looked into their eyes. It faded a bit as they shut them quickly. “There’s a clearing not far from here. Just follow the river and you’ll find it. Wait until the others are asleep, then come find me there.”

“All right,” they whispered. “I’ll… I’ll see you there.”

“Indeed you will, my love,” he murmured back. “I can’t wait.”

He left them there, sitting on their bedroll by the fire, to walk off into the forest. Following the river’s course until the trees thinned. The rushing water would hopefully drown out any sounds that might carry back to camp; while he doubted Nanne would be a loud lover, they would probably appreciate the privacy.

Now all he had to do was prepare and wait. He pulled down his trousers and dabbed some of his cologne between his thighs, then reached for his oil vial. Everything he knew about the bard told him that they would be receiving and him giving, but just in case, he coated his fingers and began stretching himself. One finger at a time, slow, steady breaths. He didn’t rush, as he had in the past, nor did he use all of his fingers. Nanne was a few fingers shorter than him, and from what he’d glimpsed from their ill fitting trousers, they weren’t big. That was somewhat of a relief.

Lacing up his trousers, he weighed his options for a moment, then took off his shirt. Best to not be subtle tonight. They weren’t hiding behind entendres anymore, so why play around?

He leaned against the bark of a nearby tree, feeling how it poked and prickled against the scars on his back, and waited.

And waited.

And kept waiting.

The moon was already at its apex in the sky, and he cursed himself. Of course Nanne wouldn’t show. Of course he’d been foolish to think that they would go with him. They laughed at his jokes and blushed when he talked with them, but they hadn’t put out for anyone else in camp. Why him?

Or, perhaps they’d gotten lost in the woods. He smiled bitterly at the thought—

Then froze as he heard a small, tiny voice call out, “Astarion?”

It trembled, but it was Nanne.

Plastering a seductive smile on his face, he rounded the tree in one fluid motion — and relished their soft gasp as they saw him stalk towards him. “There you are,” he purred. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Sorry,” they pushed out, their shoulders hunched. “I had to wait. Wasn’t sure that they were asleep, and that you…”

“That I what?” he asked, closing the distance with each careful footstep.

“That you were serious,” they said softly. “About this.”

He paused, lips parted in surprise. “And why wouldn’t I be, my dear?”

Nanne swallowed thickly, fingers drumming out rhythms against their thighs. Then, oddly, they shook their head, as if that answered his question.

“I am serious,” he murmured, taking yet another step. They were almost within reach. “And I have been waiting since the moment I saw you.” He lowered his voice into the husky timbre that had his conquests drooling. “Waiting to have you.”

It was one of his best lines. And Nanne did look somewhat overcome. Flustered even. Yet the words that spilled from their lips perplexed him. “You… You don’t have me yet.”

Astarion blinked. It was a flirt, that he knew, but their voice was shockingly hesitant. Gone was the fearless leader who had convinced them that they had to help the tieflings in the Grove. Gone was the bard who insisted that Astarion stayed in their band. In their place was someone who looked far younger, far less sure of themselves.

“Don’t I? You’re here,” he murmured, taking a step forward; they didn’t move back, thankfully. “And I don’t think you want to talk.” Their breath hitched as he moved in, pupils dilating. Good. They were hooked on him now. “I think,” he breathed, sculpting his voice, making it rasp in a deep purr, “that you want to be known. To be tasted.”

Their lips parted, snowy eyelashes fluttering, and he smiled. They looked rather pretty like this, allured and blushing.

Then, softly, they asked, “What do you want?”

The smile faded from his lips. What?

No one asked that. No one had any reason to ask that. Were they on to him? Had they somehow seen through this ruse?

He caught himself quickly. “What do any of us want?” he asked lowly. “Pleasure.” Nanne’s breath caught again, a soft little “Oh” as he took their hand, kissing their palm. “Yours,” he breathed. “Mine. Our collective ecstasy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He looked at them through hooded eyes, letting the tension between them thicken. Pause, wait. Then: “To lose yourself in me.”

The words came out hollower than he’d intended.

Yet, thankfully, Nanne didn’t seem to notice. Instead, they nodded, cheeks aflame, and he smiled. “I thought so,” he rasped, pulling them in by the hand. Their other collided against his chest, and he inhaled deeply before seizing them in a kiss.

Orange peels and honey, mixed with the fresh scent of dew on pine needles.

Nanne let out a shocked noise, a tiny “mph!” Then they melted, easily falling into the rhythm he set. Oh good; he’d judged them right after all. Though it took more work to seduce the submissive ones, at least he’d be in control, able to set the pace.

Then he slid his tongue into their mouth, tasting their lips, and they pulled back with a startled gasp.

He froze. “What?”

Nanne’s hand shook as it rose to their lips, tracing them, and something horrible clicked in Astarion’s mind.

Oh gods. They were a virgin.

Of course they were a virgin. Of course his nice, simple little plan had to be immediately complicated. Of course he had to pick the one person in camp that fit his “type”: young, sweet, and innocent. Because he had no standards. None at all.

But no. No, this wasn’t a terrible thing. He’d done this dozens of times, after all. Swap out the forest for a tavern and it was the exact same principle.

“I-I’m sorry,” Nanne whispered. He frowned as they folded their hands over their lap. “I didn’t mean to… Did I ruin it?”

Smiling sweetly, he pulled them in by the hips. “You haven’t ruined a thing,” he breathed, twisting his role slightly. Less overt seduction, more kindness and patience. A teacher instead of just a rake. “But I’m shocked, darling. Where have you been hiding, that a beauty like you has never been touched?”

They stiffened, and not in the pleasant way. Damn it, what had he done wrong? That line worked on all the virgins before.

Then, wearily, “We should just get this over with.”

Oh sh*t. What?

“What are you talking about, darling?” he purred, his nose brushing their cheek. “We’ve only just begun. There’s no need to rush. I’ll talk you through the entire thing.”

“It’s not that,” they said, voice uncomfortably tight. Astarion’s hands grew cold as they pulled away, turning around. “You should see before… So you can know…”

He watched in confused silence as they took off their shirt, tossing it on the ground. Rich, earthy skin tinged with red shone in the moonlight, a dark splotch on their shoulder. Shoulders that shook, their breaths coming out too quick and short.

“Slow down, darling,” he said quietly. “Breathe.” I can’t seduce you if you pass out on me. This was not how the night was supposed to go.

Then they shoved down their trousers and smalls in one go, kicking them off awkwardly. Those narrow shoulders of theirs still trembled, breath hitching. Then, slowly, as if they were marching to their death, they turned.

Astarion blinked as he looked at them. Their body was slightly odd — he’d expected more masculine proportions, based on their hands, but they had quite a womanly frame. Narrow shoulders, wide hips, an ass that several patriars would die for. His lips parted as he saw the scars on their chest below their pectorals. Oh. One piece of the puzzle put together.

Then his eyes moved lower and he had to take a second to parcel apart what he saw.

A flaccid short co*ck dangled from the familiar patch of pubic hair — but there were no balls. Instead, he saw the gentle slope of a mound and folds.

“I was born in between,” Nanne whispered, voice tiny and shivering in the cool night air. “Y-You should know, I should have told you before, but there was never… Never a good time to bring it up until now, and if you want to leave, I understand.” The last words came out in a rushed breath, cracking in the stillness.

Oh.

“Leave?” he asked, offering them a smile. “Now, why would I do that, when I have such a beauty right in front of me?”

They flinched, hugging at themselves, turning away. And in that moment, he felt an emotion he’d had little use for in the past two centuries.

Pity.

Everything made sense now. Their distance, their anxiety when he’d approached them, their reluctance to be intimate with anyone else, despite their clear interest. Their actions had never been hostile to anyone — they were certainly friendly enough, and they called the rest of their band friends. But this line in the sand they’d drawn made far more sense when he looked at their genitals. What didn’t make sense was why they trusted him, of all people, to know.

But perhaps there was a comfort in telling a complete stranger your secrets instead of someone you were close to. A way to distance yourself from the pain. He’d told them about the Szarrs for that reason, hadn’t he? Nanne would likely never meet Cazador. They would never have to see his torment firsthand, and thus they’d never ask any questions.

Just as he never would. He didn’t need to; he honestly didn’t even care. He’d f*cked and been f*cked by every genital and gender combination imaginable at this point. Not quite this combination, but it would be easy enough figuring out how to bring them pleasure.

But they wouldn’t know that. Even now, they shirked away from him, clearly expecting disgust. Wrath? When he took a step forward, they flinched again, body curling inwards. Hiding from him.

His chest tightened at that.

“Darling,” he murmured. Then paused. “Nanne,” he began again, just as soft. And this time, they didn’t flinch away as he touched their arms, prying them from their chest — to hide the scars, he realized belatedly — and then pressed their hand to his stomach. Gently moved their wrist, guiding them to rub the muscles there, to feel.

They gasped. Then slid their hands up to rest over his heart. They paused, lips curling down in a frown, before they huffed out a laugh. “R-Right,” they stammered. “You… no heartbeat.”

He could hear their own, hammering in their chest. “Oh, there’s plenty of other benefits to me as well, darling,” he purred into their ear. “But all in good time, hm? Now, what would you like? Do you know?”

Hesitantly, they nodded.

“Tell me,” he breathed, running his hands up and down their sides. “What do you dream of?”

“I-I…” They swallowed hard. “Someone… wanting me.”

Dear gods, were they really that innocent? But, he supposed, if he had never had sex before, the idea of positions and techniques would be foreign to him too.

“I won’t make a good partner,” they babbled suddenly. “I’ve never, I don’t know what to do, I—”

“Oh darling,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against theirs. “That’s why I’m here.”

And he forestalled any argument by kissing them again.

As far as kisses went, it was actually rather good. This time, when he tasted them with his tongue, they melted fully into the kiss, almost going limp in his arms. He disguised his shocked huff as laughter as he threaded his fingers in their hair — brittle but like feathers — to hold them upright and steady. They were a few fingers shorter than him, which let him lean into it.

He let his hands wander, reminding himself to pull back every few seconds to let them breathe. And breathe they did, panting as his hands ran down their back, tracing their spine before feeling up their ass. They moaned openly at that, then cringed, a hand to their mouth — and he laughed. “No, no,” he breathed. “None of that. It’s just the two of us out here, isn’t it? Me and my adorable little songbird.”

Trailing kisses down their neck and giving that soft ass a few squeezes, he felt their breath stutter and something press to the front of his trousers. He hummed in satisfaction, pulling apart and planting another kiss on their lips. Already they were starting to swell, nipped and soothed with his tongue.

“Now, darling,” he murmured. “Be good for me and wait right here.”

They pulled back, clearly confused as he backed away. Then terror make their eyes flicker as they reached for him. “Wait—”

“Just a moment,” he promised, a hand held up. “I’ll be right back.”

Needy little thing. But could he blame them? It wasn’t lust but fear that made them insistent. They looked at him as if he were ephemeral, a dream they would wake from.

Letting his hand hover in front of him, as if his hand had slipped out of theirs and he wished for nothing but to grasp it again, he ducked behind the tree and quickly stripped. First boots and socks — one of the benefits to his undead body was that his feet rarely smelled unless he’d stepped in sh*t — then trousers and smalls. His co*ck had woken up slightly from the kissing, and he half considered stepping out as he was. They’d still kiss, maybe some petting as foreplay, before he’d need to oil himself.

But, well… The look in their eyes as they’d turned to face him, exposed, lingered in his mind. Then the terror as he’d slipped behind this tree.

“I want someone to want me.”

They’d been kind, in a way that had nothing to do with innocence. No gropes of their own, no poking or prodding fingers. So instead of immediately moving back in for the kill, he dripped oil onto his fingers and stroked himself. His body responded immediately; he hadn’t truly wanted in centuries, but his mind was all too good at disconnecting from his flesh. It took a few moments of furious stroking, some fondling of his balls for extra stimulation, but soon enough he was ready.

Nanne could have their fantasy as a gift: a gorgeous, beautiful man walking out from behind that tree hard and throbbing for them. It was a lie, of course, but all of this was a lie. And, as his thumb rubbed at his frenulum and he thought of their collarbones, the sharp line of their jaw, those wide eyes, it wasn’t a complete, total lie.

Stepping out, he felt his lips twitch up as Nanne actually gasped, loud and clear in the night air.

“Trust me, darling, I’m far from the largest,” he teased, striding towards them confidently.

“You’re beautiful,” they whispered, voice cracking, and he paused. He’d been called beautiful, of course, thousands of times. That was the whole point of it all. But something in how they said it… It was mournful.

Sex had meant many things for him over the years, even grief. But never from those he’d bedded. And looking at Nanne now, hands still covering their chest, he felt that stab of pity again.

“For you, darling,” he breathed, taking them by the hips and pulling them into another searing kiss. And this time he pressed their entire body to his, moaning into their mouth as he began to roll his hips against theirs.

Their co*ck was small, compared to both his own and their own frame. Small co*cks weren’t bad, though; he pushed back the roil of disgust at the memory of sweaty bodies and huge erections pushing into his hole. In a way, it actually felt somewhat decent, Nanne’s little prick rubbing against his own. Their head rubbed his frenulum, and he shuddered as he clutched them closer, fingers digging into their hips. His lips traveled all over their face, smoothing out the furrow between their brow, nipping the tip of their ear; they moaned at that, just as he knew they would.

As he breathed, inhaling before his next kiss, he caught a different tang to the air, and realized that there was another part of Nanne to explore.

So, he grabbed their ass one more time — gods, that was lovely — and cupped their thighs before picking them up off the ground.

Nanne squealed, scrambling to throw their arms around his neck as he moved towards the tree. He merely smiled in response, composing the perfect lovestruck expression as he carried them easily, then pulled them back down for another kiss.

This time, when he grinded against them, his co*ck rubbed against wet, warm folds.

That pulled a very different kind of gasp out of them, and he felt his mind detach, Fading as his body moved in all the ways that he knew would make them cry out his name. Soon they would beg him for “inside,” and he’d agree.

But there was still more to do; it was their first time, and he wouldn’t end it so quickly. As his lips kissed down their neck, he idly noted their scent — still that delightful zest of orange peels and sweet honey — sucking and leaving a mark there. A nice little treat for them.

Yet when his body pulled away, their hand sank in his curls, guiding his face back to their pulse. “Y-You…” He paused as they swallowed thickly, their heart racing in his ears. “You can… It’s okay. You can…”

His eyes widened as he realized what they were giving him permission to do.

Then, without any hesitation, he pulled them away from the tree and down into the grass, tumbling and panting as he kissed them greedily. “You sweet thing,” he breathed into their mouth. “Thank you.”

Rolling them onto their back, he climbed over them, then lunged for their neck.

He didn’t remember what sort of sounds they’d made when he’d fed from them the first time. All he could recall from that moment was the taste of their blood, the sweetness coating his tongue. But here, now?

They moaned like he was f*cking them to pieces.

“Astar— Astarion!” they gasped, fingers fumbling all over his back, scrambling to hold on, and he gulped down another sweet mouthful as he clutched their head in his hand. “Gods, I can’t… I can’t…”

His mind should have flitted away as he guided his hand between their legs. But perhaps their blood, intoxicating as it was, had him entirely rooted in reality. So he used its taste to distract himself instead, pressing two fingers into their slit. They were warm, wet, and between them he could feel where the tip of their prick smeared precum. Already so close to release, and he’d barely touched them at all.

Thrusting slowly, easily, he felt them shudder, whimper — then completely fall apart with a shockingly soft “Oh.”

He unlatched himself from their neck, lathing at the wound with his tongue, swiping up their stray droplets of blood. A soft, hitched noise rang in his ears as he pulled away, looking at the body beneath him. They were still hard, much to his surprise. Strange. He’d felt them flutter around his fingers, clenching with the tell-tale wild spasms of org*sm.

“Such a sweet little thing you are,” he heard himself say, as his hands moved to stroke himself again. And once he was hard enough, he nudged at their entrance. “So good for me. But this is just a taste of what’s to come.”

They smiled up at him with blissful, glossy eyes, and he cursed himself for drinking their blood, for forcing him to be aware for this moment. He could feel it all, every breath of theirs misting on his skin, every brush of their fingers on his arms, every soft little moan and whimper of pleasure while he felt none at all. Instead of feeling hollow and numb, he felt alive, and he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and flee to the river.

But why should he complain? He’d done this dozens of times, bedding pretty young virgins, introducing them to all sorts of carnal pleasures. He couldn’t go soft now. And this wasn’t their fault. They… They hadn’t yanked his hair or bit him hard enough to draw blood, or groped him to the point of bruising. They laid there beneath him, looking at him with those soft, flickering eyes, and he…

He pitied them.

So he shoved down the disgust, the world going hazy as he pressed himself inside with short, shallow thrusts, feeling warm flesh give way and squeeze around him slickly. Slowly, slowly, careful to not press too fast or thrust too hard. He kept his eyes open. Smiled. Groaned, gasped out “So tight around me, so good,” panted, “f*ck, f*ck, you’re like a dream,” reached his hand down between them to stroke a small co*ck and breathe, “Come undone for me.”

And they did. With another wordless cry, far louder, he felt their entire body shudder and writhe, and he smelled salt and felt wetness on both his neck and his hand.

He thrusted through it. Felt them fall still. Then pulled out, co*ck going soft as he rose from the ground.

For a moment, he knelt there. Confused. Because now this was the moment when Cazador would come in and drain them dry, and…

What was he supposed to do?

The wind brushed his skin, bringing back that delicious scent, and all at once, he snapped back to reality. He wasn’t in the guest bedroom, wasn’t behind a tavern or a brothel or a flophouse. He was in a clearing with Nanne, a bard, the leader of their merry band, and he’d done it. The soft, blissful smile on their face was proof enough. They’d grow attached. Fond. Willing to protect him, to listen to him, to help him…

To help him murder Cazador.

Strange, how that thought made him feel far better than sex had for the past decades.

Nanne did not open their eyes. Did not speak, not even to say his name. Hm. For a bard, their pillow talk was shockingly lacking. But then again, it wasn’t like they’d ever been very eloquent in the first place. One less thing to pretend about, anyway, amidst a night of lies. He hadn’t even finished himself, not that they seemed to notice. Not that they would care. He didn’t. It had been a while since he’d had even a fleeting moment of bliss.

No, kneeling in this grass, all he felt was a vindictive sort of thrill of victory. But even that faded into the numb hollowness that always followed his trysts. He stood up jerkily, watching as Nanne’s eyes didn’t open. Asleep, then.

He didn’t wake them, leaving them there to dream as he walked down to the river to clean himself.

Chapter 9: Like the Dawn

Chapter Text

Standing in the sunlight, Astarion basked in the warmth and felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced for two centuries.

Contentment.

It was different from the delirious happiness of drinking Nanne’s blood or gorging himself during his hunts. Different from the spikes of pleasure at gutting someone with his knife or dreaming of Cazador burning to ash in the sun. It was… soft. Subtle. Like a warm blanket. It was everything the previous night hadn’t been, and that…

He didn’t feel guilt. But that rusted, worn-out pity stirred as he closed his eyes and soaked in the light of dawn.

When he heard Nanne stir behind him, their breaths quickening from the lazy cadence of sleep, he didn’t turn. Not even when they let out a gasp. But he did realize, belatedly, what they saw now, no longer hidden by his shirt.

He braced himself for the questions about his scars.

But they didn’t say anything. He felt their gaze on him, and he didn’t turn to look at them. A shiver ran down his spine, discomfort lodging in his throat as he let them ogle, drinking him in. That was what he was good for, wasn’t he? A perfectly beautiful man.

“You…” He heard Nanne swallow. “The sunlight…”

He frowned, turning around. “Yes?” he asked, then froze.

He’d seen that look in their eyes before. Not the dark, hungry gaze of lust, but something far softer. An artist looking at a masterwork.

“You look good in the sun,” they mumbled, ducking their head, and he nearly laughed at the anticlimactic comment.

Instead, his throat only grew tighter. “You sleep light,” he commented himself. “I’d have thought you would still be in recovery from our exertions.”

Nanne flushed, even as they scrambled to find their clothes. First came their shirt, baggy and loose enough to completely mask their frame. For the first time, he wondered if that was deliberate, if they chose oversized clothing to hide themselves instead of simply having bad luck — or bad taste in style. Yet their trousers didn’t fit either, and he noticed their wince as they had to jerk apart the laces to fit over their hips, then the rope they used as a makeshift belt to cinch the waist.

Well, if they were going to get dressed and leave so quickly, he supposed there was no point standing around shirtless. He pulled on his own shirt, tucking it in slowly. It was warm from laying out in the sun, but also damp with dew.

“Astarion?” Nanne said, abruptly breaking the silence. When his gaze flitted to them, they stood nervously, with their hands wrung in their lap. “Thank you. For last night. I…” A harsh swallow. “Thank you.”

“Oh, the pleasure was all mine,” he purred. “Your performance was certainly better than your pillow talk though, darling.”

They flushed — but he saw the grimace twisting their features. “Sorry. When I get… overwhelmed, I lose my words. I should have told you.”

He grinned. “My, my. What a delicious secret. I’ll take that as a positive review, then?”

“I, uh, yes. Yes.” They swallowed again. “And you? Was it… Did you get what you needed?”

He froze. That was the second time they’d said something like that. But there was no way he could have let on that this was an act, that he was manipulating them. In their eyes, he had no reason to need this besides…

Oh. He supposed he’d used that verbiage himself two days ago, seducing them on the riverbank.

So he smiled. “All I needed and more.”

They still looked nervous. “It’s just, you didn’t look all there last night.”

Despite the warmth of the sun, he felt painfully, bitterly cold. How could they have known? How could they have seen that? It wasn’t even true; he’d been more present for that tawdry romp than he had been with any of his conquests in decades. Even Cazador—

Lie.

“I didn’t want to give in fully, it’s true,” he murmured, as if confessing a secret. “You were so generous to give me your blood, darling, but in the middle of sex? I didn’t want to lose control. It wouldn’t do to drain you dry before we even started.” He smiled sultrily. “You had me overcome so quickly, my sweet.”

Their lips turned down into a deeper frown, but they nodded.

Biting back a sigh, he turned towards camp. “Shall we head back then? The others will probably wake soon. It wouldn’t do to have them think I kidnapped you.”

Nanne laughed softly behind him. “But first…” He heard them swallow. “The… scars on your back. Were they…?”

He supposed it was best to get this over with. “It’s a poem,” he said flatly. “A gift from Cazador.”

He didn’t have to turn back to see the grimace on Nanne’s face. “A poem? You’re sure?”

“It’s what he told me, and it’s not like I can check in a mirror,” he said sharply. Then softened, when he felt Nanne flinch behind him. “Cazador always had a love of poetry. Honestly, I don’t know what was worse — being flayed or having to listen to him recite his own compositions.”

Nanne didn’t laugh. Well. This conversation was going splendidly.

Sighing, he turned to look at them. “He composed and carved the one on my back in the course of a single night.” His gaze flitted to the leaves at their feet. “He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

Nanne’s face twisted in obvious pity. Astarion barely kept himself from curling his lip. But the words that passed their lips wiped any thoughts of disgust from his mind. “Only reason I’m asking is because it’s written in Infernal,” they said softly. “The poem.”

There was no sunlight strong enough to erase the chill from his skin at those words. “Infernal?” he asked. “You’re sure?”

“I’m half tiefling.” Well, there was another mystery solved. Nanne swallowed. “Da… My father, I mean, he taught me some Infernal. Part of my heritage, he said. I couldn’t tell what it said, but Cazador — did he know it?”

“I don’t know.” He shivered. “I… Who knows? The bastard was insane. Now, let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

If he was less rattled, he’d have felt another surge of pity at the way Nanne curled inward at those words. Or, well… He did feel some. So, as they made the short walk back to camp, he folded his arms over his chest and glanced their way. “I suppose you want to hear more about him.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Nanne said quickly. Too quickly.

He sighed bitterly. “That won’t do anyone any good. Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate. The patriarch of his coven, though the other Szarrs weren’t exactly regular visitors. He’s a monster, obsessed with power. And I don’t mean political power or military power — I mean power over people. The power to control them completely.” His voice lowered as the sunlight filtered through the trees, his pace slowing. As little as the others in their band had to hear about this, the better. “He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn, and he became my tormentor.”

“He attacked you?” Nanne asked softly.

Astarion chuckled darkly. “Oh no, that part wasn’t his fault. You see, in my illustrious former career as a magistrate — that wasn’t a lie, by the way, darling — I passed a ruling that affected a tribe of Gur who caravaned outside the city. I couldn’t tell you what it was, but it certainly had them up in arms. They accosted me on the street, beating me to death’s doorstep. And then Cazador arrived.” Another chill washed over him. “He offered me a choice: bleed to death on the street, or accept the gift of eternal life. You can imagine what I chose.”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Nanne said firmly. “Even if he wasn’t the one that put a knife to your throat, he wasn’t any better than a back alley thug making you choose between your purse or your life.”

Another laugh escaped him. “Oh, he’d adore you calling him an unwashed cutthroat. Right before he cut your tongue out.” He swallowed thickly. “But you’re right, I suppose. I didn’t realize, in that moment, just how long eternity could be.”

Nanne said nothing for a moment, and he realized idly that they’d come to a stop in the thicket, Nanne’s arms folded tightly across their chest. “So, after that, you became his slave.”

“Worse,” Astarion said flatly. “A vampire’s spawn is less than a slave. I was a puppet. Spawn have no choice but to obey their master’s commands. They speak, and our bodies react — it’s all part of the deal. You can see why they’d be loath to give up such a thing. And Cazador was… creative, with his orders. Sometimes, he’d have us submit to torture. Sometimes…” His voice caught. “He’d have us torture ourselves. Whatever his weathervane mood settled on.”

“Hells.” Nanne’s voice was soft, barely a whisper on the wind. “And the… poem.”

“Just one of various lovely ways he’d torment us.” Astarion’s lip curled. “We had orders to go out and fetch him his supper — not every night, otherwise the Flaming Fist would catch us. But we lured back only the prettiest morsels for him. Some nights, he'd ask me if I wanted to dine with him. If I accepted, he'd get his pretty young thing, and I would get a putrid rat. If I refused, he'd have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse.”

It wasn’t, actually. It had become rather easy to choose. A moment of disgust to swallow down, devouring what few mouthfuls of blood the rat gave him, then watching as Cazador greedily devoured his meal. Knowing that not even a drop of pure, thinking blood could pass his lips. He’d resisted, at first. Held himself up high, demanded dignity — and then they’d beaten it out of him. The neverending hunger had gnawed away the rest.

“Gods,” Nanne whispered. “I'm so sorry.” Then, to his surprise, they drew closer, laying a hand on his arm. “If… If you need to distract yourself from the memories, I can… whatever you need.”

So, they pitied him, did they? His stomach churned at that. It would work, he supposed — they did like him. He'd won, and it would be simple keeping this up. Just feed them more sob stories from time to time, then lavish them with the sex they'd been denied, and they'd be wrapped around his finger. In some ways, they already were.

“I appreciate the thought, darling,” he murmured, flashing them one of his best smiles. “But I'm not just saying this because I have a bleeding heart. The danger is real. We need to keep our eyes open.” A heavy somber feeling weighed him down. “The bastard was always good at crushing hope the second we had some to ourselves.”

“Then we'll keep our eyes open,” Nanne said firmly. “All of us. We've got your back, Astarion.”

Astarion paused, looking at them in the dawn light. He’d chosen right, after all. Nanne was no mighty warrior, and a crossbow wouldn't so much as scratch Cazador. But they were the leader, and where they pointed, the rest followed. He’d done it. He’d won.

So why did he feel so hollow as he looked at them?

“You should patch that up before we head back, darling,” he said idly, gesturing to the bloody holes on their neck.

“Oh. Thanks.” Pressing a hand to the skin, he watched in surprise as a soft green glow seeped between their fingers. Eyes closed, Nanne hummed, a short little melody; when they pulled their hand away, there were only two small divots that resembled his Turning scars. “Better?” they asked.

“Much.” He smirked. “I’d hate for our companions to get the wrong ideas about what happened last night. Though, with how loud you were—”

“Oh gods.” Nanne actually went pale. “Was I?”

“Very,” Astarion teased, and Nanne’s face swung from ashen and grey to burning red. “Not that I mind a special performance from my songbird.” Idly, he let his knuckles brush their cheek, feeling the heat seep through his skin. “I do hope you’ll grace me with an encore soon.”

Their response baffled him. Instead of leaning into his hand, asking for a kiss, they looked around wildly, as if waiting for goblins to jump out of the bushes and club them both. Or like someone was about to jeer at them, laugh at the two of them flirting in the woods. When their gaze settled on him again, it was with a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. “Like I said, if you need…”

“A distraction?” he murmured. “Yes, you’re certainly tempting enough. I’ll have to keep my wits about me if I’m to survive these next few days.” It wasn’t one of his best lines, but Nanne’s face still radiated heat as he left them in the woods, stalking back towards camp.

Those words came true far sooner than he’d like to admit.

The group had been waylaid by Auntie Ethel from the grove, who apparently was not as sweet or as innocent as her cheerful grandmother act implied. She’d kidnapped some pregnant woman, and because he was bedding a bleeding heart, he was now dragged into some awful swamp that reeked of piss. And filled with exploding thorns.

“You owe me a new pair of boots,” he seethed as they trudged through the water, Nanne soldiering ahead.

“We’ll hit up the grove before we raid the goblin camp and rescue Halsin,” Nanne promised.

“That’s far too much walking with soggy boots, darling, even if we use the waypoints,” he complained. “And this swamp reeks! Ugh, what in the hells is that stench?”

Lae’zel’s nose was up in the air. “Sickly sweet. Far too pungent to be a natural source.”

“Well, it’s not coming from these blokes,” Karlach said sadly.

Oh joy. The brothers who had charged in like idiots to rescue their pregnant sister were belly up in the swamp. Color him surprised.

But soon they were on dry land, which meant struggling through mud, not swamp bilge. “The scent’s that way,” Astarion muttered, jerking his head to the left.

“Everyone else, see if you can find the hag’s lair,” Nanne called out. “We’ll join you in a second.”

“What, we’re just going to wander off alone?” Astarion asked. “Why, darling, if you wanted some privacy, there are far better places for a little rendezvous than a swamp.”

Nanne lowered their pack from their shoulders as they wandered in the direction of the scent, halfway up a small hill. “Here,” they said, digging out a pair of boots. “I found these when we killed that spider. They won’t be waterproof, but your shoes are wrecked.”

Astarion watched mutely as they deposited said boots into his hands. They weren’t exactly the peak of fashion, but they were far sturdier looking than the cloth boots he’d been abducted in. If he ever ran into Dufay again, he’d chew the man’s ear off. Then again, the idiot couldn’t have possibly known that he was going to be abducted by mind flayers.

“They’ll do, I suppose,” he said quietly, sitting down on a nearby log that didn’t look too infested with bugs and prying off his waterlogged boots. “I don’t suppose you have spare socks in that pack as well?” he asked with a sigh, wringing his own out. At least there weren’t any leeches on his feet. Gods, he needed a bath.

“Sorry.” Nanne winced. “We’ll hit up the grove, like I said.”

“If you have some coin, or a bit of spare food, I could trade you some provisions.”

The only thing that made Astarion feel better about screeching as he fell off the log was that Nanne jumped a solid foot in the air.

Their interloper had the good grace to look sheepish as Astarion hurriedly pulled out a knife. “Ah, forgive me, strangers. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No… No harm done,” Nanne panted, slinging their crossbow back over their shoulder. “Though, uh, pardon me, but you smell—”

“Wretched,” Astarion choked out, nearly gagging on the stench. Far too sweet, sickly and cloying in his mouth.

“Powdered ironvine,” the man said cheerily; Astarion stiffened as he recognized that accent. “An old hunter’s trick. An unfortunate necessity, when chasing after my prey; I hadn’t thought to encounter anyone else in these lands. But we are safe in the daytime for now. Call me Gandrel.”

“Nanne,” they said, shaking his hand.

“You’re a monster hunter?” Astarion asked flatly, sheathing his dagger. “Funny. I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats.”

Nanne shot him a withering look before turning back to Gandrel with those wide, innocent eyes. “Ignore my friend. I knew he was a jackass, but I didn’t think he was a racist too.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. But Gandrel seemed to take it all in good humor. “No apologies needed. Your friend has just heard the rumors of my people: that we curse your crops, steal your chickens, seduce your daughters.” Not that he was going to be seducing anyone with that hideous beard. “I wish I had half the powers settled folk believe we possess. But unfortunately, I am merely a simple monster hunter. Your purses are safe.”

Nanne co*cked their head, and Astarion snarled. “Oh no,” he snapped. “We are not helping this stranger track down whatever disgusting creature he’s going after. I am not ending up as dragon food or kobold manure.”

Gandrel laughed, irritatingly enough. “Oh, my prey is nothing so dramatic. I’m hunting a vampire spawn.”

Astarion froze. He could see Nanne’s eyes sliding over to look at him. “A… vampire spawn, huh?” they said. “In a swamp?”

“Not precisely. I sought out the hag in these parts to help me divine his location — if her blood price is not too steep. But perhaps you are the divine intervention I’ve been praying for.” Gandrel’s face sobered. “His name is Astarion, and I fear he’s gone to ground.”

Every single bit of air in his lungs vanished.

Cazador.

“You’ve been sent to kill this… Astarion?” Nanne asked, making a rather noble effort to sound like they’d never heard his name before in their life.

“No, not this time. My orders are to capture him and bring him back to Baldur’s Gate.”

This is it.

His fingers wrapped around his dagger as he struggled to breathe. Cazador had found him at last, and sent a Gur. It was a clear message. He’d find him, even stranded in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere in Faerûn was safe. Nowhere.

“Have you seen him? He would look humanoid, but his true nature would quickly reveal itself. Perhaps you’ve spotted him skulking about your camp at night?”

Nanne looked at the Gur evenly. Somehow. “I’m afraid—”

Astarion’s blood ran cold as the Gur lifted up his crossbow, aiming it right at Nanne’s chest. “Your neck,” he breathed, and Astarion followed his gaze. Right to the two faded puncture marks over Nanne’s pulse. “You… You’re—”

sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. The Gur clearly had no idea what Astarion even f*cking looked like, because if he had, he’d know that Nanne was completely innocent, and he wouldn’t be aiming that crossbow at their heart, and—

“Oh, the scars?” Astarion froze, completely locked in place as Nanne rubbed their neck. “That was two weeks ago. You’re right, I’ve seen your spawn. Bastard got the drop on me in the middle of the night.”

Gandrel winced apologetically. “It’s a miracle that you’re still alive. Spawn are only weak compared to their masters.”

“It is a miracle,” Nanne agreed. “If not for my good friend here—” And Astarion jumped as they clapped a hand on his shoulder, “I’d be dead. He fought the monster off.”

“Truly?” Gandrel looked at him, and it took everything Astarion had to not scream, or run, or create twenty new orifices for blood to leak through with his knife. “Even out here, he still hunts for prey. Did you see where he was going?”

“Downriver,” Nanne said smoothly. “Away from the Gate.”

“Away from his master.” Gandrel rubbed at his beard. “I thank you, friend. You’ve truly done me a kindness. I have more powdered ironvine, if you’d like. It’s said that once a vampire drinks from their victim, they’ll always be able to track their blood by scent.”

“No, thank you. But good luck finding your quarry.”

“Then allow me to give you this, as thanks.” It took everything Astarion had to not charge the bastard and slit his throat as the Gur reached into his pack, then pulled out…

A rolled-up pair of socks.

“You were rather brave to take on a spawn to defend your friend,” he said cheerily. “May the gods watch over you on your travels.”

Numbly, Astarion felt the socks being pressed into his palm, then heard Gandrel’s footsteps as he headed down the hill towards the entrance to the swamp. Beside him, Nanne let out a shaking sigh, running a hand through their much shorter locks. As if they had something to fear from that entire exchange.

“What,” Astarion said darkly, “the hells were you thinking?”

“I thought we were f*cked until I realized he didn’t recognize you,” Nanne admitted, sitting down on a log.

“We should have killed him!” he hissed. “Immediately! You heard him, Cazador sent him to track me down!” Then he cringed, whirling around. But no Gur surged out of the bushes to attack him, and Gandrel had already disappeared into the undergrowth, nowhere to be seen.

“We don’t know that,” Nanne said evenly.

“Who else would send a Gur after me?” he snarled. “And you just let him go! So much for watching my back!”

“Astarion.”

“I can’t believe I trusted you.” He staggered back, turning away from them. Stupid, so stupid, of course they’d sell me out the second they had the chance. “I can’t believe I—”

“Astarion, wait. Please. He has people waiting for him.”

Astarion paused, turning to look at Nanne dubiously. “So?”

“So,” Nanne said slowly, “if we had gone ahead and killed him, and he didn’t show up when they expected, they’d know something was wrong.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“Now he’s on a wild goose chase. If Cazador sent him, he knows you’re going to try and run, get as far away from him as you can. I told him everything he wanted to hear.” Nanne rose from the log, swallowing thickly. “And if Gandrel comes back and attacks us tonight, you can say that you told me so and I’ll do my damndest to make sure he dies. But until then, we can’t draw any more attention to ourselves. All right?”

Nanne… hadn’t been delaying the inevitable. They’d been protecting him. In their own baffling, bizarre way. But considering how small they were, perhaps words were their only defense. It was clear they were used to talking people down, diffusing tension. It was a power that had never worked on Cazador, but on others… He could see the use more clearly now.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “And… thank you.”

“Always.” They hesitated, then touched his arm. “I have your back, Astarion. And I promise that I will never betray your trust.”

He didn’t relax, not when he’d come too close to being taken back. But some of the tension in his gut uncurled as he looked into those flickering green eyes and saw only sincerity.

“We still need to be careful,” he found himself saying. “Cazador… You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to kill every other monster hunter on sight.”

“If it comes to that.”

“We can make an exception for Wyll,” he joked half-heartedly. “Probably.”

Nanne smiled thinly. “I think he’s warming up to you. I heard him saying to Karlach that you have your charms.”

He huffed out a surprised laugh. “Really?”

Nanne shrugged. “Maybe he overheard you talking about his blood in the village.”

“And yet, something tells me I’d sooner taste that rapier of his down my gullet than even a drop. Besides,” and Nanne froze as he leaned in, a sultry smirk carefully crafted on his face. “You’re still my favorite.”

“That… That’s good.” He didn’t miss how Nanne stood a few inches taller. “We should get back to the others.”

“Indeed we should.” Yet he didn’t move, and neither did Nanne. There was… something in the air, between them. Something heavy yet charged yet fragile. And then his mind went back to that morning, Nanne’s eyes wildly darting around when he’d tossed out some dull line about hearing them sing for him. Back to when he’d made that comment about Wyll’s blood and Nanne had so blatantly tried to pretend that they hadn’t heard a single word.

His knuckles brushed their cheek again, followed by his lips. A chaste kiss, hardly more than a peck — yet Nanne’s released, shaken breath made them sound like he’d stripped bare before them and got on his knees.

“You’re the only one for me, darling,” he purred easily. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I…”

He leaned in, letting his eyes drift closed—

“You should really put on those socks.”

His eyes flew open as he looked down — and realized that he’d spent the entire encounter with the Gur barefoot.

“Hells,” he spat, stalking back over to the log. He pointedly ignored Nanne’s laughter as he slid on the socks, then jammed on the boots. “You aren’t going to say a word to anyone about this,” he snarled.

Nanne chuckled again, though the tips of their ears were still a brilliant scarlet. “You told me not to make promises I can’t keep.”

Rolling his eyes, he followed them as they made their way back to the others.

The cheerful air between them didn’t last.

Nanne didn’t speak to him that night, after they’d killed the hag and sent that insufferable woman on her way with her shambling zombie of a husband. It seemed that even their font of goodwill and charity had a limit — they had snapped at her that their baby didn’t deserve a mother who was willing to sell them off, then stalked away, rubbing their eyes with the heels of their hands.

Astarion had tried cracking a joke about how funny it all was, and that was the first time Nanne had ever snapped at him.

“It’s not funny when your own f*cking mother doesn’t want you.”

The camp mood was depressingly somber as they clustered around the fire; he’d caught Gale speaking with Nanne in a low voice, and from what snatches of conversation he could gather, the man was offering more “Mastering the Weave” lessons. Judging by how he retreated to his own corner of camp, the answer was No. Even Lae’zel looked perturbed as Nanne wandered off alone, a stormy look on their face as they snatched their lute up and retreated to the thicket by the swamp.

“What’s up with them, Fangs?” Karlach asked lowly as the rest of the group turned in for the night; Nanne still hadn’t returned, but the harsh chords and almost frantic plucking of their lute strings carried through the reeds and the mist. It was somewhat musical, but it mostly set him on edge.

“I… I have no idea,” he admitted. “Not even the Gur hunter had them this upset.”

“A Gur hunter? After you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Could you at least have the decency to sound surprised?”

“Not really,” she said, far too cheerily. “Don’t worry, mate. We’ll keep you safe. Just… keep an eye on them, yeah? I know kids like Nanne; they run themselves thin trying to keep everyone happy.”

When Nanne finally did return from the woods, he saw the circles under their eyes. Run thin indeed.

The next day, they made their amends with a sheepish look, he noted with curiosity. Gale was all too happy to teach them more about the Weave, and Shadowheart appreciated a helping hand to sort out the various potions and elixirs that they’d raided from the hag’s house. Most of them, he noticed, got dumped in the dirt with various noxious puffs of smoke. Lae’zel got a brand new whetstone purchased from Dammon. And in polar opposite to their rough plucking last night, they played a lighthearted ditty for Karlach and Wyll as they returned from the grove and headed towards the goblin camp.

They made camp just on its outskirts, far enough away that they wouldn’t be spotted. As Astarion set up his tent, placing his mirror perfectly centered on the doily, he spotted Nanne approaching him in the reflection. “Come to apologize for sulking, darling?” he asked, not even bothering to turn around.

“I… How did you see me?” they asked, their expression mystified.

“The only benefit to having a mirror when you have my condition,” he said dryly. “It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of a reflection, mind you. But your pretty face just might.” He turned around, sitting on the edge of his side table — then froze as he saw Nanne’s face directly instead of just through the reflection.

They looked… pained. Devastated, even.

“I’m sorry,” they babbled instantly. “I should have remembered.”

He sighed. “You meant no harm, just as you didn’t mean any harm by going off and banging that poor lute to death last night. Honestly, you should apologize to it instead of me.”

“I was being an ass,” they murmured, sitting down on his stool. “It’s just, everything with Mayrina… got to me.” He frowned as they looked up at him. “Do you miss it?” they asked softly, voice gentle in the night air. “Seeing your face?”

“Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity?” He tried to joke, but the words came out sour and bitter. “Of course I miss it. Not that it matters much. This face has opened quite a few doors for me, even after it sprouted fangs and my eyes turned red.”

“What color were they before?” Nanne asked innocently.

“I…” A lump rose in his throat as he stared at the ragged rug beneath their feet. “I don’t remember. My face is just another dark shape in my past.” His fangs dug into his lips as he gripped the edge of the table, feeling it splinter beneath his fingers. “Another thing I’ve lost.”

The night air hung heavy between them, the chill discomforting. He should be pleased; any time Nanne heard about how much he’d suffered under Cazador, they grew closer to him, tossing out declarations of protection like confetti. But this… This was too real. He felt raw, exposed, naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.

Maybe that had something to do with the way that Nanne stared at him. “What are you doing?” he asked incredulously, recoiling.

“I see you,” they said softly.

A lump rose in his throat at the words.

“I’ll be your mirror,” they continued. “What do you want to know?”

His chest tightened, as if Godey had gotten a pair of enormous, supernatural pliers. “I… I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me,” he whispered. “What you see.”

They weren’t like his other marks, keen on a good f*ck, constantly singing praises about his beauty. Nanne was honest. Politely honest, but honest. They wouldn’t lie.

Nanne nodded, almost absently, as they kept looking at him. “Your skin on your face matches the skin on the backs of your hands,” they said.

That was… not what he’d expected.

“Your lips pull down a little when you talk. It looks like you’re trying to hide your fangs.” They swallowed. “Your eyes are dull in the dark, but when the sun hits them? They shine like garnets. They almost glow. They’re beautiful. Your hair does it too. It looks like pure white gold in the sunlight.”

A lump rose in his throat; he masked it with a smile. “Oh? Go on,” he purred.

“Oh,” they whispered, and he paused; it was such a soft sound, more of an exhale. “Your laugh lines. I forgot.”

“I have laugh lines?” he asked, aghast as he felt at his face. “I’m a vampire! Eternally young! I can’t wrinkle!”

And naturally, instead of taking him seriously, Nanne laughed. “I like them,” they insisted, smiling so sweetly that he could almost believe the notion. “They make you look alive. If you didn’t have them, you’d look weird. Too… perfect.”

His chest squeezed again.

“Your nose is… strong,” they continued, though he frowned as their voice faltered. “And your cheeks…” They muttered something under their breath. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at this.”

“I don’t need poetry, darling,” he said dismissively. “Just to be reflected in your eyes. And you did.” He smiled faintly. “It was lovely.”

Eyes like garnets. He’d cling to that.

“If I could draw worth a damn, I’d sketch your face,” Nanne said softly.

“Ugh, don’t,” he said, waving his hand. “I may be vain, but I’m no Cazador. The bastard had a dozen self portraits in his palace.” But the thought was tempting. To be able to see his face, or at least, a close facsimile. “Now, go off and get some rest. I need my beauty sleep, clearly, if I’m to keep up with your praise.”

They smiled, but the obvious pity still lingered on their face as they retreated.

The camp wasn’t as quiet as before, but he found himself retreating into his tent early regardless. Nanne’s words were comforting. Eyes like garnets, hair that glowed gold in sunlight. He knew he had pale hair, and fair skin. But other than that… Idly, he felt at his face — then grimaced as he realized that the divots on either side of his lips weren’t dimples, but laugh lines. Wrinkles. But they… liked them. For some odd reason.

And for some odd reason, he liked that they liked them.

Sighing, he reached for his comb, running fingers through his curls. Then froze as he heard Nanne’s voice through the fabric of his tent. “Astarion? Are you asleep?”

He scrambled, quickly passing the comb through his curls. sh*t, where was his hair wax? Gods damn it, he looked a mess , didn’t he? Jerking open the laces of his shirt, he took a deep breath, then pushed aside his tent flap. “Well hello, darling,” he purred, stretching sensually in front of them. “Come for a cuddle? Or more, perhaps?”

“I, uh, no?” they said quickly. “I have an idea.”

He looked at them in utter bafflement. “An idea? About what? At this hour of the night?” An idea that had nothing to do with sex?

“The tadpole!” they said excitedly, which was very much not the answer he was expecting. “When we first met, our memories — they combined or something? When our heads smashed together.”

He paused. “Yes, though that was… a lot.” The deluge of memories had been overwhelming. Almost panic inducing, honestly.

“So, if we put our worms together—”

“Darling, that is a horrible phrase.”

“—and I remembered you, or even just looked at you…” They gestured to him with both hands. “You could see your face.”

Astarion’s stomach flipped. “You’re serious?”

“I spoke to Lae’zel using just my mind when she was in the cage,” Nanne said, eyes flickering excitedly. “It’ll work.”

“All right,” he said breathlessly. “Let’s do it.”

Nanne’s hands grasped his, tugging him out of his tent and towards the fire. “So you can actually see,” they murmured. “I think… I think I should try showing your face as it is right now. With me looking at you.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you think,” he said quickly. “Now, what—”

Then he nearly doubled over as he saw double.

He saw Nanne grimacing as they pressed the heels of their hands to their temples — then saw another figure, pale, clutching at their face, overlaid atop them. The world swam, dizzying, as he stumbled back—

“Close your eyes, Astarion!”

He did, and that helped with the equilibrium problem, somewhat. He wasn’t seeing double anymore, but instead of looking at Nanne, he saw the pale stranger staggering blindly in the dark by the campfire.

A campfire that was on his right now instead of his left.

“I think… I think it’s working?” Nanne’s voice was strained. “What do you see, Astarion?”

He froze. “Take a step closer.”

Nanne did — and the figure grew larger. A figure wearing… his shirt and trousers, and those ugly Gur socks.

“Look at my face,” he begged, stumbling forward blindly. “Look up— agh!”

He tripped, and in his vision, so did the stranger, a pale face nearly colliding with his own — but warm, earthy hands grasped their arms, just as Nanne’s hands closed around his biceps. “I’ve got you,” they whispered.

And he stared in wonder at his own face.

His skin, pale but suffused with warm oranges and pinks in the firelight, was smooth — save for the small wrinkles scattered all over. A fine, strong nose, thin but soft lips, a sharp jawline, a…

His fingers traced his cheeks — and the hands in his vision did the same.

“It’s… It’s truly me,” he whispered, eyes stinging. “I… Hello.” Weakly, half-embarrassed, he waved at himself. Then laughed, as his “reflection” did the same. “Gods, I missed you,” he choked out, running fingers through his curls.

He was beautiful, and that fact was no revelation. But it was how he was beautiful that was. The delicate curve of his own lashes, the slender arch of his brows. There were some marring features, such as the bags under his eyes and those laugh lines, but Nanne was right. They did make him feel more real. Like he was actually alive, and not just a walking corpse.

“Oh, darling,” he breathed, grinning almost madly as he felt at his lips. “You never stood a chance against me, did you?”

Nanne laughed, and when they closed their eyes, the vision of himself was gone. But he didn’t need it anymore; he knew what he looked like.

A gift he’d have to repay them for.

The tadpole connection faded, relieving some of the ache in his mind, as well as the disorientation. When Astarion opened his eyes, he saw Nanne looking at him kindly, the little emerald flames in their irises flickering in the dark. “No,” they admitted. “I never did. You…” And some of his joy faded when their voice choked up, their body curling inward. “You were born to be beautiful,” they whispered.

It was meant to be a compliment. He knew that. Yet all he could hear was Cazador’s voice lingering in his ear, whispering, “You are exactly what I have shaped you to be, even now.”

His lip curled. “Oh, don’t say that. You don’t know how hard I’ve worked on this hair.” He brushed his curls carefully, primping them up. “It takes talent to look this good, dear.”

Nanne laughed, but it was far too soft and watery. “Right. You’ve got the best hair in camp.”

“I do.” He preened. “Despite the competition right in front of me.”

Their cheeks lit up like the embers in their campfire, and he grinned.

“If you need another look, just say the word,” Nanne said softly. “I’m happy to be your mirror.”

“I will definitely take you up on that,” he replied firmly. “But you need rest, darling. Some beauty sleep of your own, hmm?” Feeling brash, almost drunk on joy, he reached out and smoothed a thumb over the circles beneath their eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this face,” he murmured. "Take care of it for me, will you?"

He heard their pulse spike, and relished it as they straightened up. “I… I will. Good night, Astarion.”

“Oh, I will, my dear,” he promised. “And you are the reason why.”

Chapter 10: Oblivescence

Chapter Text

Despite the absolute tedium of raiding a goblin camp (though poisoning the little sh*tlings was rather delightful), there were two good things that came out of it, Astarion supposed.

The first was Halsin. He’d been terrified when the man had waved his hand over Nanne’s face with a golden glow, because if the cure was that easy, then his chances of persuading Nanne to control the tadpoles instead of just getting cured were less than none. But thankfully, Halsin had repeated what everyone else was saying: this was no ordinary parasite, can’t remove it without killing the host, but you won’t transform, blah blah blah. He had a pleasant voice, at least. And their merry band of weirdos certainly wouldn’t suffer by having another meatshield tag along.

The second good thing was Nanne handing them a suit of beautiful spidersilk armor torn straight from the unconscious body of the female drow goblin leader who had proposed that Nanne join the Absolute to “cleanse the stain of your tainted heritage.”

Any talk of persuading her to turn tail died after that sentence, though Nanne had compromised by knocking her out instead. That was being far too generous, in Astarion’s opinion, but he did cackle loudly as Karlach knocked her so hard over the head with the blunt side of her greataxe that the drow had gone cross-eyed. Then muttered something about the indignity of dying to a darthiir. No translation needed for that one.

What he hadn’t expected was for Nanne to give him the armor instead of keeping it for themself. “Gale says it’s magic, so it should fit you perfectly,” they explained.

And it did. The spidersilk really did feel like silk against his skin, and it was heavenly. It was also so light that it didn’t even feel like armor — but tough enough to stop a goblin blade. Far better than looted noblemen clothes, and far more valuable.

His nice, simple plan was working rather perfectly, he thought smugly.

After slaying Dror Ragzlin, the grove was effectively saved, and instead of heading immediately to Moonrise Towers, Nanne agreed that a little hero worship was in order. So here Astarion stood, in front of his tent, both bored out of his skull and resisting the urge to sprint into the woods all at once.

Parties had always sent a shiver of dread down his spine. Cazador was a prominent nobleman in the Gate — prominent enough to host events at his palace. “Event” was a very tame designation, however; “orgy” was far more accurate. There were two guest lists: voluntary guests, and food. Astarion didn’t know if either set of guests knew about their host’s true nature, but as Cazador was fond of reminding him, it wasn’t his place to know on such evenings.

No, Astarion’s role was to be a charming, eager whor*. To preen and fawn and accept any intrusion into any of his orifices or comply with requests to put his body in other peoples’ orifices. And for guests that Cazador truly wished to impress, Astarion would be available in the guest bedroom for private sessions. His siblings had the same orders, of course, but for many of Cazador’s repeat guests, Astarion was their “favorite.”

For many of them, “favorite” meant being unable to walk after they were satisfied, for so many diverse, terrible reasons.

This wasn't shaping up to be that kind of party. He recoiled when the first tiefling had approached him, but he only profusely thanked him for his heroism, then made a beeline for the beer kegs. The others mostly kept to their tents, though he did see Karlach down a pint or two with Dammon. Strangely, Wyll was missing, and whenever a tiefling asked after him, Astarion pointed them in Nanne’s direction.

“Oi, you! You’re the man who showed me that reverse Hammar’s Flourish!”

Ah, the scamp who’d tried to scam them at the grove. That was one of the key differences between this party and Cazador’s balls; the man hadn’t been monstrous enough to invite children to witness his hedonism.

“Yes, I did, and don’t expect a repeat of that performance,” he snapped.

“Oh no, I get it. Trade secrets and all. But Zevlor says you deserve this,” the child said. Astarion blinked as he handed him a bottle of wine before scampering off.

Well. That was something.

Naturally, the second that he took a swig, he gagged. Because of course poor refugee tieflings wouldn’t have actually good alcohol. Grimacing, he forced down a few more mouthfuls — perhaps the evening would pass quicker if he got truly drunk. Then he gave up on the attempt as he realized that the wine had been watered down. Or was it even wine at all? Had they just found a vinegar bottle and diluted it?

The tieflings didn’t even leave him in peace, either. A couple came over, clearly plastered on beer and crying that he’d saved their souls, and they’d name their children after him and so on and so forth, and he was bored to tears. Thankfully, the alcohol flowed so freely — even if it was beer that stank of piss — that their tiefling guests became far too inebriated to bother him any longer. Oddly, none propositioned him either, just thanked him. They didn’t even ask him for a dance when their own bard started up a popular ditty.

Nanne joined her, taking a few sips from their own beer mug before launching into a drinking song. It was strange, comparing this Nanne to his hesitant lover in the woods just a tenday ago. They said all the right things to get people to laugh, paused at just the right places to accommodate drunken chants. They… performed. But at the same time, they didn’t. There was no glaze to their eyes or theatrical air. They truly, genuinely looked happy as the crowd sang along and danced.

Then they disappeared into the sweaty crowd, and he sighed as he turned back to his bottle. So much for having company tonight. Just a few more hours, and then it would be over. He wasn’t so precious as to storm off into the woods to sulk. Compared to Cazador’s balls, this was practically a vacation.

But it wasn’t fun either.

“Astarion!” He blinked as Nanne approached, lute slung over their shoulder by the strap. They looked shockingly sober, despite the beer flowing freely. “How’re you doing? You haven’t talked with the others. Doing all right?”

“Oh, making merry,” he replied drily, hefting his wine bottle. “Though I’d much rather do it with you than with this vinegar.”

They flushed in the moonlight; it looked rather pretty on their skin. “Does it not taste good?”

“Have a drink, darling. See for yourself,” he purred. Then he paused. “Ah, that’s right. You don’t like wine.” A reminder of a bad night, if he remembered correctly.

They looked at the bottle for a moment. Then to him, then back to the bottle. Then, with a shrug, they reached out with a hand. “Maybe this time will be different,” they said simply.

Curiously, when he offered it to them, Nanne didn’t simply take the bottle. Instead, they wrapped their fingers around his own gripping the neck, bringing it to their lips for a small swig. It was a curious feeling, having their warmth — and sweat — seeping into his hand. Not altogether unpleasant.

Then they coughed, and he yanked away the bottle with an amused chuckle. “See what I mean?” he commented dryly. “Awful.”

Nanne’s coughing bled into a laugh. “I’ve had worse, but I’ve sure as hells had better too.”

“Mmm, yes,” he mused, rubbing his chin as he smiled. “You do taste rather exquisite.”

Gods, this was too easy. Nanne’s face lit up like a torch; even the tips of their ears glowed in the cool night air. Their hand fell to their neck, rubbing over where he’d bitten them the night of their tryst. “That’s, uh, that’s good.”

“Aww,” he simpered. “Look at you: my little treat with their cheeks all flushed. You will come to my bed tonight, won’t you? I’ve been awfully distracted as of late with that pretty face of yours.”

He expected them to blush and stammer again. Instead, they paused, looking at his face like it was a map. Searching for something. It took him off guard for a moment, his smile dropping. What did I say? What did I do wrong?

Then, in a much softer voice, they whispered, “Your treat?”

Ah, so that was it. He laughed, leaning back with his bottle. “Yes, darling. You really are such a treat. Polite, charming, beautiful. And you’re looking awfully lonely this evening.” Always flitting from tent to tent, making sure everyone else was having a good time. And now here they were, in the palm of his hand.

He’d make it worth it. He always did. That’s what they always wanted.

“I…” Nanne swallowed, looking at Astarion’s wine bottle with a curious intensity. Idly, he handed it to them; it tasted like sour piss anyway. They took it, yet strangely didn’t drink. “I guess I am. Lonely.” The last word came out broken. Hitched.

“And I find myself rather single as well,” he soothed with a smile. “But I’ve certainly had thoughts of you keeping me company at night.” Thoughts of their blood on his tongue, far from anything erotic. But half-lies were best for this sort of thing. Weaving a seduction from whole cloth was never his forte. Dancing between fiction and reality? He could do that all night long.

Nanne’s lips parted, tongue darting out to moisten them. A little prickle of heat curled in Astarion’s belly at the sight. Once again, they stared at the bottle, then at him — but their eyes closed quickly after. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” they confessed quietly.

The prickle vanished, replaced by relief. “Oh?” he asked, leaning forward a little. “What sort of thoughts? Do tell.”

“The last time was… fun.” Despite the words, they didn't smile. “Nice.”

“And?” he prompted.

“You really want to do it again? With me?” They actually looked at his face this time, green eyes examining him. “You’ve been with other people. I… I probably wasn't a good lay, compared to them.”

His smile widened. “Oh darling, you’re far too hard on yourself. It was perfect. You’re perfect.”

Nanne, to his surprise, chuckled — a little huff of air into the night. A bitter, almost angry sound. “So that’s how you’re going to play this? Fine.” Their lips curled up into a teasing little smirk, despite how their cheeks still burned in the firelight. “I’m a bard, Astarion. I know my way around a love song or two. You can do better. Or are you gonna do what you told Lae’zel and call me honey muffin?”

Astarion laughed, eyebrows raised. The taunt was clear: if he wanted a second time, he was going to have to work for it. He had no idea where this aggressive streak came from, but if Nanne thought he would fold, they were in for a surprise. “Oh, I can do far better, sweetie pie. Hmm.” He made a show of rubbing his chin, then grinning with a glint in his eye as he raised his finger. “How about this one?” His voice lowered. “All these accolades from the tieflings are nothing compared to the cry of my name from your lips.”

And they laughed.

It was a pretty sound: a little rough and gravelly, but warm. He should have felt irked; anyone who laughed at his lines would never follow him back to the palace. But the sound was… oddly intoxicating. Nanne’s eyes had opened again, those twin green flames on black velvet, and he found himself taking a step forward despite himself.

“Uh huh,” they breathed out, grinning as they nursed the wine bottle to their chest. “Keep going.”

“A harsh critic, I see,” he teased. “Let me give it another go.” And this time, he raised his hand like an actor on the stage, speaking with solemnity, gravitas. “Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation.” Then he leaned in, voice hushed, brows drawn low, eyes smoldering. “It’s as if the gods made you just to ruin me.”

Nanne didn’t laugh this time — and he grinned in triumph as their flush darkened again, their gaze flitting to the ground. “You’re sweet,” they murmured softly, and his smile fell at how melancholic they sounded. But then the teasing glint was back; just a moment of weakness, it seemed. “And silly.”

“Not nearly as sweet as when I tasted you,” he replied easily.

Their ears twitched at that one — and he heard their breath catch.

Grinning, he examined his nails. “You may be the bard, darling, but I’ve been speaking poetry since before you ever plucked a note on that lute of yours. I can go all night with the flattery — but is that really all you want?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught them smiling again.

“How about if I said these little words?” he murmured, looking into those velvet eyes with a smirk. “Everyone’s favorite.”

Yet, when he spoke them, the mirth he’d gathered bled away, like blood from a blister.

“I love you.”

A lie he’d spoken a thousand times before. A lie he’d practiced with so many faces, so many bodies, a parade of conquests that he had charmed and seduced and bedded. All to carry them to Cazador’s supper table.

He’d changed the inflection a few times over the years, each to suit the target. Sometimes soft and sweet before pressing a kiss to their lips. Other times, playful and lilting, a reward for a drink bought or his coat fetched. And still other times in bed, panting it in their ear, weaving another thread into the lie. Putting on another mask.

This time, it came out soft, but not sweet. Just…

Tired.

Before, he’d felt warmth, almost, with Nanne laughing at his lines. Relief that someone understood it was a game. Now, he felt cold. Empty. Pained, even.

Because the way that Nanne looked at him — wide eyed, lips parted, clutching the wine bottle so hard it should crack— told him that the words had cut far deeper than a little tease should.

The silence hung between them, ugly and awkward. He cursed himself mentally; why in the hells had he finished with that line? They were a bard: they liked poetry, they wanted art, not some soppy love confession that wasn’t even real. Now he’d have to start all over again, wooing and flattering to even have a chance of them joining him tonight. To have them grow close, so close they’d never even consider tossing him out. He’d treated this too casually. Made it sound too much like a fling.

Had he ruined everything? Set himself up for failure from the start?

“You’d be lying,” Nanne whispered, and the words made his hackles rise, his mouth go dry. Then, “But that’s fine.”

What?

He stood there speechlessly, staring at them as they stared in turn at the ground. What in the hells was that supposed to mean? That they liked it being a lie? That they only wanted sex? They’d be far from the first. And that thought wounded him, far more than he’d ever like to admit. Usually the shyer ones, the sweet innocents, they… they felt something for him. More than just lust. It was why he stayed away from them, or tried to. Better to admit the act for what it was than to watch them die with affection in their eyes.

Yes, Nanne had given him the perfect out. They didn’t need love. They didn’t need for him to pretend this was anything more than physical.

So why did they look so utterly devastated?

Normally, he wouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care. It would be easier this way, wouldn’t it? Less of a lie for both of them to hide behind. He’d give his body, they’d give protection, and it would all even out. Perfectly transactional.

But then he saw their face, and Astarion could understand. The look in their eyes, the hunger of a rat dangled before their noses, yet snatched away with a cruel laugh. Hopes dashed. Instead of with a rat, he’d done it with three stupid words.

“For tonight,” he found himself saying, voice shockingly soft, “it can be true.”

Nanne’s head jerked up, and he swallowed past the dryness in his throat as he looked into their eyes. They only held his gaze for a moment, snowy lashes fluttering as they hid behind their eyelids. But their face softened, the pain lingering there easing.

The knot that coiled in his stomach unfurled.

It was honest. Simple. The best sort of seduction. He’d admitted to the lie, yes, but as a gift instead of a confession of guilt. Now, Nanne could walk into it open-eyed. Give in to the fantasy, instead of being lured in, deceived.

His breath hitched as their hands brushed his; the bottle of wine sat on the ground, ignored. He stared in confusion as they gripped both of his hands, thumbs folded across his fingers — then froze as they lifted them up to their mouth to kiss. Gentle brushes of their lips over his knuckles. “Thank you, Astarion,” they whispered. “For making me laugh.”

Hands shaking, he had no idea what to say. Nanne confused him. Terribly. He should hate it, just like he hated this dreadful party and the awful wine and the pats on the heads from the tieflings.

He didn’t.

So, as he always did when he had no idea what to say, he laughed. “Of course! But I’d much rather get to experience your full portfolio of talents again.”

They smiled, the flames in their eyes flickering and popping like the bonfire at the center of camp. “I’ll come find you when the others are asleep.”

“Perfect.” His hands slipped out of theirs, one lifted to wiggle his fingers in a teasing little wave. “I’ll be waiting.”

And he did wait. Waited until Wyll finally stumbled back into camp, waited for the tieflings to slowly stagger away, waited until Karlach’s snoring echoed from her tent. When he rounded his own tent, Nanne was there, bottle of wine empty, alcohol on their breath. Yet their voice was shockingly steady, eyes lucid. “I’m here,” they murmured. “If you still…”

“Darling,” he breathed, smiling. “Of course. I hoped you would come. And I have missed you.”

“Oh gods, yeah, it’s been an eternity,” they teased. Their laugh was a bit too tired, but the pain he’d seen earlier was gone. Maybe the wine had helped smooth it over. Honestly, he wouldn’t be half bothered if they’d forgotten the entire conversation.

This was all that mattered anyway.

“Long enough for me to want you,” he lied easily. “But now you’re all mine, and I’m all yours. Until morning, at least.”

That sadness drifted back into Nanne’s eyes, eyelids drooping. “I know.”

Swallowing, he stepped back into the woods, grass brushing his boots. “Let’s see where the night takes us,” he murmured. “Enjoy ourselves for a few moments.”

Their first night, Astarion had been clinical with his seduction. Greedily accepting Nanne’s gift of blood, then rutting into them until they came. Aside from the bite, the standard experience he had given all of his conquests.

This night, Astarion touched Nanne as a lover would.

“There’s my darling,” he whispered, tracing the scars under their pectorals with his thumbs. Then dusting kisses along those scars, Nanne’s hitched breath and choked sobs idly floating in his ears. “And aren’t you beautiful?” he breathed, pulling them into another kiss.

He still held himself above them, propped up on his elbows as he tasted their mouth with his tongue. But he let their legs wrap around his waist, bodies moving in that sinuous dance, and whatever part of his mind remained in his body felt pinpricks of pleasure as his co*ck rubbed against their wet folds.

At times, Fading felt like becoming his own voyeur. He was hazy, completely disconnected from the act, and yet fully cognizant of every choice he made. Every stroke of his co*ck, every kiss to Nanne’s jaw, every moan and whimper and sigh that misted against his throat. He hovered above himself, watching, performing.

They liked to hide during sex, he realized. They didn’t look into his eyes, didn’t pull their face from the crook of his shoulder. Even their arms tucked against his chest between them instead of wrapping around his neck betrayed that desire. It was oddly endearing, this bizarre shyness. So many people ogled him shamelessly, drinking in his naked form. He’d done strip teases before, twisting himself so they could see all his good sides at once. A feast for the senses, he’d called it. But from the way he could feel Nanne’s eyelashes fluttering against his neck, they didn’t so much as taste.

A small comfort. He would be his only voyeur tonight.

He let his kisses trail down their chest, rubbing their sides as his teeth suckled marks into their thighs — soft, fleshier than his own. Oddly, they didn’t grab his hair as his lips kissed next to their flushed co*ck. Their hands covered their chest instead. So shy. It didn’t feel right, taking them into his mouth like this. He had promised them love tonight, hadn’t he? What pale imitation he could give, anyhow.

So he took their hand and guided it down to his hair, moaning in response as their fingers flexed and scratched his scalp. “So good for me, darling,” he sighed, kissing the base of their co*ck before taking it into his mouth.

They didn’t thrust, just minute gyrations of their hips, obscene noises spilling from their lips. His mouth took them easily, and as it sucked and swallowed around their length, he stopped breathing entirely. There was no need, and nothing but the most violent thrusts made him gag anymore.

So he Faded.

He never vanished completely, not when he was the one in charge of dispensing pleasure. Every so often, a gasp or a cry pulled him back into the moment. But with no pain attempting to keep him there, his mind slipped back into that nice, safe fog.

When he swallowed as Nanne came in his mouth, he couldn’t recall the taste.

After their breathing settled, it was time to move on to other areas. Three fingers in their slit to loosen them up, his mouth moving up to suck a nipple. His tongue swirling in lazy circles around the bud, fingers pumping in a steady rhythm. Get ready to add a fourth finger. Teeth around the nipple. Flick of the tongue—

“Ow!”

Astarion jolted back, eyes wide as Nanne cringed in pain, not pleasure. The crook of their index finger rested on their lips, and even in the dark, he could see the indents where they’d bitten down to stop crying out.

Tears rimmed their eyelashes.

A wave of nausea overcame him. The smells, the wet skin against skin, the fear, he’d hurt them, they wouldn’t agree to go back with him, he would get no rat, only—

“So sorry, darling,” he panted, forcing arousal into his voice. “Must have gotten carried away.” When he lowered himself down to kiss his lover in apology, he could barely stand the contact. He wanted to run, hide, scrub himself raw in the river, scream.

But when he inhaled to steady himself, he didn’t smell the rose scented soap of the guest bed’s sheets. Not the smoke and ale of a tavern, though there were still lingering notes in the air. He… He smelled pine trees and dew, cutting through the musk of sex and arousal. And beneath that, zesty orange peels and sweet honey.

Nanne panted beneath him, callused fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he shivered. They seemed to take note, fingerpads running up and down the vertebrae of his neck before sinking in his hair, and he waited for those fingers to curl and pull, yank—

But they didn’t.

A hot jolt pulsed through his body as their blunt nails brushed his scalp, just as another shiver ran down his spine, and he let out a shaking breath as his co*ck twitched between his legs. What…?

“Mmm,” he hummed, wrist rocking as he began fingering them again. Stupid. Sloppy. Forgetting himself. He didn’t exist to feel pleasure, he was what gave them pleasure. No matter how bitter he felt about it, no matter how much he resented it, that was the truth. It wasn’t his role to be satisfied, to derive anything from this other than safety.

But when Nanne came again just from stroking their inner walls, he shuddered as they gasped his name, his co*ck pulsing.

When was the last time anyone had called him by name during sex?

When was the last time he'd been called by name before the Nautiloid?

“Say that again,” he rasped, guiding them to spread their legs, his other hand working his co*ck feverishly. The friction felt… good. Phantom heat, soon to be replaced with Nanne’s.

“Astarion,” they panted, eyes hazy with bliss.

“Again,” he moaned.

“A-Astarion.” Stuttered, as he began pressing himself inside. Gentle thrusts, very gentle. No more tears of pain.

He reached up, guiding their fingers to grasp his curls. “Say it again,” he whispered.

If his voice broke, they didn’t mention it. Only breathed his name like a prayer, a song, a hymn. “Astarion. Astarion. Asta—” Cut off, the breath knocked out of them as he began rolling his hips, slowly and sweetly. An imitation of lovemaking instead of f*cking. His entire body moved with his thrusts, arms around them as they rocked together.

He Faded again. There was no need to stay, now that he was inside of them. But his name still floated in the air around them in Nanne’s ragged, aching voice, and it… It terrified him just as much as he craved it. How long had it been since he’d given his name to strangers? How long had it been since a victim had whispered it, tangled in silk sheets? Cazador never did. The party guests never did.

But Nanne…

They’d spoken his name more times in the past two tendays than he’d heard in a decade.

And then he felt their body tighten up, fingers desperately clutching at him to hold on. “Shhh,” he soothed, hand rubbing their flank. “Shhh, it’s all right, love, you can let go, come–”

And they did, another broken gasp of “Astarion!” filling the clearing.

He kept moving through their org*sm, listening carefully for the moment where their voice shifted from pleasure to pain. Deep breaths to steady himself, holding them close as they shook, his nose brushing their neck, drinking in their scent–

Then a gasp as his body burned white hot, the tension that he hadn’t even realized was building released in a sudden burst of relief.

What… What just happened?

His mind reeled – but his body knew what to do. Thrust through it quickly, moan in pleasure – actual pleasure, not a feigned org*sm, because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? An org*sm – clutch Nanne close and soak in their warmth as his body relaxed, sinking into their arms.

Panting heavily, gasping for breath, he laid atop them in numb shock.

I just finished.

He shouldn’t… He shouldn’t be surprised at the sensation. Of course he’d finished with lovers before, especially if he was the one allowed to be in charge. Not many concerned themselves with his pleasure, but his body still responded to physical sensation. Anything warm and wet and clenching his co*ck or anything pressed skillfully enough inside him would make him org*sm. Sometimes. Most of the souls he'd bedded had failed to give him even a twinge of pleasure, so eager to chase their own ends using his body. Other times he Faded so much that he couldn’t even manage to feel anything, even with his hole stuffed or his co*ck wet and warm. And still other times, the pleasure wasn’t exactly… voluntary. Not with his eyes watching as he prepared his “supper”, not with Compulsions and demands that he be a good, eager whor*, enjoy whatever horrible depravities the party guests forced him to endure.

This wasn’t involuntary.

Two thin yet sturdy arms held him in the cold night air, shivering.

This was…

Orange peels and honey and oakmoss, chased down with sweat and sem*n.

This was just a perfectly natural response. The result of the right amount of stimulation. Nothing more.

Groaning, he rolled off Nanne, looking upwards at the stars. Beside him, they lay there, still catching their breath.

Just like the first time he’d bedded them, he had no idea what to say. There was no palace to lead them to, no Cazador bursting out of the bushes to drain them dry. He knew that pillow talk was somewhat important, but they looked so overwhelmed that he couldn’t think of the first thing to say or do.

So, rolling onto his knees, he gathered his clothes and moved down to the river. Most likely Nanne would fall asleep just like they had the first time. Fine by him. This was the most amount of privacy he could get after trysts like this. As he stepped into the frigid water, he hissed – then welcomed the clarity that came with it, as well as how it stripped away sweat and spend alike. No blood this time; though the euphoria was intoxicating, he couldn’t risk Nanne’s blood becoming any more conditional than it already was. If he set the expectation that he enjoyed feeding on them during sex, then they would assume that was what he was after. That he would whor* himself out for each and every mouthful.

No, best to keep this safe and separate from the blood drinking, for now. It would help him Fade better anyhow. Even if the org*sm had been somewhat satisfying.

Grass rustled behind him, but he didn’t turn; he could smell Nanne’s scent and hear their heartbeat. They didn’t speak as they stepped into the water beside him, silently wiping and cleaning their belly before their hands moved between their legs.

Ah. If he had drank their blood, he would have flushed a little, perhaps.

The both of them washed up in silence, Astarion running cold water through his curls. They would look debauched either way, but best to put his best face forward. He felt somewhat bitter as Nanne just stayed there in the water. Cleaning up after sex was his moment, his little bit of privacy he could get from the whole experience. He couldn’t snap at them to leave, though, not after giving them the best sex they’d ever had. Not if he wanted them to like him.

At least Nanne didn’t talk. No need to make awkward conversation. They just sat there, staring at the water in silence. It was… tolerable, he supposed. If he just looked to the side, he could pretend that they weren’t even there, that he truly was bathing alone in this river, with no eyes greedily ogling him.

Wading out of the stream, he redressed himself, sighing as he sniffed his shirt. Damn. It still reeked of sweat and smoke from the party. Yet, now it had the slightest bit of Nanne's fragrance, mixed with oak moss from the forest. Not a half bad bouquet, if not for the sweat. He ran a hand through his curls — yes, still thoroughly debauched and mussed — and prepared to head back to his tent.

Then he paused.

Nanne was still in the river, unmoving. Almost as if…

Dread coiled in his stomach at the blank look on their face.

Grimacing as he nearly slipped in the slick clay, he darted back to the riverbank, boots half in the water as he grasped at their arm. “Darling, you'll catch your death in there,” he said in a rush. “Let’s get you dry, all right?”

Nanne jumped, water splashing as they rose to their feet. Yet they didn’t tear their arm away from his hold, and he had to stifle a sigh of relief. “O-Oh, you…”

He paused. “I what?”

“You're still here.” And they smiled at him. Face still flushed, warm, as if he were truly their lover.

It should have comforted him. Instead, he only felt sick.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly leave you to drown,” he noted. “Not the best way to end a night of passion.”

“No,” they agreed with a small laugh, letting him guide them out of the river. “Oh,” they whispered, looking down. “Your boots.”

He felt the river water seep in and sighed. “I suppose we can hang them by that giant bonfire. Unless the camp’s burned down while we were gone.”

“No need.” Nanne held up their hand, then hummed, a more pleasant sound than the whistling he’d come to associate with their cantrips. A pleasant warmth spread along his body – not the warmth of fingers stroking his skin, but more like a blanket wrapped around him. The warmth he’d felt standing in the sun with his arms outstretched. Or, well, in this case, like standing right next to a fire. When the sensation passed – a little too soon, honestly – his boots were completely dry, as was his hair and skin. And, he realized with shock, he felt… clean. Lifting his shirt collar to his nostrils, the lack of scent confirmed it. No more stench of smoke or sweat, but also no more smell of midnight dew or citrus. It smelled… dead. Sterile. But clean.

“Oh, I knew I liked you for a reason,” he teased, but the words came out less sultry and more shocked. “How did you…?”

“Same spell I used for your tent – prestidigitation. Da taught me. Saves money when you don’t have to use a laundry service. We had a whole song for doing the entire load.” Nanne hummed again as they walked towards where Astarion had disrobed them, the magic glow suffusing their body as they redressed. “Da taught me a lot of things. Everything, really.”

“Clearly not enough healing magic,” Astarion noted as Nanne shrugged their shirt over their head; they were lean, but they’d started to build some muscle, he noted. What was far more notable than the meager scraps of muscle was the dark splotch on their shoulder. “Your scar, I mean.”

Nanne yanked their shirt down with a little too much force; Astarion winced as he heard a seam rip. “That…” They sighed, running a hand through their hair. “He was drunk. He didn’t mean it.”

Oh. That explained their reluctance around wine – and the night they’d rather forget.

“Forgive me, darling,” he murmured, feeling rather ashamed. “I shouldn’t have pried.” Though, why should he be ashamed? They’d needled him about his scars and Cazador and everything else; why shouldn’t turnabout be fair play? It would be good to know more about them. The better to keep them wrapped around his little finger.

“Don’t be.” Nanne smiled, but it was weak. Exhausted, more like. “He didn’t… He wasn’t like some fathers out there, you know? The ones that always hit their kids. He taught me everything. How to play, how to buy things, some spells to charm the crowds to get more coin. My lute was one of his old ones. He said it was the one that charmed my mum. Said it’d be good luck if I kept it.”

Astarion blinked. He’d expected a bit more prying to get them to reveal their past, but it all spilled so easily from their lips. “And your mother? Is she…?”

“Dunno. Somewhere in Menzoberranzan, I guess.” Nanne swallowed, back still facing Astarion. Their shoulders hunched. “I wasn’t really… planned. And Lolth didn’t want me, so she booted me to Da. I’ve never met her, and I don’t need to. Most people think I’m half wood elf if they don’t look too close, so it didn’t cause much trouble. Except for the sun.”

“Ah, sunlight sensitivity?” He’d heard of it. Drow had their own weakness to the light, though he hadn’t known that half drow were affected.

Nanne sat down in the grass, and idly Astarion followed suit, sitting across from them. There was no real reason to go back to camp right away except to trance, and he certainly didn’t want to deal with the dregs of the party. “Before the tadpole, it hurt being out in the sun. Not like a pain hurt, but a…” Their face screwed up, fingers tapping that odd rhythm on their thigh. “There was so much light, and it hurt to see. That was my gimmick, actually, before the mind flayers. I’d blindfold myself so the sun didn’t hurt and I’d play the songs that look and sound hard. Really impress the crowds.”

“A clever scheme,” he noted. “Though I’m shocked that you can play blindfolded at all.”

“Well, uh, that was the trick.” He grinned as Nanne blushed, pulling their knees to their chest. “It’s not like the blindfold completely blinded me. It just looked that way. It blocked out enough light that I could get around without headaches, but I could still see the frets. It’s mostly muscle memory anyhow.”

“Why darling, I’m shocked,” he said with a mock gasp. “A bard and a scammer? I knew you had a monstrous secret.”

“It was real music!” they insisted, their face still flushed. “I played real songs, good songs!”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard your work. Gods know you’re better than some of the bards Cazador hired. Ugh.” He made a face. “And you’re far less loquacious than Volo. If you prattled as much as he does, I would have begged to be taken back by the mind flayers after the first day.”

Nanne giggled softly, and he smiled as he leaned back, legs temptingly spread. Yet they didn’t look at his crotch. No, they looked at his face.

It felt… good, talking like this. Most of his conversations with his targets were about his skills in the boudoir, and most of his conversations with his siblings ended in either blows, stony silence, or eyerolls. But this? This was… nice. Pleasant. He couldn’t let down his guard, not entirely; he still remembered the way that Nanne had gone bitter, jaded as he’d flirted with them. But seeing them here, now, smiling as they talked about themself? He could get used to it.

But the mirth slowly died from Nanne’s face. “I… We should go. Get some sleep.”

“Mmm, exhausted already?” He wriggled his eyebrows, then felt a pulse of… something as Nanne laughed instead of blushed. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll build up that stamina of yours yet.”

Something else slid onto their face – something akin to fear, and yet nothing like it at the same time. “So, you want this to keep going?”

“Of course I do,” he breathed, leaning forward. “Darling, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

Relief spread across their features. “Right. Exactly. Whatever you need.”

Another pulse of nausea settled deep and heavy in his stomach. “And I certainly hope it’s enjoyable for you as well, my dear,” he purred. “Don’t you remember? I’m only interested in our mutual ecstasy.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Nanne said, though their tone was far more chipper than their words. “You’re amazing. And very…” Their face fell, fingers drumming out even more furious rhythms. “You’re very kind, giving me another chance.”

Something about those words felt off. Wrong.

“Oh, you sweet, delicious thing,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. It’s like I said: just a little brushing up on the pillow talk and you’ll have every young patriar in the Gate lusting after you. They’ll eat you right up.”

Instead of blushing or smiling, he froze as Nanne flinched.

sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t.

“But,” he continued, perhaps a little too quickly as he leaned forward, balancing on his elbows in the grass. “I must admit, I am a little glad I get to keep you all to myself. All those idiots who never gave you a first chance missed out on quite the partner. All the better for me, hm?”

Nanne smiled again, but it didn’t reach their eyes. “Mmhm.”

“But you’re right; we should head back. We both need our beauty sleep.” Climbing out of the grass, he tucked his shirt back into his trousers. “And I hope not too much time passes before our next little romp.” He winked.

“Just let me know when. I’ll be here.”

The words were soft. And though the idea of him being in control of their sexual encounters was a frankly bizarre concept, it did give him some small comfort. Perhaps his fears about feeding were unfounded. “I’ll take you up on that,” he murmured. “Have a fine evening, dear.” He made his way back to camp slowly, folding his arms to ward off the chill.

When he turned back, Nanne was all smiles, waving farewell. Yet something shone on their cheeks, two spots reflecting moonlight.

Chapter 11: Panacea

Chapter Text

Sharp nails dug into Astarion’s scalp as Cazador dragged him down the hallway of the palace.

“Master, please!” he begged, scratching futily at his wrist. “Please, I was just on my way back, I had a meal prepared for you, please!”

Cazador huffed. “That pathetic little bard? Hardly a meal fit for my tastes.”

When they came to the staircase, Astarion huddled in terror as they stood at the proverbial crossroads. Downstairs, to the Kennel, he could handle. A flaying. He could survive a flaying. He would scream and cry, but he would live, and Cazador so did love his screaming. But upstairs…

The carpet did nothing to cushion the bruising blows to his spine as Cazador dragged him up the stairs, towards the master bedroom.

No.

“You have forgotten your place, Astarion,” Cazador said coldly, yanking him by the hair again, painful jerks forward instead of a slow and steady drag across the worn carpet. “And thus, it falls to me to re-educate you on what you are good for.” Astarion didn’t fight back, didn’t struggle. He just went limp, blood trickling down his scalp as the carpet burned his exposed skin. “Oh, get up, you brat,” Cazador snarled. Astarion’s limbs moved without thought, standing alone in the hallway. “Follow your master now, like a good boy.”

I can’t do this again. Not again. Not ever again. I was free, I did everything right, what happened? Where did I go wrong? How had he failed Nanne? How had he disappointed them enough to have them cast him aside? Was he not a good lover? Had Cazador offered them a deal they couldn’t refuse? Why?

Astarion could not disobey, even as his knees knocked together as Cazador threw open the door to the boudoir.

The chamber was everything he hated about Cazador. Blood stains on the carpet. A poker already red hot and waiting in the fireplace. Deceptively fine silk sheets on the massive, sprawling bed against the far wall. Five people could lay side by side in that bed and still fit. It only made him feel smaller, like a child, as Cazador closed and locked the door.

No, no, no, don’t lock the door, don’t keep me in here for two nights in a row—

Cazador sighed. “Have you truly forgotten what you are supposed to do? What I made you to be? Surely three tendays of freedom are not enough to dull even that pitiful mind of yours.”

He scrambled, tearing off his clothes before laying face down on the center of the bed. Taking deep, steadying breathes, he did his best to not gag or choke on the stale, suffocating scent of rose perfume — the soap that Cazador insisted on using for all the palace’s linens. Just breathe. It will pass. It will pass.

The master chuckled behind him, and Astarion squeezed his eyes shut.

But instead of lips or hands, a knife pressed into his flesh and he screamed in dread just as much as pain.

No. No, not the Needle. Not again, please—

“You whor*d yourself out to that wretch, didn’t you?” Cazador laughed in dark amusem*nt as the point of his Needle moved in a slow, agonizing circle around his back. “Did you truly think that such a miserable, weak little thing could protect you? That they could save you?”

Astarion’s screams echoed in his own ears as he scrabbled helplessly against the silk sheets, trying to claw his way to safety — but the fabric was slick with his own blood, and he sobbed as he collapsed again on the bed.

“Remember this, boy.”

Strange, discordant music echoed in the bedchamber as Cazador’s Needle etched Infernal into his back. Lute strings.

“They may have claimed your body for a few nights, but it belongs to me. You will always be mine, as long as this scar exists.”

A soft voice, jarringly sweet over the sound of his own hoarse, broken screams.

“Thou shalt know—”

Astarion bolted up in a half-aborted scream, the sound dying in his throat as he stared sightlessly at the walls of his tent.

Tent. In the Underdark. Not the palace. Not Cazador’s bed. No Needle—

His back burned, and he groaned as he tore his shirt off, hurling it against the tent wall. It didn’t help the pain, and he hissed out another curse as he yanked on his boots and slid a dagger inside the right, tumbling out of his tent. The sweat that dripped down his skin didn’t help the pain any either – it only heightened his discomfort, the cold chill of the Underdark wicking away any warmth he might have held. Gods above, he wanted the sun back again, no matter how much Lae’zel teased him for missing it.

Shivering, he rounded a particularly bright glowing mushroom and sat on a rock. Just a dream. Just a bad dream. You’ve survived worse trances. And at least unlike the others, he only had to endure the horrors for four hours.

“And like the dawn, you broke the shadows—” A dry laugh. “Oh gods, that’s awful. Breaking shadows?” Then a frustrated groan. “He doesn’t even like poetry, what the f*ck am I doing? He’s not Maria.”

That was… Nanne’s voice?

A few more chords on their lute echoed in the dark, and Astarion blinked. That was what he’d heard in his trancing: Nanne practicing on their lute. But in the middle of the night? In the Underdark? He knew that they were strange, but this was downright bizarre.

Another pulse of white hot pain surged through his back, and he hissed as he traced the lines with his finger. Infernal, Nanne had said two tendays ago. The f*cking “poem” was written in Infernal. Why? He’d expected Kozakuran, honestly, since the bastard loved to write everything in it. He’d also Commanded that no spawn ever attempt to learn the language. It would be right up Cazador’s alley to write a poem on his spawns’ backs that they could never read.

But Infernal…

Reaching behind himself and brushing the raised tissue, he found the first “letter”, if it could even be called that. A line with a fork and one, two… three dots. He grimaced as he twisted his wrist. “Bloody Infernal,” he muttered, wincing as he flexed his tendon a little too far. “How is anyone meant to read this?”

“I can try, if you want.”

Whirling around, he pulled the knife out of his boot — and came face to face with Nanne.

sh*t.

“What… What are you doing?” he panted, hastily slipping the knife back into his boot.

“Couldn’t sleep,” they said quickly, hands held up in appeasem*nt. “I’m so sorry, I’ll go—”

“No, stay,” he said just as quickly. sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. He couldn’t let them leave after pulling a bloody knife on them. “I was just… taken by surprise.”

“Right. It’s the Underdark. Good to be suspicious.” They gulped.

“At least you’re not a full blooded drow,” he said, voice attempting to be light. “You’d have sunk a knife into me days ago.”

They laughed. The strained sort of laugh that women let out at bars when men gave out unwanted advances. f*ck. How was he ruining this so easily?

“Not all drow are like that, I understand,” he said, voice far too flighty to sound natural. “You’ve a heart of gold, just like Drizzt Do’Urden.”

The laugh that Nanne let out was far more real this time, and the tension around his chest ebbed as they smiled. “I’m no hero,” they said warmly. “I’m just trying to survive, like you.”

Those were the words they’d spoken almost a moon ago, their third night around the campfire when he’d seen the stars for the first time. “So we are,” he murmured. “But I have the much loftier goal of thriving instead of just surviving.” Then he winced as another sting lanced his back, biting his lip so hard his fangs almost pierced the skin.

“Your scars,” Nanne breathed, hands lowering. “They hurt you? Cazador’s magic?”

“Oh, nothing as dramatic as that,” he forced out with a grimace. “I’m sure if the bastard could torture me through them, he’d have indulged in that a thousand times over. They just itch is all.”

Nanne’s face twisted into obvious pity. “Like I said, if you want me to read them, I can try.”

“I…” For some bizarre reason, shame curled in his gut. For them to see the results of one of the worst nights of his life was… raw. Difficult.

But they’d already seen his scars, he reminded himself. That was how he knew it was written in Infernal in the first place.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he murmured, turning around.

“Do you want to see them?” Nanne asked, voice still soft. He appreciated the lack of condescension, though it was still a stupid question to ask.

“It’s not like I can use a mirror, darling,” he said dryly. “And I’d rather not ‘put our worms together’ again, if we can help it. We’ve got enough headaches as is.”

“No need. I can draw it for you.”

Astarion paused. That… That was such an easy solution to a problem he’d had for two centuries. Why in the hells had he never thought to ask the other spawn that?

Then he remembered the single time he’d asked Violet for a favor and woken up the next night screaming and covered in garlic rashes.

“Do what you want,” he said flippantly, waving his hand.

His answer was the soft scraping of dirt, and he looked behind him in both apprehension and curiosity. Nanne knelt on the ground, using their index finger to transcribe what was on his back. Every so often, their eyes would flit back to his scars, and he turned away, staring at the glowing mushrooms in the distance.

After a few minutes of no sounds except Nanne’s finger in the dirt, they spoke. “You can put your shirt back on.” Astarion blinked — that wasn’t exactly the answer he’d expected — until he remembered how they would fold their arms tightly across their chest. It seemed they understood how painful being exposed could be.

“I didn’t bring it with me,” he admitted. Then he looked at the text on the ground, utterly baffled. “What in the hells…?”

Three rings of glyphs stared back at him. The outermost was the most intricate, with the most amount of characters. The inner rings had less and less, until only one glyph remained in the center. All script he couldn’t read, and most definitely not a poem. It looked more like magic circles, something that Gale would transcribe on the ground before summoning fire.

What did that bastard do to me?

“Can you read it?” he pressed, looking at Nanne.

“Some of it — some of these words I’ve never even heard of. Inferiu non…” Nanne’s finger lightly brushed each Infernal character. “Per igneu — that means ‘by fire.’ Hoyc inferiu non i… iurare per igneu.” They swallowed. “Definitely not a poem. Something something, by fires below.” Their brow furrowed as they moved to the next ring in. “Ne… Naec virba loquor means ‘can’t talk’, but I don’t know why…” Then their eyes widened, breath coming out in a shaking gasp. “Oh hells.”

“What?” Astarion snapped. “What is it?”

“This is a devil’s contract,” Nanne whispered.

Honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course it was — it was a “poem” written in Infernal. But he’d never seen Cazador consort with devils, and frankly it wasn’t his style. Making deals with devils put too much power in the devil’s hands; he could hardly imagine Cazador striking a bargain with Raphael.

Then again, it was on his back. Of course Cazador would use his fellow spawn as bargaining chips instead of himself when it came to deals with devils. They were expendable, as he was so fond of reminding him.

“What is the contract about?” he asked, unable to keep his hands from shaking. “What did the bastard bargain me for?”

“I…” Nanne winced. “I don’t know, I can’t tell. It’s… There’s only three lines, Astarion. The first line’s something about oaths, the second says that you’re not allowed to talk, and the third is about the… dead land? Or land of the dead.” They rubbed their temples with the heels of their palms. “I’m sorry, I can’t… I have no idea what this could mean.”

“But it’s a lead,” he murmured. “And it’s definitely no poem.”

“No.” Nanne’s eyes burned as they stared at the rings of Infernal characters, jaw clenched. “We should call Wyll over. Maybe Gale? They’d know—”

“Let’s not be too hasty, darling,” Astarion said quickly. “Word travels fast enough around camp as is.”

“But they could help you figure out what this means,” Nanne said softly. “I can’t… I’m useless when it comes to stuff like this, Astarion.”

“Useless?” He laughed darkly. “Hardly. Do you really think the others would bother to do this for me?”

“Karlach would,” Nanne said without hesitation.

Astarion paused. Yes, maybe… Maybe Karlach would. And she was a tiefling, she would know Infernal. But if Nanne was right and there was only three lines, then she wouldn’t be much help either. Did Karlach even know how to read?

But there was another problem, he realized. “It’s a fragment,” he muttered. “It’s incomplete on purpose.” If it truly was a devil’s contract, then it wouldn’t make sense to have the entire thing written in full — it would be far too difficult for Cazador to transcribe, for one. If devil contracts were anything like what he had to review as a magistrate, it would be at least twelve pages long. Presumably longer, considering all the loopholes Cazador would have to navigate to ensure that he wouldn’t be the one suffering.

This would be more akin to a footnote. Or a cover letter. Something ominous sounding to tie the entire contract together, but with no actual details. Or, considering the damned thing was carved into his very flesh, it would be more akin to a sealing certificate. A proof of ratification, just sealed with mutilation instead of wax or a stamp. He had to admit, as disgusting as it was, it was so very perfectly Cazador.

So much for any grand revelations.

“Then… There’s no way to find out any more.” Nanne swallowed, looking at the lines in the dirt. “I’m sorry, Astarion.”

“Apologize one more time, and you’ll owe me a pint of your blood,” he said flatly.

“I’m—” Nanne wilted as Astarion shot them a pointed look. “...My bad?”

He sighed. Good enough, he supposed. “There’s no point in apologizing when none of this is your fault. If you think like that, you’ll spend your entire life licking the soles of people’s boots.” And the sight of Nanne bowing and scraping made him uncomfortable. There wasn’t any way to relish domination or authority over them, not when he was so utterly reliant on them for survival. To see them so apologetic, so willing to please him….

“Did you truly think that they could protect you?”

He shivered in the cool night air. No. No. Nanne was not pitiful, nor weak. They weren’t strong in the sense that Lae’zel or Karlach were strong, but they had a way with words that none of them came close to. They could sweet talk, they could charm, they could soothe. None of that would work with Cazador directly, but it would help them get back to Baldur’s Gate, and then secure some way of making the bastard burn up in the sun. The fact that Nanne had managed to hold their group together despite Lae’zel and Shadowheart nearly murdering each other was proof enough. With Nanne at the helm, they’d get to Moonrise Towers and take control of the cult.

His nice, simple plan would still work. Everything would be just fine.

“Do they still hurt?” Nanne asked, nodding at his scars. They must have mistaken his shiver as discomfort from his skin, not the nightmare.

“It burns,” he admitted, wincing as he tried his best to not stretch his back any further. “And itches.”

“I can help with that,” Nanne said, and Astarion blinked as they backed away. “Give me a few minutes?”

Astarion waited in silence as Nanne made their way back to camp, then returned holding a tub of… something. Cream? “I got this in the grove,” they explained, untying the cloth sealing the jar tight. “Scars do that sometimes, burn or itch. I know mine do.”

“What scars?” Astarion asked, confused – then realized as Nanne looked down with a somber face exactly what scars they were talking about. Strange. The scars on their chest looked faded enough; could something that old still bother them?

“Do you want me to get your back?” they asked.

His throat closed up as he considered the option. He could reach; years of having no one to help him bathe had been a great motivator for flexibility besides the benefits in the bedroom. And touching his scars was far different than just looking at them. No. Best not to let Nanne’s fingers graze those marks. He didn’t want their hands associated with Cazador’s cruelty.

But gods above, his flesh burned.

And… it would be nice, to have someone else do something for him.

“Do what you want,” he murmured, the words coming how far more hollow this time. But he did turn around, his back towards them.

“I’ll try and be quick,” they said, gravel crunching behind him as they approached. Letting out a put-upon sigh, he shrugged – then hissed as something cold smeared onto his skin. “Sorry,” Nanne mumbled behind him. “It’ll sting a little.”

It did – but in a good way, rather akin to the taste of mint in his mouth. The cream sapped the painful heat out of his skin, replacing it with a much calmer tingle. He actually let out a moan of relief as Nanne continued, rubbing the cream into his skin with small circles of their fingers. “Oh, that…”

Nanne let out a soft chuckle behind him, and he bristled, ready to turn and snap – before they said, “When it’s bad, that’s how I feel too.”

They spoke from experience. It made him feel slightly better as they moved up his spine, rubbing at his spine and shoulder blades. “Almost done,” they murmured. “It helps if there’s a thicker coat.”

A lump rose in Astarion’s throat at the words. He could kiss them for this, honestly. Should he?

But then Nanne’s fingers lifted from his skin, and the bizarre urge passed. “We’ll figure this out, Astarion,” they said softly. “I promise.”

His throat only grew tighter as he looked at them. “Will we?” he murmured, voice too thick to be sultry. “How…” He swallowed thickly. “How sweet.”

Nanne smiled, then wrapped the cloth back around the mouth of the jar. “I’ll ask Halsin to make more of this. Let me know if you want me to put on another coat. I know mine get really bad after taking a bath, sometimes. Soap dries out your skin, makes it all itchy and burn.”

“I… Thank you,” he said numbly.

“Of course. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”

He watched as Nanne made their way back to camp. Back to their open bedroll. Eventually, his feet carried him back to his own tent — the tent they had given him. Bending over, he let out a soft breath of relief as his back didn’t burn, then picked up his shirt and brought it to his face. The fabric was soft from years and years of washes, breaking down the roughly starched linen into something far softer. Yet when he inhaled, there was no remnant of Nanne’s scent on the fabric. A soft groan of disappointment passed his lips as he laid down on his wood slats, his burial shroud shielding his skin from splinters.

Then he froze.

Had he… wanted Nanne’s scent to be on his clothes?

No. Absolutely not. They were his clothes, his property. No matter how many times he’d gotten on his back, he could wash away the stench of other bodies. It was one of the very few comforts he’d been able to derive in the palace: lye soap that could erase the stink of sex, even if it broke down his clothes and burned his skin. He wasn’t in the guest bedroom, and he wasn’t in Cazador’s bed with that nauseating, suffocating rose perfume.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he folded his shirt into a makeshift pillow, then laid down on his stomach to trance.

“This place is creepy,” Karlach said rather succinctly as they huddled around the fire at Last Light Inn.

“Makes the Underdark seem nice,” Nanne agreed, shivering as they pulled their jacket tighter around themselves. Even inside, with plenty of shelter, the place was freezing. But Astarion wasn’t a beggar, and their little group couldn’t afford to be choosy. Especially not after what they’d seen before stumbling upon the only safe place in this shadow infested nightmare land.

Halsin hadn’t exactly made the place sound like sunshine and roses, and Shadow-Cursed Lands wasn’t the most glowing of epithets — but Astarion hadn’t expected to have literal shadows chasing them. Nor had he expected to see the shadows consume a man whole before bringing him back as something distinctly unnatural.

Everything about this place was unnatural. Even here, inside Last Light, crowded with Flaming Fists and tieflings alike, he couldn’t shake the scent of graverot, nor swallow down the stagnant air.

It felt like…

Don’t think it. Don’t go there.

Rubbing his hands, he rolled his eyes. “The Underdark didn’t have beds, darling. Not that we’re allowed to sleep in them,” he muttered darkly. Honestly, he was getting tired of sleeping in the dirt.

“The wounded take precedence over all others,” Halsin called out from the other side of the room, not unkindly. The druid looked exhausted, frankly. Hunted. Astarion knew the feeling, though he didn’t know why a man as beefy as Halsin would have cause to look afraid. He did linger next to a man laid on one of those beds, singing some caterwauling tune that none of them could make sense of.

“We can sleep on the floor.” Nanne sat next to Astarion, so close that their arm brushed his. “Then we’ll move out to find where Art’s lute could be. I’ll see if we can buy some more torches.”

He made a face. “Sleeping on the floor? In here? Some of us like privacy when we bed down, darling.”

“We are well aware of your hunger for Nanne’s flesh, Astarion,” Lae’zel snapped, her whetstone rasping down her blade’s edge.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m a vampire, not a cannibal, dear.”

“I think she means the fact that you two are in a… physical relationship,” Gale replied oh so very helpfully.

“Chk.”

Nanne’s eartips glowed hot red like a candle as they slowly edged the collar of their jacket over their neck.

“Not that there’s anything wrong that!” Gale laughed nervously, and Astarion’s fingers itched to close around his neck. “Why, I believe it’s rather common for people in stressful situations. I, um, once read a book that explained in quite some detail the effect a brush with danger has on one’s desire for… other forms of stimulation.”

Nanne’s collar had now crept up to hide their ears.

“A pity you had to derive all that information from a book, wizard,” Astarion said dryly.

“Yes, well, Mystra never quite deigned to—”

“I think it’s high time we all got some rest,” Shadowheart interjected pointedly.

“Mmhm.” Nanne’s collar dropped back to their shoulders. “But thanks, Gale. That’s very interesting.”

Astarion sighed. Leave it to their leader to be diplomatic, even when the wizard’s blathering had clearly embarrassed them. But he didn’t have the heart to be as cutting with his words as he could be; there wasn’t anything that could sting worse than a former lover demanding that you kill yourself to appease her.

“Astarion and I will take first watch,” Nanne added.

Lae’zel rose an eyebrow. “There is no need. We are in a well defended position.”

“Rest,” Shadowheart chided, pushing at the gith’s shoulders. “Leave them be.” Considering how she’d tried her own suit with Nanne, Astarion was surprised at the intervention. But he welcomed it, despite the dirty look of her own she shot at them. He stuck out his tongue when she turned her back.

“I guess I should have known they’d figure it out before long,” Nanne mumbled as he sat next to them, their legs pulled to their chest.

“Well, it’s not exactly like we’ve been subtle,” he pointed out. “We’ve had, what, six trysts so far?” He held up his hand, curling fingers as he recalled. “That lovely first evening in the woods, the tiefling party, that time with the sex spores in the Underdark—”

“They weren’t actually aphrodisiacs, Astarion. Just plain old spores.”

“Well, you were certainly eager enough for me after inhaling them,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. Nanne chuckled at that, shaking their head. “Right, spores, then on that breathtaking vista in the mountain pass, after cutting our way through that bloody monastery, and then one last time for good luck before walking into this cursed place,” he finished.

Nanne nodded, looking rather somber as they stared at the flickering flames.

“Oh, don’t look so sour,” he chided, nudging their shoulder. “We’ve plenty of nights of debauchery ahead of us.”

“Here?” Nanne asked, a dubious look on their face. “In the Shadow-Cursed Lands?”

“The wizard wasn’t entirely wrong,” Astarion muttered. “We’d keep warm, at least.”

It hadn’t been a serious suggestion, but Nanne blushed as brightly as if Astarion had started mooning them. “I-I mean, I don’t think it’s safe to… We’d have to do it in Isobel’s barrier. If we do it outside, then we’ve got to put up torches, and that’s just asking for shades to jump us.”

“Hmm, being consumed and turned into shadow abominations would put a bit of a damper on our sex life,” Astarion agreed.

Nanne looked at him wide-eyed. Then laughed. Not the faint little chuckles he was used to, but a real, belly-aching laugh. Astarion couldn’t help but join in as Nanne teetered dangerously to the side, their shoulder clipping his. “Oh gods, I… I…” And then another wave of laughter, their entire body doubling over.

“Gods, darling, not so close to the fire!” Astarion wheezed, pulling them back just before their hair got singed by the flames. “But it is true.” He lowered his voice playfully, batting his eyelashes. “I’d rather be the only dark power inside your body, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Astarion, what the f*ck,” Nanne wheezed, actual tears squeezing out of their eyes as they laughed. It was the sort of laughter that you had to join in, and soon he was giggling like a fool right alongside them. The entendre hadn’t even been that good, but he was laughing anyway and it…

It felt nice.

Most of the time, when he laughed, it was completely fake. Simpering over someone’s drunken joke or lewd comment, or a high pitched giggle when he made a cutting remark. This laugh… He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d had a reason to laugh this much, but why did it matter? He was here to enjoy the here and now. All the vices and pleasures life had to offer, he’d take and drown himself in. Even if it was something as simple as laughing with Nanne by the hearth.

“Oi, keep it down! Trying to sleep!” Karlach hissed from her bedroll, and that just set off another furious wave of giggles.

“Sorry, Karlach!” Nanne wheezed out. “We’ll be quiet, sorry!”

Astarion took their hand, nodding towards the back half of the inn, and Nanne followed him with a puzzled tilt to their head. “Astarion? Where…?”

“Somewhere private, of course,” he murmured, flashing them a sultry grin. Some stairs led down to a small dock area, which looked quite unused. Thankfully, the Flaming Fist were all upstairs, crowded around that strange man that Halsin had tried to rouse with no success. The lapping water was surprisingly soothing, banishing away that awful stillness that lingered, even with the Selûnite cleric’s protection.

Now, all he had to do was soothe away the painful chill in the air.

“Keep me warm, darling?” he murmured, backing Nanne into the dock’s corner, far away from any edge that could lead them to tumble into the water. “It’s just so cold.”

It would be a decent trade. Sex for warmth. He’d used himself for far less.

“Oh, you really meant…” Nanne blinked. “You want to have sex? Now?”

Astarion nearly snorted at how bluntly Nanne put it. “Unless you have any other ideas for getting me warm?” he teased, lips caressing their neck. A soft “Oh,” gusted against his neck as he nuzzled their pulse with his nose. “Mmm, and you have so much heat to share…”

Nanne draped their arms over his shoulders as they looked up at him, something odd glittering in their eyes.

Then they giggled, and something odd inside him fluttered at the sound.

He took that as the obvious cue to begin kissing them breathless, and Nanne’s soft moans soon filled the air as his tongue brushed theirs. “Mmm,” he hummed, a hand on their hip to hold them close — but there was no need, honestly, with the way they were pressed against every line of his body, their jacket open. Only thin linen and cotton separated their skin now, chests heaving together with each breath.

A delirious thought, bitterly selfish, floated through his head as he pushed up the threadbare fabric of Nanne’s shirt: if only they could be content with just kissing.

But there was no point in thinking that. Not with his body rocking against theirs, skin to skin, his face pressed against their clavicle as he lifted them into the air. He could almost taste the blood rushing beneath his lips, their scent heady and intoxicating. Yes, he could get all of that with just a kiss. Their warmth, their sweet scent, his co*ck springing to life as he moved against their body, mind floating away—

“Wait, Astarion, stop, please.”

He jerked his face from where he’d buried it against their collarbone, hips still pressed to theirs. His erection strained inside his trousers, coaxed to life by the familiar movement, but it didn’t press against a hard length in return. Nanne was soft. And while their eyes didn’t meet his, their cheeks flushed a hot red, he saw the look on their face.

Panic.

Immediately he set them down and backed away, placing space between them. sh*t. What had he done wrong? What had changed? They had liked it before, hadn’t they? The kissing, the grinding?

Yet Nanne didn’t scream at him or shove him away. They looked sheepish more than anything, hugging at themself as they took a few deep breaths. “Sorry,” they breathed, their voice surprisingly deep. “I just…” Astarion stared at them, breath trapped in his lungs as they took a few more deep breaths. There was a sheen of sweat on their face, and he knew that merely kissing wouldn't cause that. “I just need a bit, we can…” Then another wince, and to his shock, a soft, whimpered, “No, no, no.”

“We can stop,” he said immediately, unable to suffuse any sort of tease into his voice. It felt wrong. “Forgive me, my sweet, I should have…” Nausea curled in his stomach. “I should have asked what you wanted.”

Astarion never had to before. No one asked him, after all. He was the luscious temptation, the forbidden fruit they drooled and lusted over. You didn’t ask a peach if it wanted to be bitten before eating it. You didn’t apologize to the cattle slaughtered to provide your steak. He was both hunter and prey, but Nanne…

“No, it’s not like that.” Nanne let out a hiss of breath, groaning — almost as if in frustration. “I wanted to, I really did.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Astarion asked, utterly confused.

“I think… I think I ate something,” they groaned. “My stomach hurts.” Swallowing thickly, they nodded. “Right. I ate something off. Must have… Must have been that jerky Lae’zel made.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed at their tone. The words were plausible, yet it sounded like Nanne was trying to convince themself it was the truth instead of him. “Right,” he said anyway. “Well, I daresay a stomach ache would kill the mood.” He smiled, patting their shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “Let’s head back—”

“I can use my mouth!” Nanne blurted out, fingers yanking at the hem of their shirt.

Astarion stared at them numbly, utterly baffled. “What in the world are you talking about?” he asked, voice floating around his own ears.

Then he froze as Nanne recoiled. “Sorry,” they babbled again. “I’m sorry, I just thought I could… use my mouth on you to help you feel better. Or my hands? To make it up to you.” They stared at the ground, ashamed. “That’s what people do, right? You did it for me in the woods. A-And at the monastery.”

Oh, that was right; he’d given them a blowj*b after they’d managed to lift the Blood of Lathander. He couldn’t recall exactly what had happened after that, except that he’d org*smed again inside them, their ankles crossed at the small of his back as he held them against a crumbling wall.

The thought of Nanne on their knees, mouth around his co*ck, should be intoxicating. No one ever sucked him off, not when he was the one supposed to dispense pleasure. To have him be the one receiving, indulged in for a change, was a heady notion.

But seeing them so pained, hands shaking on their thighs, destroyed any allure the fantasy might have held. Not only were they clearly uncomfortable, they were… young. Not terribly young, and certainly not an innocent any longer after their trysts. But still lacking any sort of experience in this area. No virgin he’d ever been with had asked him to instruct them on the finer points of fellati*, and he wasn’t exactly sure that he could. A handjob would be far easier, but he hadn’t ever wanted sex in the first place. Just their heat, and now that was gone.

Yet it wasn’t Nanne’s absence but their words that had him colder than when they’d started.

“To help you feel better. To make it up to you.”

It was supposed to be the other way around. Astarion was supposed to soothe them, to distract them from the terrors of the battlefield, to have Nanne grow attached to him. He couldn’t indulge. He couldn’t be weak, needy, reliant on a lover. He couldn’t expose himself like that.

But, with horror, he realized he already had. They knew about his scars, put soothing balm on them. They gave him their very blood. Nanne was his only source of food that he could rely upon in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, considering that everyone else was either a Flaming Fist, a tiefling, or dead. He was frighteningly vulnerable. Dependent.

Yet when he looked at Nanne, they were the one with the shaking hands.

What are you thinking in that strange mind of yours?

Astarion laughed, dispelling the tension that seeped into the air. “Oh darling, never mind that. I’m perfectly fine. Besides, I much prefer indulging in you instead of the other way around.” He hesitated, then pressed his hand to Nanne’s upper arm. Not a grip, but a firm touch. “You do enjoy these little escapes of ours, don’t you?” he asked quietly.

They nodded quickly, but the nervousness in their eyes was gone, replaced with a look of embarrassment. Relief suffused him, heady and deep and warm.

“Then there’s no harm done,” he soothed. “None at all. We’ll just raincheck this little rendezvous after that jerky settles down, hm?” He smiled as Nanne nodded eagerly. “Besides, this is hardly the most romantic spot. I think I smell rotting fish. That can’t help with your stomach.”

There was no such scent in the air, but Nanne laughed, clearly looking relieved. “Right.”

Astarion eyed them carefully. “You do know that you can say no to me. Don’t you, darling?”

Nanne’s face curled up into something tight in a way he suspected had nothing to do with their “stomachache.” “Of course. I just wanted… So you wouldn’t…” They took another deep, steadying breath. “You have needs. When I said that I’d help you, I meant that. That’s all.”

Now he only had more questions than before. But he smiled, batting his eyelashes. “I knew I picked the right partner,” he murmured huskily. “You’re so sweet for me.”

When Nanne immediately perked up, a smile on their lips, he let himself relax.

So he’d let them in, somewhat. That was fine. He was still in control, and they were still willing to help him. They’d even gone so far as to offer to satisfy him — he’d have to process that later, in the privacy of his own tent. The plan was still working. It had to work. They’d survive this terrible shadow curse, find a way to control the tadpoles, kill Cazador, and then…

Astarion didn’t want to think past that.

So he didn’t. They set themselves to rights, though there wasn’t much to correct besides some flyaway hairs, then crept back into the inn. Nanne went to their bedroll and immediately curled up, he went to his corner and sat, staring at the flames. Slowing his breaths, he closed his eyes and lulled himself into trance; not the most comfortable position, but he’d tranced in worse spots.

His trancing was thoughtless, for once. No memories of Cazador or the palace or any of his conquests. Just the ebb and flow of his thoughts, little snatches of sensation. The feeling of rough fingertips against the nape of his neck. A soft laugh, husky and deep. Soft fabric, almost threadbare. The taste of sweetness on his tongue, the scent of orange peels in the air. The whisper of his name, dew on his skin.

The creaking of floorboards broke him from his trance, and he scowled in annoyance as he saw Halsin walk by with some bowls and concoctions.

Without thought, he pressed the collar of his shirt to his nose, inhaled honey and citrus, and slipped back into his trance in only a breath.

Chapter 12: Orange Peels

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for their interrupted rendezvous to resume — this time, on the bank of the river at the very edge of the protected barrier. Astarion had timed the patrols, as well as the sobbing tiefling girl that often wandered out here, and picked the ideal time for a spot of fun.

Blood on his tongue, moaning as he thrusted through his release, Astarion felt more than just shared body heat.

Beneath him, Nanne shuddered, soft little whimpers passing their lips as he rolled his hips. They’d gone a bit rougher tonight than they had in the past, his teeth in their neck as he’d taken them on their knees. Both of them needed the distraction from the perpetual gloom around them, even after stealing that moonlantern from the Absolute convoy, and what better way than f*cking like animals?

Chest shuddering as Astarion floated back down inside his body, surrounded with Nanne’s blood’s heady perfume, he had to admit it was a rather nice distraction.

Slowly, crafting his face into a sultry look, he pulled out, then guided Nanne to lay on their back. “There, darling,” he breathed, holding himself up on his arms. “How was that?” He was getting somewhat better at pillow talk. It helped that Nanne took a few minutes after sex to find their words.

Eyes still closed, they nodded slowly, lips curled up in a blissful smile. And that… That pleased him, for some reason. They did look good like this, he had to admit, all flushed and debauched, glistening with sweat in the moonlight. Hair plastered to their forehead, snowy lashes fluttering. The sex itself he couldn’t remember, but this?

He could get used to this.

“Look at you, my sweet,” he murmured. “So pretty for me.”

Nanne immediately rolled over on their side, scarlet blooming on their cheeks, and he huffed out a laugh as he moved towards the bucket he’d brought with them. Reaching inside, he wrung out a rag. The water was lukewarm. Better than trying to wash up in a shadow cursed river, but far less luxurious than Karlach heating the bucket with her engine. He was glad for the upgrade — he’d survived her first hug reasonably well, all things considered — but the loss of hot water was lamentable. Not that Nanne would agree to her heating us up a post-coital wash, he thought with a roll of his eyes as he scrubbed at himself.

Yet the scent of Nanne's blood was still thick in the air, and when he scrubbed, it only intensified. Rag in hand, he looked down.

Then froze.

His co*ck, now soft, was covered in blood.

“What in the hells,” he gasped, whirling around on his knees. Then he recoiled as he saw the actual pool of blood beneath Nanne's hips on the ragged blanket he’d f*cked them on.

That… He couldn’t have… Could he? He’d fully Faded, hadn’t he? Once he’d been inside, their ass in the air, he’d started thrusting, and then after that… He couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember.

And gods above, there was so much blood.

“Nanne,” he croaked out, but what in the hells could he say? “I’m sorry for f*cking you bloody and raw”? “I…”

They sat up, blinking a few times, hand on their stomach. “Wha…?”

Then a pained gasp as they took in the dark stain on the cloth beneath them. “sh*t. No, no, no, not now.”

His fangs dug into his lip as they rolled over on the blanket, a clear wince of pain scrunching up their face as they reached for their rucksack. I’ve ruined this. I’ve hurt them. I hurt them and now it’s over, it’s all over, they’re going to throw me out, you are good for one thing and you can’t even—

Another noise of pain as they struggled with the bag’s buckle, hands shaking.

Don’t just sit there, you idiot. Do something!

Thankfully, he’d brought more than one rag. “Here, darling,” he breathed out in a rush, passing it to them. “What do you need in the bag?”

“I can do it,” they hissed between gritted teeth, finally managing the buckle. “It’s fine, you don’t have to…”

“I can help,” he insisted. “Please, darling, I can—”

“You don’t want to help with this! It's disgusting!”

He should have recoiled at the words. It was the first time Nanne had ever raised their voice at him. He should have been terrified — and he was, but not from their anger. Because, despite the literal blood leaking from their hole, they weren’t angry. Tears beaded on their lashes as they searched through their bag, their lips pressed together in a firm line.

Astarion knew very, very well what a person trying their damndest not to cry looked like.

Nanne finally found what they were looking for: a pouch, or something like it. They used the rag to wipe up their bloody folds with rote efficiency, then slapped the pouch between their legs. Then came their smalls, and he watched in stunned silence as they used bits of string to tie the pouch around the crotch, right over the gusset. Once that was done, they laid back on the blanket with a huff of breath, a sheen of sweat on their skin.

Oh.

Oh.

A nervous laugh exploded out of him. Of course he hadn’t bloodied them with his co*ck. Of course he couldn’t — wouldn’t — actually hurt them. Of course they’d have a monthly cycle; hells, he’d smelled it with Shadowheart, and their blood’s scent was overwhelming, mouthwatering even now. “Darling, you should have brought up that you’re on your moonblood,” he chided, leaning back in the blankets with them. “You gave me a fright.”

Nanne curled up a little, and he cursed himself that he hadn’t brought a second blanket; they desperately looked like they needed one. They tilted their head away from him, one hand on their stomach as their cheek pressed into the blanket. “You can go. I took care of it.”

They way they said that sounded so forlorn.

“I’m not disgusted, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, moving back to the bucket to fetch another rag. “But that’s what your stomach ache was a few nights ago, wasn’t it?”

Nanne didn’t respond.

“I mean, in a way, it’s a good thing,” he said, wiping himself up. “We’ve got plenty of complications as is.”

Astarion had bedded plenty of people with c*nts, but never once had he had to worry about protection or pulling out. Most of the types that accompanied him didn’t care for it in the first place, and whenever someone did bring it up, he could honestly reassure them that it didn’t matter. They’d be dead come morning. And well, he was a vampire spawn. He had no idea if it was even possible to sire children in that way — Leon had Victoria, but she’d been born before Cazador had turned him, and the bastard had made it clear that if he didn’t excel compared to his other children, the girl would be next. Thus, Leon had become his best hunter in spite of being the youngest.

As for the guests Astarion “entertained” at Cazador’s wretched parties, they were most likely wealthy enough to come up with other solutions. If it even was a risk at all.

It was nothing to worry about, but he still looked at Nanne furtively as he gathered his clothes. This was their seventh tryst. The sixth time he’d finished inside of them. Shouldn’t they have worried about getting pregnant by now? They’d been a virgin, yes, but they clearly knew enough about sex to understand that it made babies. Did they just… not care? It didn’t seem like them.

Nanne sat up after a long moment of laying still, pulling on their shirt. The silence hung awkwardly in the air as Astarion followed suit. Then, haltingly, “I’m sorry. For yelling at you.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “From what I remember, there’s hormones involved with this sort of thing.”

“It’s not just that.” Their fingers curled in the fabric of their rucksack, eyes rooted to the bloodstain on the blanket. “I don’t… It’s not regular.”

“I believe it comes with the territory,” he said lightly, gesturing towards their nether regions.

“No, I mean the last time I had this happen was five months ago. It’s not regular. I don’t know when I’ll bleed next.”

Astarion blinked. “Oh.”

They reached for their trousers, but didn’t move to put them on. Instead their fingers kneaded the fabric as they held them in their lap, squeezing in that same rhythm that they usually drummed on their thighs. “I felt the cramps start two nights ago and panicked. I didn’t want you to…” Their head bowed. “If this makes you want to end things—”

He laughed.

Nanne jerked up, looking at him wide-eyed.

“Darling, I’ve bedded scores of people, of all different sorts, in all different conditions. Do you really think I draw the line at a little bit of blood?” He pulled on his trousers. “It’s nothing, really. We’ll just have to pause our little nighttime escapades until you’re feeling better, simple as that.”

Astarion could feel their eyes on him for a long moment, their gaze almost searing.

Then, softly, “Okay.”

“That’s my darling,” he crooned. “And it’s a very good thing I’m so good at washing out bloodstains.”

They groaned as they looked at said stain on the blanket. “Gods above, Astarion, I’m so sorry—”

“Ah ah ah. I told you, you owe me a pint of blood now.”

Thankfully, Nanne laughed, and Astarion relaxed as they rolled up their trouser legs, ostensibly to put them on. He busied himself with pulling on his socks, then boots.

“Astarion?”

“Hmm?”

“I just… You should…” Nanne took a deep breath, steadying. “I want you to know that, um, nothing has to change.”

He blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

“You don’t need to stop…” Their eartips flushed as they pulled on their trousers. “I can’t get pregnant, is what I mean.”

Well, that was reassuring, at least. “Excellent, because I wasn’t going to stop indulging in you anytime soon,” he purred. Then paused. “How do you know, though?”

“I went to a doctor a few years back,” they said quietly, lacing up their trousers; they were still too loose around the waist and too tight around the hips, even when they tugged the laces tight. “I had questions about… this. What to expect.”

“Oh.” He paused. “What did they say?”

Nanne swallowed thickly. “That I’m defective.”

The words felt like a blow to the stomach. Defective. It was something Cazador would say. Defective. Ruined. Broken. Always finding fault in his spawn, always insisting on perfection, even when it was impossible.

Their voice came out heavy. Defeated. “I… I have balls. But they’re on the inside, so my chances of making a baby are frozen in the ninth hell. I have a womb, and it bleeds, but since I have both kinds of parts, they sort of… cancel each other out. That’s how the doctor explained it, anyway. I mean, he said it’s possible in theory for someone to knock me up, but you know…” They gestured to their privates. “Good luck getting anyone to try.”

“A doctor said that?” he asked flatly, incredulous.

Nanne’s body curled inwards. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“About you being defective?” He spat the word. “He was absolutely wrong, darling. You’re…” Waving his hands at Nanne, he opened his mouth.

Yet, for the first time in decades, Astarion could find nothing to say.

He’d flattered people before, complimenting breasts and buttocks and thighs and arms. Some had even styled him a poet, though he hated the very thought. But he always had a quip ready. Something to woo and beguile and charm people with.

All of that seemed… defective, ironically, was the only word he could think of to describe such paltry efforts. Saying that Nanne was perfect, sculpted by the gods, sweet as honey on his lips was as meaningful as dredging up trash from the bottom of the lake and calling it treasure. He’d recited all his best lines at the tiefling party anyhow.

“It’s fine,” they said softly, smiling at him. A weak, placating smile. “Nothing you have to worry about. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I was the one that asked,” he pointed out, pulling on his boot with a fierce yank. “And I mean what I said about that ‘doctor.’ You’re… you. Perfectly lovely.”

Astarion had feigned attraction before. Not every one of his targets could be beautiful, even with Cazador’s mandate, even with his attempts when he’d been younger to seduce only the pretty and perfect. But Nanne made him feel… something. A fluttering in his stomach when they bent over. A pulse of warmth when they smiled at him, or laughed at a quip he whispered in their ear. And more than once he’d found himself reminiscing on their body in his trancing: their collarbones blooming with bites, their thighs soft and silky against his hips, wide palmed hands caressing him and callused fingers curling in his hair.

“I’ve gotten on my back ten thousand times or more, and forgotten half of them.” He swallowed, looking at the blanket they sat on. “But you? You, I want to remember.”

Their eyes widened. “You don’t have to—”

“This is special to me, Nanne,” he said firmly.

The second the words left his lips, he realized they were true.

He couldn’t say he enjoyed it, sleeping with them. His mind still Faded to escape the disgust. But he couldn’t say he hated it either, not like he usually did. It was… confusing. Not to mention the nights he woke up from his trances half hard, quaking as he relived his moments of release. The memory of Nanne’s breath against the shell of his ear, their little whimpers of his name.

But all of this wasn’t just sex. It was sitting by the fire and listening to them practice on the lute. It was talking together. It was…

When he’d stood in the sun again, feeling that warmth on his skin, it was as if he’d regained a lost limb. Or, more like stretching his legs after being shoved in a cage. That delicious stretch, that feeling of finally uncurling and the relief that followed. With Nanne, it was so similar. Stretching, sometimes painfully, fumbling — and yet the relief that followed was sweeter than any wine he’d tasted.

They pulled their knees to their chest, and yet when they looked at him, they smiled. “I like this too,” they whispered. “And I’m glad that…” They swallowed hard. “I’m glad that you want to do this with me.”

“Of course, darling,” he purred. “And how lucky am I that you chose me. To think, you had the entire pick of the camp, and yet I’m your lover.” He shot them a smug grin. “I knew you had good taste.”

They laughed — then winced, letting out a soft “sh*t,” as a particularly sharp sanguine tang hit his nose.

“Oh dear,” he said softly, biting back a giggle. “Let’s, er, get you back to camp.”

The air was unnaturally still as over a dozen hands tore Astarion’s clothes, ripping them to shreds as they hauled him into some dark, smoky corner of the flophouse.

His mind hung above his body, watching the scene mindlessly. He’d flirted with the wrong person. A man who was too tall, too eager in responding to Astarion’s terrible lines that Cazador had taught him. A man who had asked whether Astarion was alone, and if his friends could join in the “party” that he’d invited him to.

Starving after his third day of no rats, Astarion had eagerly agreed. And now he was reaping the results of his stupidity. No one would come save him in this place; the men hadn’t even bothered to drag him outside, because they knew the barkeep would look the other way. Astarion would, if he was an onlooker instead of a victim. He had before. He would again.

“Pretty,” one of the “friends” rasped, reeking of stale beer. “Well, what first? Mouth or hole?”

“Who gets the first turn, more like!”

A chorus of laughter, and somehow the only thing that Astarion could feel was annoyance above the sea of panic and disgust that had forced his mind out of his body. This wouldn’t be his first involuntary orgy. His very first ball, he’d been passed around like a communal bottle of wine to be consumed. This wouldn’t be any different, save he would smell smoke and ale instead of perfumes and wine as he was used up. He wouldn’t be fed. It would all be for nothing.

f*cking wasted.

“Hey! Leave him alone!”

His head jerked up, curls still held in an iron grip.

“I’ve called the City Watch, they’ll be hauling your arses to jail!”

Astarion’s body collapsed, dust in his mouth as his assailants fled. Groaning, he tried to push himself up from the floorboards — then cried out in pain as he collapsed again, shivering on the stones.

“Easy, easy, easy now,” the strange voice soothed, warm hands touching his own. “They hit your head on the wall. You might have a concussion.”

Grimacing, he rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to hands and knees. “I… I have to… I have to go back.”

Then he froze as he looked up at his rescuer.

A boy, far younger looking than he’d expected from such a deep, husky voice. Ragged, travel worn clothing, a lute slung across their back. Long, unkempt hair, but sparkling emerald eyes, as fine as the glittering rings that Cazador would wear. This boy was not as polished, but still beautiful in a raw, aching way.

Darling.

“Back where?” Their voice was so soft, so warm, familiar as the hand it belonged to rubbed his shoulder. Small, soothing circles. “I can walk you home, if you’d like?”

Home. How could such an innocent word send a jolt of pure fear down his spine?

But no, this was the opportunity Astarion had been craving, wasn’t it? A willing victim, dropped right into his lap. He… He should thank them. Profusely. Tell them that there was a reward waiting for them at his home, that his sire would be ever so grateful for returning his son home to him. Or perhaps he should go the flirtation route. Offer his body in gratitude for saving it. He could get on his back for them easily. He could tell them that he wanted to lie with them in silk sheets that reeked of rose perfume. He could…

I can’t.

Instead of reciting from that awful f*cking script, Astarion burst into tears.

“I don’t want to go home!” he sobbed, clutching the hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want to go back, please!”

He couldn’t, because honestly, how was being Cazador’s slave any better than being gang raped in a run down flophouse? What was the f*cking difference? What was the point of it all? To suffer, to choke on co*cks and drown in slick on a good day? He’d avoid a beating today if he brought his savior back, but that would be killing a good man for a f*cking rat, and he was so damned sick of rats, and—

Gods above, he’d never been a good man, but the thought of Cazador getting his wretched claws on someone so kind, so sweet, had him bawling like a child.

“Hey, hey, shh.” Astarion shivered as he looked up into those vivid green eyes, glowing in the dark. That darling boy still squatted by his side, delicate cheekbones and a warm smile piercing the darkness. “You don’t want to go back home? That’s okay. Do you have anywhere else you can go? A friend to stay with?”

“No,” he choked out. Friends? Not in Cazador’s hell. Just endless bodies to f*ck and be f*cked by, and Godey’s torture if he wasn’t good. Or worse, locked in the boudoir again, for days and days and days—

“Then come on. You can stay at my place instead.” The boy rose to their feet, beckoning to him with their hand. “It’s not much, but it’s safe.”

Astarion stared at that hand and felt a hunger so unlike the gnawing in his stomach.

Safe.

He… He could be safe.

The boy, the bard, smiled again, beckoning to him with a friendly smile. “It’ll be dawn in a few hours. You’ll feel better come morning, once you’ve tranced.”

Would that be enough time?

Scrambling to his feet, Astarion snatched that outstretched hand, kissing his gratitude into their palm. Then he bolted out of the flophouse, jerking the bard along with him.

“Wha— Astarion, wait!”

He didn’t wait, ignoring the bard’s protests, even as wine splattered like blood on the floorboards as he barreled through the front door. They were opposite Sharess’s Caress, in some alley beside the flophouse. Filmartin’s? No, that wasn’t it. He couldn’t recall the name, and he didn’t care. In just a few hours, he wouldn’t ever have to whor* himself out in a flophouse, tavern, or drinking hall ever again.

He could be free: truly, finally free. Oh gods, he could taste it.

“Astarion, what are you doing?” the bard gasped.

“We have to run, now,” Astarion pushed out, squeezing their hand tightly. He could do this. They could do this.

The bard panted, stumbling on the cobblestones. “Why? What— Who are we running from?”

“Cazador,” he hissed, scanning the streets quickly. No Leon, no Petras — good. They had a better chance if the other spawn didn’t notice their flight. They were so close to Rivington. If they could make it past the bridge, follow the Chionthar, then hide from daylight, they could do this. They could make it.

For the first time in seven years, he hoped.

Something clattered to the ground, wood splintering, strings squealing, and the bard cried out. “Wait, Astarion, my lute—”

“I’ll get you a new one!” he promised frantically. “But we have to leave now, or else we’re both dead!”

That shut the bard up. Good. They had some sense.

Dashing down the streets, he felt the hunger sap his speed — so often, the bard had to pull him along when he felt himself stumble or falter. “We have to… outside the city!” Astarion wheezed, whimpering as another pang of hunger ate through his stomach. Don’t faint, not now. They were almost to Wyrm’s Crossing, to the main gate. So close. So close, he could taste it. Real thinking blood, orange peels and honey on his tongue, down his throat, sunlight on his skin. Oh gods, the palace was already a distant memory.

“We’re almost there,” the bard said, voice soothing. Such a darling boy. So sweet. So kind to him. “We can make it, Astarion, just one foot in front of the other. Our future is bright—”

Clawed fingers tore into the back of Astarion’s scalp, dead blood splattering on the cobblestones.

No.

“You have much explaining to do, boy.”

How could he have found us so soon?

A gasp from the bard — and when Astarion jerked around, he bared his teeth as he saw Violet laughing. Her fingers gripped the bard’s hair, smashing their face against the cobblestones.

Blood trickled, dripping from their chin like honey, as both of them were forced to their knees.

“Once again, I am forced to clean up your mess,” Cazador said, voice cold and sharp as ice. “I see a morsel before me, youthful and full of vigor, and what do you do? You steal it from me.”

“N-No, Master!” Astarion choked out. “I would never, I promise—”

“Then explain yourself. What were you planning to do with them, Astarion?”

The bard winced, Violet’s fingers curled in their hair. Little crimson rivers carved through their clay skin.

“I…”

“Tell me the truth.”

His tongue moved without thought. “They saved me, so I… I planned to escape from you with them. To cross the Chionthar and run.”

Cazador chuckled, as if Astarion had said that he had planned to steal the sun itself and keep it in his pocket. “Did you plan on having them as your first meal in freedom?”

“No.” Not even the blood gushing from their split lip tempted him, despite how sweet it smelled. He knew it would be delicious on his tongue, but all he could taste in his mouth was ashes. Blood stolen instead of freely given would only be poison on his lips.

“So, you planned to run away from the city, just a few hours from daylight, with prey you would not even eat. You truly prove yourself a greater fool each hour I tolerate your existence.” Cazador sighed. “Did you truly think you could leave me behind? Your home? Your family?”

The old fear turned in his stomach. His shoulders quivered.

“No, Master,” he whispered.

Cazador’s pale, spidery hands settled on the bard’s shoulders, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “And yet you disobeyed, Astarion. You thought to spare this pitiful creature. Why?”

He looked at them. At the tears in their eyes, pouring down their cheeks. At the shadows there, inky black against clay skin. The hollows in their cheeks. Their boney fingers, clutching a cup of wine.

“Because they… They were kind to me,” he choked out. “A-And they don’t deserve—”

Cazador laughed.

It was so loud that the very stones beneath them quaked, dust falling into Astarion’s hair. Cazador’s fangs fully extended, nails digging into the bard’s skin as he tossed his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed. “Deserve? Kindness?” He shook his head in utter disappointment. “This vermin does not deserve your kindness. This wretched little creature does not deserve your pity. It is fodder to be consumed. Do you pity the cow slaughtered for steak, or the apple plucked from the tree?”

The wine in their hands spilled over, blood dripping from the bard’s fingertips.

“But if you are so spoiled as to waste food for pity’s sake, then I suppose it is all my fault.” Cazador pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing as he shook his head. “I had thought you knew the way of the world, boy. But it seems that you must have time and solitude to reflect on your mistakes.”

His back hit cold, solid stone. All the stars in the sky winked out, replaced by pale stone and sickly green light from phantom torches. The Szarr crypt, deep inside the palace.

“No,” he whispered. “Wait, please—”

But the lid to the tomb was already sliding over his face, and Cazador sighed. “Oh child. Once again, you disappoint me. But you will learn this truth.” And all Astarion could see were red eyes leering at him, cold and empty. “Love, affection, sentiment — they will only humiliate you.”

“No, please! Master, I’ll do anything, just don’t— MASTER!”

His only answer was stone grinding against stone, and soon enough he was alone. In the dark. His fingers desperately scrabbling against the roughly hewn marble, his breaths coming out in panicked gasps until there was no more stale, frigid air to breathe, and his lungs burned, and his mind spun, and he sobbed and screamed and begged and prayed, but there was no answer, no deliverance, just his futile cries and the stone whispering, “Astarion, Astarion, wake up, Astarion—”

“Astarion!”

He bolted upright, gasping as he clutched at his chest, desperately inhaling air. But it was cold and stale, just like in the tomb, too still and lifeless and dead and he was dead, that darling boy was dead, Nanne was dead, gone gone gone —

“Astarion.”

Something warm misted on his face.

Blinking, gasping, he looked into the green eyes of the bard.

Then he blinked again and shirked back with a grunt as Nanne’s face swam in front of his. “There you are,” they breathed, sitting back on their haunches; he realized with some bewilderment that they were squatting outside of his tent, holding open the flap. “I’m sorry, but I heard you gasping. Thought you were being attacked.”

Nightmare. It was a nightmare.

Sucking in that too-stale air — damn Shar and damn her curse — he fixed his face into a sultry grin. “Well, now. Looking for a cuddle, are we?” The words floated from his lips, rote and routine. A script he could always fall back on, no matter what horrors he endured. He loved it. He loved this. He loved—

“Astarion, you’re crying,” Nanne whispered.

Reaching up hastily, he felt at his cheeks and brushed away two droplets. f*ck. What feeble scraps of seduction he could summon deflated, shame and fear roiling in his gut. “It was just a bad dream,” he snapped. “You can go now. I’m not dying.”

“No, but…” Nanne hesitated, then swept their hand towards the fire. “Being next to the light helps.”

His first instinct was to snap at them again. He didn’t need help. It was none of their damned business. He wasn’t a child that needed to be coddled after a nightmare.

But Nanne didn’t leave, nor did they force their way into his tent. They just sat there, wreathed in that sweet scent. The fragrance washed away the taste of stale dust and grave rot on his tongue.

“Fine,” he muttered, pushing past them as he staggered out of the tent. “It’s too bloody cold in here anyway.” Nanne smiled faintly as they made their way over to the fire, sitting down in front of a log. Astarion pressed his back to the bark, shivering as he held out his hands to the fire. “It’s too quiet,” he muttered. “No birds.” The only sound was their breathing, snoring from their companions, and the crackling of the campfire. As much as he’d wanted to suffocate the wizard with his own pillow in the past, Gale’s snoring felt like the only thing keeping him tethered in the present instead of lost in frigid granite.

Gale’s snoring, and far more pleasantly, Nanne’s warmth at his side. He caught himself leaning towards them, his nose brushing their shoulder before he snatched himself back. Yet they didn’t say anything; had they even noticed? No, they just rubbed their hands together. Then, to Astarion’s surprise, they reached to their side and set their lute in their lap. “Would music help?” they asked softly.

Music.

“A ballad, just for me?” he asked. “Why, darling, I’m flattered.”

Their smile widened into something more real. “Got a song request?”

Idly, he thought of the song he’d first heard them perform — the one about the gambling man and the house in Athkatla. But then he could feel his back crunching against stone, the air stale and dead, too heavy in his lungs.

He didn’t dare close his eyes, not with the shadows so dark and thick and close.

“Something new,” he rasped, swallowing thickly. “Something you haven’t played for us yet. Though at this point, I’d take a shrieking banshee over this cursed quiet.”

“I’m working on a new song, actually.” Nanne turned the tuning pegs at the top of the instrument. “I’ve got the words figured out, but I’m still working out the chords. How does this sound?”

Instead of simple strumming, like he’d heard before, they plucked a few notes. He listened as it settled into a steady rhythm, almost like water droplets dripping from leaves. “It sounds like rain,” he murmured.

“Huh. Not exactly what I was shooting for. But do you like it?”

He blinked. Why was Nanne asking him? They were the bard. Still, if they wanted honest feedback… “It’s lovely,” he said softly, pulling his knees to his chest. “Keep going.”

And Nanne did, shifting their hand up and down the fingerboard a few times, testing out different keys, asking him occasionally if he preferred it higher pitcher or lower. Together, they settled on something in the middle, and he listened as Nanne began to hum. “I thought you had words picked out,” he noted.

Nanne’s fingers slipped, the rasp of strings almost deafening in the silence. “Oh, those…” They tilted their head to the side. “I do.”

Was that a blush on the tips of their ears?

He grinned. “Oh? And who are those words about?” He preened, lowering his knees to lounge back on the heels of his hands. “Could it be that my brilliant, beautiful bard is composing a song for me?”

“Well, now you’re not hearing them tonight,” Nanne retorted, but he smiled as they ducked their head; their blush had spread to their cheeks now. “...It’s been a long while since I’ve tried composing.”

He blinked. “Isn’t that the hallmark of a bard, though? I thought your type always had a tune or a ditty to work on.”

“The rich ones, maybe.” Nanne started plucking again. “The ones that have patrons and are good with words. I’m not. I can come up with the notes easy. It’s putting words to it that’s difficult.”

“And yet you try, for me.” He sighed melodramatically, resting his chin on his folded hands while batting his eyelashes. “Oh, my sweet, sweet Nanne.”

“You’re not mad, are you?” they asked softly. “I know you hate poetry.”

Astarion blinked, jarred out of the tease. “What? No.” He leaned back against the log, staring up at the clouds. Outside of Last Light, there were no stars to shed light. “Your music is different. I like it.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Nanne’s face turn a brilliant scarlet — and their teeth glinted as they grinned to their lute.

“Thank you,” he said idly.

“For what?”

He swallowed past his dry throat. “For waking me from that dream. I… It was a memory I’d rather not recall.”

Nanne nodded, hugging their lute to their chest. “Anytime,” they murmured. “I think it might be the curse. No one’s sleeping easy these days.”

He frowned. “You included. I didn't scream that loudly, did I?” Gods, the thought was mortifying. The last time he’d heard one of his siblings having a nightmare, he’d tossed his pillow at them so he could go back to trancing.

“No, I was already awake.”

He frowned. “You weren’t assigned first watch.”

Nanne’s face contorted into a grimace. Then, before Astarion could ask, it slackened. “It's the moonblood,” they admitted. “No more cramps, thank the gods, but my back aches.” When they parted their legs, their fragrance intensified, growing almost overwhelming— yet at the same time stale, just as stagnant as the atmosphere in camp. It cloyed, with how thick and heavy it lay in the air.

Stale, yes. But far better than the scent of the tomb.

“You shouldn't tempt me with such a delicious meal, darling,” he found himself saying. His voice was foreign to his own ears, velvety and floating around his head. “If you need a distraction, I could certainly taste—”

“Astarion.”

He paused.

Nanne looked at him. Not with scandalized eyes, nor pupils blown wide with arousal. Instead, they looked… sad. Uncomfortable? He winced as he realized what he'd suggested. The idea was intriguing — what would blood from their flow taste like? — but when he remembered the pained pinch of their face a few nights back, it quickly lost its appeal.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, averting his gaze as he ran a hand over his face. ”I didn’t mean… That was crass of me.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind. But are you okay?” they asked softly. “Really?”

He leaned back, smiling. It hung listlessly on his lips. “Perfectly fine, darling.”

“You don't have to be.” They set the lute down, fiddling with the hem of their shirt; idly, he noticed it fraying, the seam fallen out. “If you want sex, then we can try and find a quiet corner. But if you want to talk about it, I can listen?”

A lump rose in his throat as he looked at them. “You're such a sweetheart,” he murmured. “But it was just a bad dream. Nothing more.”

“Okay.” They swallowed. “Do you want sex?”

No, he wanted to say immediately. But the word died on his tongue.

“I can…” Nanne took a deep breath, and Astarion realized with a pang of guilt that their breath hitched in discomfort, if not outright pain. “I can try—”

“Let’s not, darling,” he whispered. Then he cringed, half expecting teeth to tear into his jugular, for a hand to slap him hard enough to see stars.

But Nanne’s face betrayed no flash of anger. They looked… relieved? “Right.” They stared back at the fire. “Do you want to talk, then? Or I can be quiet. Or I can keep playing.”

“I…” He pulled his knees back against his chest. “Talk to me. About anything.” The music was lovely, but he wanted to hear their voice. Anything to fill the hollowness in his chest.

“All right, then,” Nanne said. “I heard you and Shadowheart talking about blood and how it tastes.”

Astarion blinked; not exactly the most normal conversation starter, but he supposed it would do. “Yes. She was rather curious.” He’d lied, of course, fibbing something about old crone blood having a unique note. Nanne was the only person he’d fed from that he could actually recall the taste of. Bandits, cultists, goblins, anyone he fed from in the heat of battle, really, he couldn’t recall besides the surge of strength and the happiness of being full.

“I guess I am too.” Nanne looked at the crackling fire. “How do I taste?”

The answer came too easily. “Like orange peels in honey.”

Nanne looked at him wide eyed, as if startled. “Orange peels… in honey?”

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Everyone has their own unique bouquet when it comes to their blood. Gale smells terrible, naturally.” He smiled as Nanne chuckled. “Karlach burns just to smell; I’d imagine she’d go down like wyvern whiskey. Shadowheart is mellow, some floral notes.” He inhaled, sniffing the various remnants of their scents on the dead air. “Lae’zel, a well aged brandy, I believe.”

“Wyll?”

“Sweet and heroic. A good cream sherry.”

“Halsin?”

He grinned playfully. “Wet dog.”

Nanne laughed. “No, really.”

“All right, honeysuckle and oakmoss, very manly.” He paused. “You seemed shocked at my answer. Why?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just an old childhood memory.” Nanne folded their arms atop their knees, resting their chin as they stared at the flames. “On my birthday, Da would take me to a store and let me buy a treat. I always loved the candied orange peels. Cheap, but sweet.”

“Well, you hardly taste cheap, darling,” he said. “It’s a delightful scent. I could get lost in it.” And he had, using the scent to distract himself whenever the disgust reared its ugly head during their night trysts. Something about it was soothing, comforting.

Nostalgic.

That was when it clicked.

Ten years ago, in some rotten flophouse in the Lower City, Astarion had met a boy with that scent. A boy that offered wine to him without even a kiss to tempt him. A seat by the fire before Astarion had brushed his cheek with a caress. Clearly a sweet, innocent thing that had no idea what he was getting into. So Astarion had spared him that night, taken home someone else in his place despite leading him on. He'd learned long ago that returning empty handed when prey was in his grasp was never an option with Cazador.

“You know,” he murmured, feeling Nanne’s warmth radiate against him. They sat so close; they had to, with this damned chill. “There’s only one other person I know with that scent. And that’s the only thing I really recall about them.”

“Oh? Who was it?” Nanne asked. Half mumbled, more like it. Their shoulders sagged from weariness.

“Some bard at a tavern or other. He was kind. That was what saved him from becoming Cazador’s supper, I suppose. I didn’t have the heart to take him back.” He clasped his hands in front of his calves, holding his legs curled tight to his chest. That was right. There had been no tomb; it had been another darling boy that had led to him being sealed in. The memories blurred together so often in his trancing. “He smelled like you. Orange peels in honey.”

The silence stretched between them, the air cold and heavy. It wasn’t a peaceful moment — they hadn’t had a moment’s peace ever since stepping foot in these lands — but it was quiet. And with Nanne, his mind didn’t slip back to the tomb. No, it was back to that bard in the flophouse. The spark in their eyes as he’d spoken to him. The way Astarion’s entendres had flown entirely over his head. He… He had sang for him. A song. What song?

“He must have been grateful you spared him,” Nanne mumbled sleepily, white eyelashes fluttering.

For a moment, Astarion could remember perfectly: the bard standing there, clutching a cup in both hands, clear heartbreak in their eyes as he sat in someone else’s lap.

“Yes,” he lied, a lump in his throat. “I’m sure he was.”

Nanne didn’t say anything for a long while, and Astarion wondered if they had finally drifted off.

Then, softly, “You can feed from me, if you like.”

He recoiled. “What, here? Now?”

Nanne looked up at him with bleary eyes; the emerald flames subsided into embers, as if to betray their weariness. “You told me the first time that you felt happy. If you feed, will it help you feel better?”

He paused. “I…”

Cold stone walls. Fingernails chipped and split, leaking blood as they scrabbled. The hunger, ever gnawing, devouring his stomach lining and then his spine all the way up to his brain, until there was nothing but emptiness behind his sightless eyes.

“Yes,” he said, shivering at the memory. “It would.”

“Okay.” Nanne pulled their shirt collar to the side to reveal the crook of their neck, healed bites stark against their skin in the dim firelight. Even though he’d seen them naked, this felt far more sensual, watching them expose themselves for his teeth. Their entire shoulder bared to him, warm flesh prickling in the cool, stale air. The slant of their collarbone, thin skin taut and flushed in the dark.

Feeding on them in the middle of camp, where anyone could see, felt… audacious. Astarion always waited until the others were asleep. Though the camp was aware of his hunger, the last time they’d been caught, Shadowheart had given the two of them such a disgusted look in the morning that he’d nearly tripped her into a puddle of mud “accidently.” He could stand that sort of look — he was a vampire — but Nanne? Not his sweet little… Well, “treat” seemed like the wrong thing to think of them as. They weren’t just a meal to him.

Not anymore.

Slipping behind them, he cradled their head in his hand, letting their body grow acclimated to his touch as he let their head list to the side. Their breathing never changed, that soft steady rhythm as his nose brushed against their neck, taking in their scent. Orange peels in honey. So sweet.

With time, it should have become less stimulating to him. Yet the scent only seemed to intensify the more often he fed, his mouth watering as he took another greedy gulp. His other arm tightened slightly around their body, nose rubbing against their pulse, shifting closer.

Their breath quickened, and he felt a spike of shame as he realized what he’d done: sniffing at their neck like a freak.

Taking another deep breath, he lunged forward and bit down, cleanly latching into their flesh as blood welled.

Before, drinking had been a boon — a full meal compared to surviving off stale, moldy bread. But here, where Nanne was his only source of blood? He drank greedily and deep, moaning as the taste completely coated his tongue. But even better than the taste, better than the hunger finally abating, was the warmth.

Finally, at last, he was warm.

It was Nanne’s warmth, and gods, it was intoxicating, feeling it course through his veins and radiate against his skin. Nanne had stiffened at first, a soft little gasp of pain, but now they were relaxed in his arms, softly humming. Soft, everything about them was soft: their skin, their hair, their thighs around his hips. Gods, why were they wearing clothes? He wanted to feel that softness, just that simple sweet brush of their skin. His arms tightened around them, holding them close as he nuzzled their neck with his nose, even as he slurped greedily. So soft, not like that poor bard, all skin and bones huddling in front of the fire at Fraygo’s. They could never have tasted this good—

He jerked back from Nanne’s neck with a strained gasp, shivering in the cold and the dark.

That’s right. It had been Fraygo’s Flophouse, not some other tavern. He’d forgotten.

“Astarion?” Nanne asked softly. “What is it?”

Stomach churning, he hastily pressed his face back to their neck, giving their bite another good, strong lick. The last drops of their blood coated his tongue, sliding down his gullet, and he shivered.

“Does it… Do I not taste good?” they asked, voice wavering.

Astarion could have laughed at that; nothing tasted as good as them. But his throat closed up, the warmth beneath his skin suddenly too much. He reached beneath his shirt, pulling out the pendant he’d found in the Emerald Grove. Pressing the cool metal against their shoulder, he let the magic flow from it into their skin, watching as his bite stopped bleeding. He’d only taken a few mouthfuls, but better to be safe than sorry.

“I… I’m not hungry,” he said, voice hollow as the pendant dropped back against his chest with a thump.

“Is it because I’m on my bleed?” Nanne mumbled the words, clearly struggling to stay awake. “You can take more, I’ll be fine.”

If only he was as selfless as they imagined him to be; the blood loss from their flow hadn’t even been a passing thought in his head. No, how could he explain that without even trying, they brought up the ghosts of his pasts? That he felt like a ghost himself, barely there, barely functioning? That even though he had blood sloshing in his stomach, their warmth in his veins, he…

He felt empty. Hollowed out.

Then, in yet another fit of furtive emotion — as seemed to be all too common, these days — he pressed a kiss to their bite.

“You taste lovely,” he murmured, pulling away. “I just needed a little, darling. And you need your strength for tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Nanne asked, turning around. Their shirt was still slipped off their shoulder, and he felt a bizarre urge to bury his face there against their collarbone. To hide, like a child.

“I’m sure,” he replied. “Thank you, for…” He waved his hands. “This. The playing and the conversation and the blood. I feel… better.” Not good, but better.

He had to repay them somehow. Even the score. If he stayed in their debt, if they helped him instead of traded favors, then it would be too dangerous. He would be too weak, vulnerable. That was how the world worked. Kindness could never truly be given for free. Anyone who tried would be devoured, swallowed whole. And Nanne… Nanne deserved a better fate than what that darling boy, so many decades ago, had earned trying to help him.

“Your shirt,” he found himself saying. “I can mend it.”

Nanne blinked, staring down at it. “What’s wrong with it?”

Astarion bit back a laugh. The hem had fallen out, the edge was fraying, the collar barely hung on to the back yoke, and it was far, far too large for them. But maybe they liked it that way. He knew how good it could feel to hide in clothes, to shield himself with fabric.

“You deserve to look your best, dear,” he said instead. “Now give it here.”

Nanne co*cked their head, looking at him with clear confusion. Then, slowly, they eased the shirt off. “It’s the only one I have,” they whispered, curling in on themself in the dark.

“Then I’ll have it to you by morning,” he promised. “I’m fast with a needle.”

“Don’t you want to rest?” they asked.

“You’ve clearly never tried embroidering. I’d reckon it puts a man to sleep faster than Gale’s lectures about the Weave.” He winked, then smiled as Nanne chuckled sleepily. “Now go on and get in that nice, warm bedroll. I don’t want Shadowheart giving me an earful for sucking you dry in the middle of camp.”

Another soft laugh echoed in the too-still air as Nanne slipped inside. Far too quickly their breathing fell into that slow rhythm of sleep. The circles under their eyes were too deep, and yet they had stayed up with him anyhow. A lump rose in his throat as he retrieved his sewing kit and threaded a needle.

“You always did prefer the sweet, innocent ones.”

Fangs digging into his lip, he started on the hem first, folding the fabric in on itself as he used his thumbnail to measure the width between edge and stitch.

It was oddly comforting, sitting by the fire and mending their shirt. He couldn't tailor it to fit, not with them fast asleep in their bedroll, but he fixed the hem easily — a nice blind stitch, to make it look clean and neat. Next would be the collar, and he found himself reaching for the more colorful embroidery floss that he’d swiped from one of the tieflings in the grove. He leaned back, Nanne’s shirt in his lap as he looked at them fast asleep, bathed in the warm light of the fire. He could just mend the collar and be done with it, but where was the fun in that? And…

“It’s the only one I have.”

Well, he’d just have to transform it into something new then, wouldn’t he?

A floral motif would suit Nanne nicely. Cool colors, to contrast their rich clay red skin and the red sheen to their white hair. He had a nice lavender, along with some yellow. Leaning back against the log, he let his darkvision compensate for the lack of light, occasionally tossing more firewood into the fire when the chill grew too strong.

By the time Wyll started stirring, he slid the finished shirt into Nanne's bedroll, then went into his own tent to freshen up. Just a touch of hair wax and some water on his face before he emerged as if he'd peacefully tranced through the whole night. “Good morning, Karlach,” he said cheerily.

“Morning, Fangs. Gods, don’t know how you can be so chipper in a place like this,” she grumbled, rubbing at her eyes. “Hey, soldier — oooo, nice shirt!”

Astarion should have played it off, not drawing any attention to his handiwork. But he couldn’t help but turn anyway. And for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

Nanne stood there, haloed by the firelight, a fond look on their face as they traced the pattern of forget-me-nots curling around their collar. “It is, isn’t it?” they murmured, green eyes flickering. But they weren’t looking at the shirt. No, they were staring at Astarion, a brilliant smile curling up their lips as they nodded to him. Then, their lips moved. “Thank you,” they mouthed silently.

Not even sunlight could warm him better than that.

Chapter 13: I Was Wrong

Chapter Text

Considering all of the undead abominations that they’d fought, Astarion hadn’t really considered that they could encounter anything uglier — and of course, the universe saw fit to prove him wrong.

They’d gone up to talk to the Selûnite cleric on the second floor of Last Light, leaving Shadowheart on the ground floor; she’d made her distaste for Selûne clear. Nanne had spoken with Isobel, and then Marcus — who was supposedly a Flaming Fist, judging by the uniform — had shown up and demanded that she accompany him. Astarion had been all for letting the insane bastard get away with it, but then Nanne had pointed out that without Isobel, there would be no refuge from the shadow curse. Which meant they’d be stuck in the phantom cold until they attempted the trek to Moonrise Towers.

So here he was, daggers in hand, desperately trying to avoid becoming fodder for awful winged monstrosities.

Karlach and Lae’zel had taken to the fighting immediately, both of them jumping down to save the screaming tieflings being attacked on the first floor. Halsin had also made the leap, turning into a bear mid jump, leaving Astarion, Nanne, Gale, and Wyll up on the balcony. At least Wyll knew how to use a rapier.

“Gale, I need a fireball!” Nanne shouted, firing another crossbow bolt at Marcus. Astarion grinned as the magic exploded in Isobel’s room, scorching the bastard into a screaming lump of flesh. Wyll finished him off with a pointed thrust, then rushed out of the room, yelling about civilians.

Isobel seemed well enough. Nanne patted her shoulder, spoke some words of comfort, then looked at Astarion. “We should help the rest clean up,” they said wearily, wiping some stray soot from their forehead.

“Speak for yourself,” he replied. “I’m perfectly fine taking a nice, relaxing—”

Now, of course, was the opportune time for another winged freak to crash through the ceiling. And naturally, instead of going for Isobel, the target it should have been focused on, the beastie decided that Astarion was a far tastier meal. Not so smart, considering he was, you know, dead.

And about to die again, judging by how those claws shrieked across his spidersilk armor.

Astarion screamed as the beast shoved him, hair catching and torn out on the rough floorboards. Scrambling to his feet, he swiped desperately at the creature, but his knife only got stuck in its ragged, tufted fur on its shoulder. His other wouldn’t do any better, he could tell, and the monstrosity was too close for him to pull out his bow. A taloned foot pushed down on his chest, and he groaned, gasping as his ribs creaked. He couldn’t force it off, not even with the blood he’d drank this morning, he was going to die, he was going to die—

“Oi, ugly!”

To his utter dumbfoundment, the beast turned.

Then it screeched as a crossbow bolt buried itself right in one of its eyesockets.

“Gnoll eat your face and sh*t it out?” Nanne shouted, and Astarion felt the crack of psychic magic lashing out against the beast’s mind. It was enough to have it step off of him; Astarion clutched at his chest, wheezing as Nanne drew Phalar Aluve. “That’s right,” they shouted, “look at me!” The words were punctuated by a horrible shrieking noise, the sword vibrating in their hands as they held it aloft.

The monster did look at Nanne, hissing at the shrieking, and the fear that crashed through Astarion was wholly different. All consuming, eating away at his mind as the monster lunged for them. The beast was easily twice Nanne’s size.

Something that became far too clear when it seized Nanne in one hand and threw them off the balcony.

Astarion watched in horror as Nanne plummeted through the air, tossed like a doll by a child throwing a tantrum. Scrambling to his feet, he nearly fell off the balcony himself as he watched Nanne’s impact break floorboards, their body bouncing from the sheer force of their landing.

The sickening crunch of bone against wood rang in his ears.

Nanne didn’t scream or shout in pain. They didn’t move as the dust settled from all the floorboards they’d broken. They…

Blood dripped down their forehead onto snowy lashes.

The creature screeched, hopping down onto the first floor, fangs bared as it kicked away the still shrieking sword.

No.

Nanne didn’t flinch. They didn’t move.

No, no, no.

A taloned hand reached back, ready to slice them to shreds.

You can’t die here, damn you!

Screaming, Astarion sprinted off the balcony and jumped, landing on the creature’s back.

You are not allowed—

A strange howling noise echoed around him as he yanked the creature’s head back, slitting its throat in one swipe. But it didn’t die, still thrashing as blood gushed over his hands.

It didn’t want to die? Fine.

Over and over again, he sank his knife into the creature’s flesh. Slicing tendons, targeting the heart and the lungs, blood splattering his face. Gouging out its eyes, ripping out flesh with each carve of his knife. Why in the hells wouldn’t it stop screaming? His ears rang, throat sore as he kept stabbing.

And stabbing.

And stabbing.

Never hurt you again, never hurt you again, he will never hurt me again–

When the beast finally collapsed to the ground, he knelt in stunned silence, hot blood steaming from his flesh. His knife was still buried in the creature’s neck, half of it broken and embedded in its eye socket. His body ached, hands shaking as he breathed in the stink of monstrosity blood and the wonderful sweetness of orange peels and honey—

Nanne!

Scrambling across the floorboards, he reached for them – then froze when Halsin’s hand passed over their forehead, a soft golden glow seeping into their skin. “Oak Father’s blessings go with you,” he murmured, lifting their torso from the ground.

“Are they…” Astarion’s chest heaved as he cupped Nanne’s face with a shaking hand. They were still pale, their heartbeat still fluttering, not stable. “Something’s wrong,” he panted, voice hoarse, throat aching. “Something’s wrong, they’re not–”

“Peace, Astarion,” Halsin said, voice too soothing, too calm. “They will wake soon.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he breathed, hand slipping to their leg. “They’re still bleeding, I can smell it!” A soft groan passed Nanne’s lips as his palm pressed against something far too wet and warm. Pulling Nanne out of Halsin’s grip, he heaved, straining as wood splintered and snapped. “Help me!” he shouted. “Or are those arms just for show!?”

Halsin grunted as he helped push Nanne on their side — then winced. “You were right.”

Any witty retort died on Astarion’s tongue as he saw the jagged length of wood embedded in Nanne’s thigh. A veritable pool of blood had soaked through their trousers, and he knew it wasn’t from their bleed. So much blood, wasted, killing them. “Oh gods,” he whispered, breath quickening. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—”

“Astarion, you must take deep breaths. Nanne will not die here. You have my word.” Halsin’s meaty fist closed around the shrapnel.

“What in the hells are you doing?” Astarion’s hands closed around Halsin’s. “Take that out and they’ll bleed to death!”

“If I do not remove this, I will be unable to seal the wound properly,” Halsin said, far too calmly. “The wound will become infected, and they will die a much slower, more painful death. Let go, Astarion.”

“No! It will kill them!” They’d lost so much blood, so much blood staining his hands. Or was that from the winged horror? He didn’t know. His chest was too tight, vision spinning, fingers curling in Nanne’s jacket as he clutched them to their breast. How could this be happening? How could it all go so wrong so fast? He’d warned them, told them they shouldn’t help the cleric, that they should just go to Moonrise, but did Nanne ever listen? No, because they were an idiot, always stopping to help everyone and shake hands and kiss babies, and what about him? What would he do if they…

If they…

Who would defend him from the others? Who would offer him blood when there was absolutely nothing else to eat? Who would ensure they made it back to Baldur’s Gate and help him kill Cazador? Who would sit with him by the fire and laugh at his stupid lines and whisper gossip about Wyll and Karlach finally kissing in his ear? Who would give him a cup of wine out of nothing but the kindness in their heart?

Astarion couldn’t lose them. He could not.

Scrambling back, Nanne in his arms, he bared his teeth at Halsin, trying his hardest to look threatening despite being completely unarmed. “I’ll rip your throat out, druid,” he hissed, Nanne’s breath misting on his neck. “I’ll do it, don’t you dare touch them!”

“Hold them steady, Astarion.”

The words were so unexpected that they jolted him out of the panic, the fear.

Then a completely different kind of fear erupted through him as Halsin grabbed the wood shrapnel and yanked it out with a grunt.

A soft, too faint cry vibrated against his throat as Nanne shook in his arms, fingers scrabbling against the spidersilk breastplate. He looked down into glazed-over green eyes, emeralds on black velvet, cheeks still pale.

I’m losing them.

“Keep holding them,” Halsin said, voice strained as he pressed his palms against Nanne’s thigh. A throaty gasp of pain burst from their lips, and Astarion nearly lunged to make good on his promise of tearing the druid’s throat out — until he saw the golden glow sinking into Nanne’s leg. Soft words passed the druid’s lips, incomprehensible over Nanne groaning in pain. Then, louder, “This will take some time. Calm them, Astarion.”

Calm them? How the f*ck was he supposed to calm Nanne when he felt like he was dying himself?

“Asta,” Nanne wheezed, and he froze as their fingers, slippery and slick with blood, brushed his jaw. “You… Not hurt?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m fine.” Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath. “Stay strong, darling.”

Their hand thumped against their chest as it fell, a pained grimace twisting their lips. Sweat shone on their face, a bead of it carving through the dust and blood. “Hurts.”

“Shhh.” His own hand shook as he stroked their hair. “It’s all right.”

Nanne’s breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his other hand rubbing circles between their shoulder blades, “I’m here.” But he couldn’t stop his voice from wavering as he spoke. “I-I’ve got you.”

“I know,” Nanne murmured, eyelashes fluttering.

“No, no, no.” His voice cracked, arms squeezing just a bit tighter. “I forbid you from dying, do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear.” Their voice was much stronger, almost fond. “I’m not dying on your watch.”

The laughter that passed his lips was ugly and broken and cracked.

“The wound is almost closed,” Halsin announced. “Though it will take some time for you to recover from the blood loss—”

Reaching beneath his breastplate, Astarion shoved the pendant he’d found in the grove against Nanne’s chest and watched as a flash of green light cast a glow over them. When he pulled it back, Nanne’s face wasn’t nearly as pale as before.

Halsin’s eyebrow raised as he looked at Astarion, then at the pendant in his hand.

“Praise the Oak Father.” It was supposed to come out sarcastic, but his voice was too hoarse and worn.

Halsin chuckled. “Praise the Oak Father indeed.”

It took a few hours before Astarion was able to see Nanne.

Halsin, frustratingly, insisted on Nanne getting rest, and Wyll had taken over in the interim as group leader, which meant they all had to help put the inn back in some semblance of working order. Before he could get out a word of protest, Astarion was assigned to looting duty with Karlach, who was tasked with disposing the monstrosity bodies before they could rot and stink up the place even further.

There wasn’t even anything good on the beasties, much to his frustration. Some leather harnesses, a knife or two to replace the ones he’d lost. No gold pieces. Karlach waited patiently for him to loot the bodies, then dragged them and flung them out of the inn. She frowned as she tossed the second like it was a collection of dirty rags. “Wonder if they were humanoid before.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Astarion said flatly. “They’re dead. Good riddance.”

“Right.” Then she recoiled. “Gods, Fangs, you sure did a number on that one.”

He paused, looking at the monstrosity he’d stabbed to death — then froze. That was… the entire skull was a bloody pulp, chunks of flesh littering the floor. He’d hardly remembered doing that. Just stabbing, trying to stop it from devouring Nanne for dinner.

“You were like a banshee, mate,” Karlach continued, pulling out the mess by its (mostly) intact legs. “Never heard anyone scream their head off like that.”

Oh. So that was what that dreadful howling noise was.

Once the corpses were in a pile, Gale cast another Fireball spell, and Astarion hurried back into the inn, towards the hall that now acted as a makeshift infirmary. Yet before he could open the door, Shadowheart stepped outside, her face creased with strain, sweat shining on her forehead. “Oh, Astarion,” she sighed, wiping her hands on a rag; he didn’t miss the dull tang of half dried blood. “There you are.”

“Yes, how is—”

“Nanne?”

He folded his arms tightly, pursing his lips.

Yet Shadowheart didn’t smirk. “They’re awake,” she said quietly. “They’ll make a full recovery; Halsin mended the leg well enough.”

“Then why, dear Shadowheart, do you look as if you’ve attended a funeral?” he snapped.

Her eyes narrowed, upper lip curled up into a sneer. Then it faded as she sighed again. “You need to talk to Nanne.”

Astarion frowned. “Me? Why? Are they hurt?” It was her job to handle healing.

“Something’s bothering them, and they won’t talk about it with me.” She chewed on her lip, folding her arms. “I would say it’s the shadowfell curse; they’ve never been receptive to Lady Shar’s teachings, and most don’t find comfort in the darkness. But this is…” She took a deep breath. “It runs deeper, I think.”

Well, that answered none of his questions. But he found himself nodding in thanks anyway before pushing open the door.

The infirmary was one of the only places that had survived the monstrosity attack relatively unscathed. Art Cullagh was even talking with one of the Flaming Fist in the corner while Halsin worked on some other wounded person. Astarion didn’t care. Across the room, in the bed furthest away from the door, sat Nanne, a thin blanket draped over their lap, lute cradled in their arms. He could still smell their blood, but dried and unpalatable. That was good. After seeing them bleeding out in his arms, he didn’t know if he’d ever have the courage to drink from them again.

Plastering on a charming smile, he sidled up to the bed, sitting on the edge with a practiced lounge. It wasn’t quite the same as perching on a barstool, but he was able to lean back anyway to get that lithe curve to his spine. “Well hello, darling,” he simpered. “Are you feeling any better, or do I get to play another round of doctor with you?”

Nanne chuckled, but strangely, didn’t blush. That was… odd. Usually they had some sort of physical reaction to him turning up the charm. “I’m fine, thanks. You?”

“Just fine, thanks to your heroic rescue.” He found himself reaching out to feel up some bit of muscle, then immediately pulled his hand back. No, not the moment. “Though did you really feel the need to tackle a monster all by yourself? I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours ruined.”

Nanne’s face fell, their polite smile gone. “You were in danger. Better my face than yours.”

“True,” he said idly.

Then froze as he realized what that sounded like.

“I…” His chest tightened. “Of course I didn’t mean that, darling, I just…”

“No. No, there’s a reason I said it.” Nanne let out a laugh, a bark so sharp and cutting that Astarion actually jumped in place. “Don’t feel bad, it’s the truth. And I’d do it again.”

That should have reassured him. Their leader was so utterly besotted that they’d risk dying for him to save him. So why did he feel fear instead? Why were his palms clammy and his breath unsteady at the thought? This was all according to his nice, simple plan.

Wasn’t it?

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he whispered, voice so small that he wondered if Nanne could hear him at all. If they should.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a knight in the ballads.” Nanne winced, moving their leg. “I don’t know if I have another stunt like that in me for a while. Halsin says I’ll be walking by the end of the day, though.”

“Good.” The sheer relief Astarion felt at those words nearly turned his body to liquid. “I prefer my lovers alive instead of gallantly slain, you know. I can’t stand any competition in the death department.”

Nanne snorted, then stared at the blanket over their lap. Their eyes were… dull. The emerald flames within had simmered down to embers, barely glowing. Shadowheart was right. Nanne was not well, not at all.

Astarion had no idea what to say.

Comforting people was not his strong suit. He could charm and woo and flatter, but comfort? When something tragic happened, the way he took the sting out of it was with a joke. It was all he could do, really. Gods knew he’d gotten into more than his share of fistfights with Petras because he had to make one witty little quip after one of Cazador’s magnanimous speeches and earned them all a group punishment. If life was pure sh*t, then what harm could it do to take the piss on it? Cazador could rip out his tongue, but it would just grow back. The lovely thing about torture was that unless Cazador had a sudden burst of creativity, it all became banal and boring in its horror.

But… this. The opposite. Being comforting. He didn’t know where to start.

He thought back. Back to the nights when he could hear Victoria wailing in the palace, because it was no place for a child, and she wanted out of the favored spawn room. Back to when Leon would speak in a low, calm voice, no matter how horrid he felt. Astarion had no idea how the man had managed it, considering he was one of Cazador’s youngest. Maybe it was the privilege of being one of his most favored hunters. Leon wasn’t perpetually in the Kennel.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, trying to collect himself. Speak slowly, calmly. That would be a start, he hoped.

“Is there something troubling you, my dear?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

It was a rote, routine answer, stiff as a board. Very obviously the sort of lie you told to make people stop asking questions. How many times had he twittered it to his marks? It felt… odd being on the other side of it. To feel that concern and suspicion curling in his own chest.

“And if you weren’t,” Astarion said, nonchalantly glancing at the rest of the makeshift infirmary, “what could I do to make you feel better?”

Nanne said nothing for a long moment.

Then, voice shaking in a way he knew intimately, they whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

Astarion bit down the urge to whirl around and look at them. Best to keep this light. “Well, talking about it would be a decent start.”

Instead of answering, Nanne let out a soft but choked sob.

f*ck.

He couldn’t stop himself from turning, looking at them wide-eyed. Clear as day, tears streamed down their face, their lower lip wobbling as they hugged themself. “It’s so stupid,” they choked out, voice hoarse.

Astarion had seen Nanne upset before, but never actually crying. It was… uncomfortable to watch. Their face had started to splotch, red patches blooming on their cheeks. Even worse, his own chest felt tight at seeing their obvious misery. For all that he’d relished the rare chance to make his siblings cry, seeing Nanne like this… hurt.

“Darling,” he began hesitantly, “as someone who has actually died, getting emotional over it is actually rather rational.” He swallowed. “And the gods know I got a fright myself, watching you get tossed like that.”

“Oh gods, this isn’t about that,” they rasped, voice pitched up with either a laugh or a sob — they sounded so similar, he couldn’t tell. “Astarion, my trousers are f*cked.”

Astarion blinked.

Sniffling, Nanne wiped at their face, another choked-up laugh bubbling out of them. “I don’t have any extra,” they admitted, cheeks flushed red hot, and not from crying. “I can’t… These ones don’t even fit me, either.” They pulled aside their blanket, and Astarion winced as he saw where the seams had been torn apart, revealing their smalls. The fabric was so worn it was a miracle they’d held out this long. Nanne pinched the trouser leg between their thumb and forefinger, pulling out the excess fabric. Several inches hung off the meat of their thigh. With a ragged sigh, they combed their fingers through their hair, shoulders hunched. Their expression wasn’t one of fear, of terror, but of frustration and stress. “We’re in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Where in the hells am I supposed to get another pair of trousers?”

Astarion looked at their current pair, and the suggestion that he had — just let me mend it for you, darling — died on his lips. He could see where the seams had burst around their hips, clearly straining long before Nanne had been tossed to their almost-death. The trousers would make for rags far better than actual clothing. And…

He’d been here before, he realized. Wearing his clothes down to nothing, forbidden to take from the meager stores of extra clothes that Dufay stocked the dormitory with. Humiliated as he had to go out and seduce patriars with doublets and trousers that were falling apart, held together with mismatched thread. Anxiously repairing torn shirts after his conquests handled him too roughly. It was only when Cazador threw a ball that he received new clothing, and considering how the guests treated him, those outfits were nothing but scraps by the end of the night.

Astarion had never been given money, aside from what he could pickpocket to buy himself and his victims drinks, and no decent tailor was open at night. So he had to steal clothing from the very men he seduced. His own latest doublet, before it had been shredded by bugbears, had been from some red haired fop he’d charmed at the Elfsong. It had been too large for him, and so he’d had to take it in himself. He had that skill, honed from literal centuries of repairing, mending, and embroidering clothes.

He could use it now, he realized. While he’d never tailored a pair of trousers for someone else, how hard could it be?

Nanne sighed, wiping at their face. “You don’t have to answer that question. I… I’ll figure something out, I’m just…” Another broken laugh. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop crying.”

Rising from the bed, Astarion reached for his wallet and hefted it. There should be enough for his purposes — and if there wasn’t, well, he could always count on the five finger discount. “I’ll be right back, darling,” he said. Then, a bit awkwardly, he patted their shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Nanne’s confused eyes flickered as he turned, heading out of the inn. As far as he knew, there hadn’t been anyone killed by those monstrosities, but if the quartermaster was dead now, it would make rooting through her things a fair bit easier.

To his dismay, the woman was alive and well, directing some Flaming Fist on where to dump the latest pile of debris from the attack. “You one of Jaheira’s friends?” she barked as Astarion drew close.

“Actually, I am,” he said with a brilliant smile, batting his eyelashes. “And I find myself with plenty of coin to spend.”

She sighed. “Most of the Fist bought up my wares. I’ve still got some odds and ends, but you’d best not be in the market for a weapon.”

“Oh no,” he tittered. “No, I’m here for a pair of trousers.”

A silver eyebrow rose. “Trousers? That it?”

“Yes. Do you have any particularly wide in the waist?”

The quartermaster rooted through her cases, then pulled out a bundle of fabric. “Will these do?”

Holding them up, Astarion’s lip curled. The material was thick and sturdy, inner canvas with outer leather paneling. It wasn’t the most fashionable pair, but it would have to work for now. Regrettably, function was far more important than form, until they reached the Gate. “How much?” he sighed, pulling out his wallet.

“Well, since you helped save our arses, I’ll give you a discount. One hundred pieces.”

His jaw dropped. “For a pair of hideous trousers?”

She smirked. “Do you see a tailor’s shop anywhere around here?”

“It’s for a—” He cut himself off in the middle of the shout, then took a deep breath. “They aren’t for me.”

The quartermaster raised an eyebrow, then sighed. “Fine, take them off my hands. I’ll be lucky to make it to the Gate at this rate. It’ll be easier if I don’t have to haul any cargo.”

Tossing the pair of trousers over his shoulder, he stalked back inside the inn. I should have just stolen them in the first place.

Nanne still sat in bed, thankfully, when he arrived back at the infirmary. “Oh, you’re back.”

“Can you walk?” he asked.

They moved their leg, twisting it a bit under the blanket. Despite how their face warped into a grimace, they nodded. “Where are we going?”

“Nearby. Here.” He grasped their hand, pulling them to their feet after they slung their lute over their shoulder by the strap. Then, awkwardly, he wrapped the blanket around their waist to preserve their dignity. “It’s not far.”

Together, they made the short trek to their destination: a parlor right next to the infirmary. From what he understood, Jaheira had turned it into a makeshift strategy room, but right now, it was a parlor, and their best chance at privacy. The upstairs were mostly demolished, aside from Isobel’s room, and he couldn’t exactly carry Nanne up the stairs in front of everyone.

“What are we doing in here?” Nanne asked, clutching the blanket tight around their waist.

“Fixing your wardrobe, darling,” he said, fetching his sewing kit from his pack. There wouldn’t be enough pins to adjust everything in one go, but he could make it work; gods knew he’d scrapped together outfits with far less. “Now, trousers off, I’ll help you put these on.”

Nanne looked at him for a long moment — then did as asked, slowly and carefully peeling bloodsoaked and torn fabric away from their skin. He let them grasp his arm so they could keep balance as they shifted from one leg to another. Then, with a clear, audible swallow, they handed the trousers over to Astarion. “Can you fix them?” they asked quietly.

“Oh no, these are f*cked,” he said succinctly. “But this pair will be far nicer for you.” Rolling up each leg of the trousers, he motioned for Nanne to step in them. “And, once I’m done, they’ll be a perfect fit.”

Their eyes widened. “You… You don’t have to—”

“Darling, as much as I would love for you to prance about the shadow curse in the nude, we must be dignified for the sake of the others,” he teased. “This view is for my eyes only.”

This time, his joke worked. Nanne laughed, eyes flickering with mirth as he helped guide the trousers up and over their hips, careful to avoid the now prominent ropy scar on the back of their thigh. They were, as expected, a terrible fit; Nanne had to hold the trousers up with their hand to keep them from falling back down around their ankles. “I hope you got a discount for these.”

“They were free, actually.” Astarion knelt down to get some pins. He held a few between his teeth as he started pinching the fabric, mentally measuring the seam allowance. He’d need to take the fabric in quite extensively, but canvas would be relatively easy to work with; as long as he stuck to the inner seam, he wouldn’t need to needlepunch the leather. He started with the waist line. “Hmm, a few inches here should do the trick.”

“How long is this going to take you?” Nanne asked.

“A few hours, give or take. Why?”

He didn’t miss how their jaw dropped. “Just a few hours?”

“Darling, I’ve whipped together a shirt in thirty minutes,” he said somewhat smugly. “This will take no time at all.”

“And the embroidery you made for my shirt? How long did that take you?”

“Oh, it’s not even comparable,” he said idly, waving his hand dismissively. “Embroidery is a far different beast than simple tailoring. Don’t worry, it won’t take nearly that long.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He fetched some chalk from his kit, making a few marks along the waistband and the inner seam; he’d save the pins for the actual stitching. “Just a few hours. I find it relaxing.”

“It’s beautiful,” they said softly. “The flowers. I should have told you before. And I… Thank you, for this.” When they smiled down at him, it was still with watery eyes, but they looked so much less despondent than before. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Spend your nights in utter boredom and go around without trousers?” Astarion winked up at them.

“Mm.” They chuckled, and he paused as they rested a hand on his shoulder. “I mean it, though. You’re one of the first friends I’ve ever truly had. It means a lot to me.”

That was… not exactly what he’d expected to come out of their mouth. Lover, absolutely. Charming rake, possibly. But friend?

“I don’t think friends are quite so intimate with each other as we are, darling.” The words came to the tip of his tongue, unbidden. That was the role he’d assigned himself. Flirt, charm, make himself the perfect partner to tie themselves to. It was reflexive. Instinctual, honestly. He’d played the part of dashing lover so many times that he no longer needed to read from a script.

But a friend?

When was the last time he’d had a friend?

“Here, darling,” he said, helping them out of the trousers and onto the nearby couch. Nanne sank down with a grateful “oof”, draping their blanket over their waist as Astarion gathered the trousers and sat at the end of the couch. “I’ll need to do a few more fittings as we go.” Taking a thicker, stronger needle, he began ripping the inner seam.

“Do you want some music while you work?” Nanne asked, patting their lute.

Astarion paused. “That would be lovely,” he admitted.

“Song request?”

He shrugged. “Whatever catches your fancy.”

To his curiosity, Nanne didn’t sing as they began to play. Instead, they leaned back on the couch, content to pluck away while Astarion began basting the trousers, working foot by foot as he pinned the excess fabric together. It was rather nice, actually; their voice didn’t distract him while he worked, but he didn’t stitch in anxious silence either. He could get used to this, sewing and stitching and snipping at seam allowances while Nanne played. Something warm settled in his chest as Nanne started to hum, the song morphing into something more lighthearted than the somber chords from before. And then words joined the melody, half murmured, half sung.

“I still taste you on my lips, lovely bitter water

The terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue

And I know I shouldn’t love you, I know I shouldn’t love you

But I do.”

It was a love song, Astarion realized. Curiously, he realized that out of all the music he’d heard Nanne perform, this was the only one that had ever touched on love. Strange, considering how many wretched ballads he’d heard the bards at Cazador’s palace twitter about love and sex and the taste of a lover’s lips.

And yet, as the song continued, still jaunty and lighthearted, the words morphed into something far, far sadder.

“Even now you mark my steps, lovely bitter water

All the days of our delights are poison in my veins

And I know I shouldn’t love you—”

Nanne’s fingertips rasped on the strings as their voice dropped. “I know,” they whispered more than sang.

Standing up quickly, Astarion held out the trousers. “Well, darling, shall we try these on for size?”

They smiled up at him, and the melancholy of the song passed quickly as they stepped into the trouser legs. Astarion watched keenly as they pulled up the fabric, buttoning the trousers — then grinned in triumph as they fit snugly around their waist, curving over their hips in a fine taper. “Walk around in them,” he ordered, and noted with approval that the trousers didn’t strain or seams stretch as they moved around, shuffling from side to side. “Well?” he prompted.

“I…” Their eyes were wide. “They fit.”

“Excellent.” He knelt down, smoothing down the fabric around their ankles. “We’ll need to take up the cuffs a few inches, but that will be easy.” He used the chalk to make a few more marks in the fabric. “This inner fabric is a forgiving weave, thankfully, so—”

He froze as something wet fell onto his hair.

“Astarion,” Nanne whispered, their voice ragged and hoarse with unshed tears, “thank you.”

Looking up, he watched in stunned silence as they wiped at their face. “It’s just trousers, darling,” he said, voice wavering. Because, even before Nanne’s response left their lips, he knew that wasn’t really true, not at all.

“Not to me,” they said softly, their warm smile completely at odds with the tears clinging to their snowy lashes. “Thank you, truly. I…” A warm laugh echoed in the room, and Astarion’s own lips curled up without thought at the sound. For a moment, it had felt like when he’d stood in sunlight for the first time, that feeling of exhilaration. “Oh gods, I could kiss you,” Nanne breathed, running their hands down their thighs.

It was a saying, Astarion knew. A joke, most of the time. And yet he found himself standing, sliding his knuckle under their chin and rubbing the edge of their jaw with his thumb. “Is that a request, darling?” he murmured.

A hitched breath misted between them, radiating delicious heat onto his mouth.

Then, slowly, Nanne leaned up and pressed their lips to his own.

It was a rather short, chaste kiss as kisses went. No tongue slipping into Nanne’s mouth, no groping hands. He did hold their waist to steady them, fingers curling in soft, warm fabric. But Astarion didn’t groan with false need or move his thigh between theirs. He just kissed them. Two pairs of lips pressing, brushing, and then pulling back.

So why did the tips of his ears burn?

Why was there a warmth building in his chest?

Why did he avert his eyes as Nanne opened theirs, his breath trapped in his lungs?

“I should… I’ll clean up those seams, darling,” he said, and the voice that left his mouth was hoarse, unsteady. “And hem those cuffs.”

“Right.”

There should be an awkwardness between them — Astarion felt awkward as they took their places back on the sofa, Nanne picking up their lute and resting it in their lap. But then they started playing, and the tightness around his chest eased as they started humming. The same song from earlier, he realized. As he began to sew in tight stitches, tearing out the basting as he went, he fell into a comfortable rhythm, only half listening as they sang.

“I am not a fool entire — no, I know what is coming

You’ll bury me beneath the tree I climbed when I was a child

And I know I shouldn’t love you,

I know I shouldn’t love you But I do.”

Astarion told himself that ogling Nanne as they bent over to help lift a crate was just to check the strength of his seams, and not because Nanne’s ass was a work of art in and of itself.

The seams did hold, and they grunted as they leaned back with the weight of the box. “Rolan, where should I put these?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here,” the wizard apprentice grumbled from the bar. He’d been in his cups all day; Astarion half wondered when he’d drink the entire place dry, even with the tiefling brats rationing out the beer and ale.

Nanne huffed, setting the box on the counter, then wiped their brow. “I think that’s enough work for today,” they said, somehow smiling despite the fact that they had spent the entire day cleaning up the inn. Astarion, of course, had appointed himself to a more supervisory role — and Wyll had given up on roping him into fixing up the inn after he’d simply snuck out for the fifth time in an hour. But any thoughts of dodging work left him when flickering emerald eyes settled on him, and Nanne’s smile widened. “Oh, Astarion, you’re here. Good.”

“Come to persuade me into stacking crates with you, dear?” he teased, folding his arms as he leaned back against the back wall.

“Actually, I have something for you.” Nanne’s forearms flexed, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, as they reached behind the bar. “But you have to turn around first.”

Astarion’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh?”

“It’s a surprise,” they explained, flashing him a smile that had him stock still for a moment. “It’ll just take a second.”

Bemused, Astarion did turn around — not that it mattered much, since he easily heard what they were doing. Glass clinked against wood, then metal, then the sound of a cork being popped. His lips curled up into a smile as he smelled sour and sweet notes mingling in the air, slightly stronger than Nanne’s scent. Liquid sloshed as it was poured.

“All right, you can turn around now.”

He grinned, turning on one foot. “A drink, my dear? My, you certainly are—”

Then he froze, all the warmth in his body turning to ice water in his veins.

Nanne stood right in front of him, strong, warm, tough hands carefully cradling the silver cup. Two eyes, twin emerald flames on black velvet, beneath snowy eyelashes and brows, red dusky skin, red flecked hair. A sharp cut jaw, thin and delicate nose, soft and full lips.

The perfect victim: young, pretty, and poor enough looking that the Flaming Fist wouldn’t get involved.

I know who you are.

“Here,” Nanne said, voice soft and sweet as the day he'd first met them. A decade had brought out the rasp in their voice, deepening the tones. “For you.”

I know who you are now.

He wasn’t standing in the wrecked hall of Last Light Inn. He sat in Fraygo’s Flophouse, some man’s lips on his neck, watching as the bard he’d so thoughtlessly seduced looked at him in pure heartbreak after fetching him his wine.

That same bard looked at him now with a smile, offering him such a similar cup. “I know, it’s not a Callidyrran, but it’s still a red. I remembered what you liked from the party. I hope it doesn’t taste like vinegar.”

Red wine. The same drink Astarion asked for that night. A promise, given so easily and freely from Nanne’s lips. “I’ll remember.”

A promise kept, ten years later.

Nanne’s smile faltered by a few teeth. “I, uh, just wanted to thank you. For the trousers. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before. They fit perfectly. It’s, uh…” Nanne laughed, and it sounded too throaty, too much like crying. “It’s really nice, having trousers that fit.”

They were starving that night. He remembered the hollowness in their cheeks. The way their clothes hung from their skinny frame. The way their hair had reached their shoulders, overgrown and unkempt, because if they couldn’t afford food, how could they afford a haircut? How could they afford clothes that fit?

That was why he hadn’t taken them back to Cazador, wasn’t it? The pity, the shame of luring someone so clearly starving to be a meal themselves.

“Astarion?” Nanne asked softly. “You all right? You look, uh, paler than normal?”

He almost laughed at the joke, but it stuck in his throat. “You remembered,” he said softly, voice far too light and floaty to be his own. “You sweet… sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Yes. They were a treat no longer — they never had been. With shame, he remembered his thoughtless flirts at the party after slaying all those goblins, purring about them joining him in bed: here’s my little treat with their cheeks all flushed.

Nanne’s cheeks flushed now at the term of endearment. “Well, figured it was the least I could do,” they said. “I know it’s not as good as blood, but—”

“Never mind that, darling,” he said quickly. Not only were they in public, but Nanne had lost a good deal of said blood in the surprise attack. “Thank you,” he added belatedly, reaching for the wine.

Yet, in a bizarre repetition of history, the cup slipped from Nanne’s fingers, falling to the floor with a deafening clatter. For a moment, as the sound rang in his ears, he was back on that man’s lap, hardon grinding into his ass as he sloppily kissed his throat.

“sh*t,” Nanne muttered. “I’m so sorry. Let me go get you another.”

“No, don’t worry about it.” He fetched the cup quickly, snatching it up from the floor. “I’ll get it. I…” Just before his throat closed up entirely, he managed a hoarse, strangled, “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Nanne smiled, eyes sparkling, and something awful clawed inside of his chest.

What have I done?

He moved towards the bar. Then, the second Nanne’s back was turned, sprinted out of the inn entirely, towards the very edge of the barrier next to the river.

I knew them. I knew them and nearly brought them back to him, and I didn’t even remember, and now they’re here, and I—

His body didn’t know what to do, seized with this uncontrollable fear. So, it defaulted to laughter, crazed and insane and terrified.

Nanne was the bard in Fraygo’s Flophouse.

Nanne was the “boy” he’d so thoughtlessly seduced, because he had no standards and the whips and the pliers and Cazador’s “lessons” frightened him far more than hurting a sweet, young thing like them. They were the person who had offered him wine despite being hungry, who had given him the only spare tent in camp, who talked to him like a friend while he’d leered at them and spat out every stupid f*cking innuendo in his script and…

If he had a heart, it would be racing, because now he saw their body stretched out on the guest bed in the palace, earthy red skin flushed with pleasure, Cazador’s fangs inches from their throat—

He’d wanted that once, hadn't he? That night, he had brought home someone else, but if they hadn’t arrived, Nanne would have done nicely. Nanne. The sweet bard who gave him their very blood when he asked, who sang songs for him and had defended him from the others and who sat with him to gossip. Who nearly died to stop a monster from shredding his insides. Who cried because he’d brought them a single pair of trousers and tailored them to fit.

Ten years ago, Astarion had been one pang of hunger away from bringing them into his bed and Cazador’s jaws. And now, completely free, without so much as a whisper from Cazador’s lips, he’d done it all over again. On reflex. On instinct.

“You are exactly what I have shaped you to be, even now.”

Fingers still clutching the cheap tin cup, he hurled it into the water with a roar and imagined the splash as Cazador’s brain matter erupting from his skull.

No. No.

That was not why Astarion had seduced Nanne. His plan. His nice simple plan. He just needed to stick to the plan. They weren’t a victim, not a target, not a night better to forget. They were…

He didn’t know what they were.

But did he need to know? No. No need to worry. No need to fear. Stick to the plan. Keep them satisfied, keep them aroused and flushed and wanting more, and he would be safe. They didn’t remember that night in Fraygo’s, and it was better that way. Better to not know that if not for some dull twinge of conscience, they’d be a limp corpse buried in some dump beneath the Szarr palace. He’d never tell them.

Never.

Chapter 14: From the Tree that is Rotting

Chapter Text

Astarion couldn’t bear to face Nanne that night. So he did what he had always dreamed of doing but never could under Cazador’s thumb: he fled.

He waited until the moon reached its apex in the sky, then crept back into their party’s makeshift camp. But of course, Nanne had no tent, because they’d given him the one they’d found all the way at the beginning — or well, the second beginning — of this mess. So he stopped in his tracks as if they’d leveled their crossbow at him when he saw them safely tucked in their bedroll, sleeping under the unveiled stars.

“They waited for you until they fell asleep.”

Astarion quite nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard Halsin’s rumbling voice echo in the silent camp. He had a knife in hand when he turned — then crumpled in shame as he saw Halsin simply sitting by his own tent, whittling a lump of wood.

Fantastic. So their relationship — good gods, was that what this was? — was now the talk of camp.

“I was merely hungry,” he lied. “I went to hunt.”

“And what, pray tell, did you feast upon? I do not think the rocks around us are a good source of blood.”

He bared his teeth — then froze as Halsin looked at him not in disapproval or anger, but amusem*nt.

Great. The bloody druid himself was laughing at him.

“I needed a moment to myself,” he snapped. “Is that a crime?”

“No. But Nanne is worried about you,” Halsin said softly. The twinkle of amusem*nt was gone. “They offered you a gift, and you did not take it.”

“And how would you know that?” he asked sharply.

“Because they told me.”

Oh. So, the druid wasn’t just repeating idle gossip. That made him feel… slightly better. But also worse, because Nanne had told Halsin instead of him, because he’d been sulking by the riverbank. The fact that he couldn’t exactly tell them what he was sulking about without destroying every good thing between them was poor consolation.

“...I’ll make it up to them,” he said quietly.

“I am sure you will.” Halsin’s eyes did not leave his. “But your restitution should be in the same spirit as their gift.”

What in the hells does that mean?

Astarion did not trance well that night.

Judging by the bags under Nanne’s eyes when he saw them in the morning, they hadn’t slept well either. “Astarion?” they rasped, blinking blearily. “There you are. You… Last night—”

“It was a fine gift, darling,” he murmured lowly, careful to keep his voice down. “And I do feel so terrible about leaving you alone.” Switching to a low, sultry tone, he rubbed his thumb along their jaw, watching as they shivered. “So, why don’t you find me tonight, after everyone’s asleep, and I’ll make it up to you, hmm?” He threw in a teasing smirk for good measure, despite how tired his face felt. “Some post battle stress relief after your brave heroics?”

It should have worked. The invitation should have made Nanne smile, laugh and agree, as they usually did. But instead, to his horror, their face crumpled into something unmistakably pained.

They looked so, so tired.

Then, despite the apparent exhaustion, they smiled. A thin, rusty smile, but a smile. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

Panic welled in his chest. This wasn’t working. None of this was working. What had he done wrong? There was no way Nanne could know about that night ten years ago, so why were they upset? He was apologizing for spurning their gift, spurning them, “making restitution” as Halsin put it. What more could they possibly want?

What more could he give?

“It’s exactly what I want, darling,” he lied, batting his eyelashes, smiling. “I’ll be waiting.” And then, for good measure, he kissed their cheek.

When he pulled back, a far more genuine smile graced their lips, the pained exhaustion gone. “See you then,” they agreed, voice far lighter.

It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. They were upset that he’d offered them sex, then mollified with just a kiss to the cheek? What in the world was happening?

It’s fine. Everything will be fine. Tonight will fix it all. They never need to know.

He kept repeating those words to himself as he waited for the hours to pass, watching as the others helped repair the inn and gather supplies for the upcoming journey to Moonrise Towers.

Yes, everything would work out after tonight. Halsin was right; he had to make last night up to Nanne, had to convince them that he wouldn’t leave. That was why they were upset, wasn’t it? They were afraid he’d spurned them, rejected them, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. No, he was only keeping to the nice, simple plan he’d cooked up just a month and a half ago, and it had nothing to do with the thoughts of that horrible night at Fraygo’s Flophouse, of the bard standing there in sheer heartbreak. Nanne needed comfort of their own, desperately — he saw the fear in their eyes as they prepared for the journey, the way their hands shook after packing and repacking supplies. Going back into the Shadow Curse was draining, exhausting, and tonight would be the perfect reprieve before reality came crashing back in. He could distract them from those nagging worries, make them forget it all, if only for a night.

For them, he would play the part perfectly.

So he found a spare bedroll and filched an extra blanket to wrap Nanne in after sex, walked down to their spot by the riverbank, and waited.

The sound of running water helped calm his thoughts. Nothing out of the ordinary needed to happen tonight. Nanne would come around the bend, they’d have sex, Astarion would wrap them up in the blanket, and all would be well. Everything would be right again. They wouldn’t throw him out, because they’d never realize that he’d seduced them twice. It was ten years ago, anyway. Why would they bother to remember a night that was clearly better left forgotten?

All he needed to do was stick to the nice, simple plan.

Sure as clockwork, Nanne came shortly after midnight, their shoulders hunched from the cold. Their face lit up when they saw him, a small smile curling up their lips. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, it’s perfectly all right,” he said, lounging back on the bedroll. “The anticipation only adds to the pleasure, darling.” Their face faltered for a second, that exhausted pain seeping back in, and he barely kept himself from biting his lip. “Come here,” he murmured in a much softer voice, beckoning to them with both hands. “I’ve missed you.”

They took off their boots and socks first, laying them at the foot of the bedroll before crawling to meet him. The second they were within reach, he snatched them by the waist and pulled them into his lap, kissing them sweetly.

When Nanne pulled back to breathe, he inhaled — then shuddered as their familiar scent enveloped him. Orange peels and honey, exactly the same as it had been that night.

“Astarion?” Nanne asked, and he froze as two warm, hardy, strong hands cupped his cheeks. “Everything okay?”

The voice that left his mouth was not his own, but it wasn’t Cazador’s script either. It was alien, hoarse with an unsated hunger he didn’t recognize. “Perfect, darling.” His own hand reached up to brush their hair out of their eyes, knuckles brushing their cheek. “Now that you’re here, everything is perfect.”

Their heartbeat spiked, and he took that as his cue to pull them in for a far more passionate kiss.

It was easy, effortless, two hundred years of instinct kicking in — but he devoured their mouth with a hunger that was only half-feigned. Something delirious gnawed at him, something overwhelming and primal, raw and aching in a way that had nothing to do with arousal. He felt off-kilter, unsteady as he licked into Nanne’s mouth and sucked on their bottom lip, careful to not let his fangs knick the tender flesh.

Whatever pain or hesitance had been in Nanne before was completely gone. They kissed him back just as hungrily, soft little moans and whimpers filling the air. It was musical, the perfect accompaniment to his own panting as he grabbed their hips and rolled his hardening co*ck against them. A sharp gasp echoed in his ears as he nipped his way down their neck, fingers slipping up their shirt to feel warm, whole flesh.

Mine. All mine.

An intoxicating, frightening need overwhelmed him as he looked up into Nanne’s dazed, bleary eyes. Hastily, he tilted them back, barely giving them enough time to catch themselves on their hands before he tore off his clothing as if he were Compelled. But it wasn’t his own nudity he was chasing after — it was theirs. Just as soon as he was completely naked, half hard co*ck bobbing between his legs, he undid their trouser buttons in less than two seconds.

“Astarion?” they asked, looking almost frightened.

“Let me,” he panted, hands somehow shaking and steady all at once as he tugged their trousers down, leg by leg. “I need to… Need to…”

What did he need?

It wasn’t enough to have their c*nt and co*ck exposed to him. He could service them with just their trouser buttons undone, but it wasn’t enough. The something in his chest was clawing at him, gnawing at his unbeating heart, unsatisfied until their shirt was beneath their head and they were just as naked as he was.

For a long, long moment, he hovered over Nanne, hands planted on either side of their head, and looked.

He’d seen them naked dozens of times now, during sex and bathing together. But he’d never taken them in, not really. Not the alluring slant of their collarbone, not the ripple of their chest scars, not the scar that sliced through the corner of their mouth, not the beautiful flush to their skin from clear arousal. He’d looked but never seen them, not as they truly were.

What would Nanne have looked like on that night ten years ago, if he had made all the wrong choices? Not like this, for certain. Not glowing with their flush in the moonlight. Not with a softness to their belly nor their cheeks. Their skin would have felt brittle beneath his palms, their ribs slotting between his fingers. When his hands moved by reflex, running up and down their sides, gently passing over their chest, Astarion realized that he’d forgotten just how soft skin could feel.

“Astarion,” Nanne murmured, voice soft and sweet. Fond.

They were unharmed. Alive. Whole. It should have been a comfort. It was a comfort. They were lying naked on a bedroll in the middle of some godsforsaken cursed wilderness, and that was far safer than Cazador's trap of silk sheets scented with rose perfume. Nanne's eyes were half lidded now, their breathing slow and steady. Comfortable, at ease, relaxed.

You would have followed me without a doubt in your mind, wouldn't you?

The nausea Astarion pushed down reflexively was an entirely different flavor than the usual disgust coiled tight in his belly. His hands passed over them feverishly, breath unsteady even though all he was doing was running his palms across their body. It wasn't even foreplay, not in the sense of fondling breasts or pumping co*cks. And yet…

When he pressed kisses to their chest scars, hearing Nanne’s breath stutter, he felt an ache he couldn’t begin to describe.

The tang of their arousal mixed with their scent, a rosy flush spreading up their chest as his hands moved lower and lower. Not towards their groin, but feeling their thighs. A soft, “Oh,” passed their lips as he ran his hands up and down the soft plushness he found there. It wasn’t a chaste motion, but he couldn’t classify it as erotic either — yet when he looked between their legs, they were shiny with slick, co*ck hard and wet at the tip.

You would have been satisfied with anything, wouldn’t you?

Swallowing hard, eyes stinging, he avoided touching between their legs for now. Instead, his hands slipped to behind their thighs, pushing their legs up and into the air. A soft moan rumbled from Nanne’s throat, but his eyes were fixed on the ropy scar on the back of their thigh. Gnarled and whorled skin, still a shiny, angry red from how fresh it was. Had his own scars been the same after they’d healed?

Pressing his lips to the scar tissue, he swallowed past the lump in his throat as he laid their legs back down to crawl between them. Already hard without being touched, yet wanting nothing more than to disappear, because—

Even back then, you would have died for me, wouldn’t you?

He fell into their arms, kissing them feverishly, letting the tongue and teeth and wetness of it all sever his mind from his body. He could do this, couldn’t he? It wasn’t so hard. It didn’t have to be so terrible. Two centuries of using his body with thousands of lays — what was one more?

Blinking his tears away, he felt the familiar sultry smile curl up his lips as he pressed inside them, Fading away.

Or, he would have, if not for Nanne’s hands grabbing his own, wide green eyes staring at him.

“What?” he asked, cold dread washing through his body.

“Just…” Their voice cracked, thick and hoarse. “Don’t let go. Please.”

That ache returned, so strong it felt as if his entire body were bruised.

“Of course, my sweet,” he whispered. “I’ll never let go.”

They relaxed, lying back down in the bedroll, eyes squeezed shut as if to prepare for pain, and something inside of him died at the sight. “Darling, what is it?” he asked, barely able to keep his voice from shaking. “Do you not feel well? Does it hurt?” They’d never complained about pain before, or asked him to stop, and their c*nt wasn’t tight around him.

Their face relaxed, a soft sigh misting in the air. “I’m fine. You can move.”

His body moved, rocking forward in a slow and steady rhythm. Easy, familiar, instinctive. Slow to start, deep breaths. That was it. And though his mind was half detached, the sensations numb and dull, he could hear Nanne’s breathing matching his own, higher pitched but steady in cadence. “That’s it, my sweet,” he purred. “That’s it, just like that. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Nanne nodded, but their eyes didn’t open. It should have been a blessing; one less person ogling him. Instead, that ache had crept up into his throat, the strongest physical sensation he could feel.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathed in their ear, his fingers laced with theirs as he thrusted into them. “You’re taking me so sweetly, darling, you’re so good.” The words spilled from his lips easily, rote and routine. Other words filled his mind as their eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, their hips canting up against his. You’re so very brave, in this darkness. You’re so kind. I saw you cry when you found the other tiefling refugees. You should have known that they wouldn’t make it, but I am sorry you had to find out that way.

His stomach rubbed against their co*ck, hard and throbbing. More words spilled from his lips unbidden. “You’re so pretty, my little darling. I love seeing you like this, all flushed and beautiful, just for me…”

I wish I could disembowel that doctor. Nothing is wrong with you. You are not deformed. You are not broken. You smell so sweet.

He kissed their neck. Breathed in their scent.

Then choked as instead of comforting him, the sweet fragrance of orange peels steeped in honey cloyed in his nostrils like rotten fruit.

Because he was back in the flophouse, bounced on a stranger’s co*ck, babbling about how he loved it, he loved him, oh yes yes yes more more more, I hate myself right there I want it this is disgusting I want you to f*ck me please gods make it stop use me I don’t want to be a whor* I WANT IT I WANT MORE SAVE ME I LOVE THIS I LOVE DOING THIS FOR YOU IHATEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU

all while he looked into teary emerald eyes, cup held in trembling hands, blood spilling from its rim and their neck onto the soiled, filthy sheets in the guest room, and soon Cazador would—

“Astarion!”

He froze, looking down into those same eyes.

“You can stop,” they whispered.

The words knocked the wind right out of his chest. “Oh my sweet,” he purred breathlessly. “Why would I ever want to stop?”

Such an easy lie to spout. He was already going soft. He’d never been close to finishing. A thousand ants crawled under his skin, his co*ck too wet and sticky, his flesh coated in sweat.

Where was he?

Who was he with?

Orange peel and honey.Hard gravel barely padded by the fur of a bedroll.

Nanne.

Their hands slipped out of his, pushing against his chest firmly, and he scrambled back in shock. Yet they didn’t scream at him, didn’t curse him or complain that he hadn’t been sweet enough for them. No, their shoulders shook as they rolled onto their side away from him, and his heart dropped into his stomach at the sight. “Darling,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “What? Was it not good?”

That couldn’t be possible. Even when he fully Faded, Astarion was a consummate lover. He’d convinced priests to abandon their vows while thinking about rotting rats. He'd seduced innocents with nothing but a bat of his eyelashes and a crook of his finger. He'd pleasured even the most worldly of visitors at Cazador’s balls so well that they requested him next year, begged for his touch, when all he’d dreamed of was crushing their necks with his fangs. This was what he was made for, the one talent he had. How could he fail Nanne now? How could he...?

Unless he had hurt them. But when he looked at his co*ck in dizzying panic, he saw no blood, because of course he hadn’t hurt them. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Yet Nanne trembled as they pulled the extra blanket he’d brought to their chest, hiding inside of it. For a horribly long stretch of silence, he watched as they fought to control their breathing.

Then, softly, voice cracking, “Who do you imagine when you f*ck me?”

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Is it Shadowheart?” they asked, shoulders shaking. “O-Or Karlach?”

“Darling, what are you talking about?” he asked, reaching towards them.

“It’s Wyll,” they decided, voice growing steady. With that steadiness came a heavy weariness: that same pained exhaustion that had haunted them all day into this wretched night. “You… You said back in the blighted village that you thought he was dreamy.”

“Yes, Wyll is dreamy,” he said brusquely. “He’s exactly like the charming, fairy tale prince I dreamed about coming to my house and pulling me onto his white horse to ride off into the sunset with. When I was twelve.” Despite the clamminess of his palms and the sweat coursing down his neck, he rested a hand on Nanne’s shoulder; the ache within him outweighed the discomfort, barely. “What in the hells makes you think that I’m imagining him during sex with you?”

“Because you go away,” Nanne said simply.

“What do you mean, I go away?” But he knew exactly what Nanne was talking about, and he had to fight the panic welling in his chest.

“I see it in your eyes. After you’re inside me for a bit, you’re not here anymore.”

It was true, and it was damning, and it filled him with rage, incandescent and terrible. No one knew when he Faded. Not even Cazador.

“It’s not my fault you’re mistaking me being lost in the throes of passion for imagining someone else,” he snapped. He tore back his hand, fingers curling into a fist. “Honestly, darling, you are beautiful. And this? This is the best sex I’ve ever had.”

It was a miserable, cold fact. But it was true.

“Y-You don’t have to lie,” Nanne whispered, and his dead, rotten heart crumbled to dust as he smelled their tears. “I've never… You're my first.”

And what a godsdamned tragedy that was. That Nanne, so frustratingly kind, had fallen for a cheap whor* first instead of someone good and sweet and deserving. And not just any whor*: a whor* that saw sleeping with them as an item to check off a list. A chore. As if f*cking Nanne was akin to folding laundry.

Astarion had felt guilt before. So, so much during the first few decades of his slavery. It had drowned him, all but consumed him, until he'd grown hardened to the horrors. He had learned to package it into a little box and then shove that box somewhere far away. Why should he feel guilty, when it wasn't really his fault? Cazador was the one who got sick pleasure from whoring out his children every night. Cazador forced him to pantomime being a lover, to read from his awful script.

But Cazador hadn't Compelled him to seduce Nanne. That was entirely his own plan, and now here he was, reaping the benefits: their fearless leader, the first person who had ever truly been kind to him with nothing asked for in return, weeping into a blanket. Exhausted. Cold. Alone.

For the first time in decades, Astarion felt like pure sh*t.

Taking a deep breath, he laid down behind Nanne, then kissed the nape of their neck. To his shock, he felt no revulsion. No disgust.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn't have snapped. But I… I hate seeing you so sad.” Swallowing hard, he ran his hand up and down their arm, letting their warmth seep into his palm. “I don't want to sleep with anyone else.”

The truth — I don't want to sleep with anyone at all — went conveniently unspoken.

Nanne trembled, sniffling. “I-I’m sorry, I didn't mean to ruin it.”

They had said those words their first night in the forest clearing, and this time, they tore into Astarion’s heart. “You haven't ruined a thing, darling,” he promised softly. “Not at all.”

It's me who ruined this.

But the truth was far more bitter. This charade was rotten from the start. How could Nanne blame themself for getting sick of fruit from a poisoned tree?

“Now,” he said softly, guiding them to roll over onto their back. “Let's finish what we started, hm? I promise you, I'm not thinking about anyone else. I'll be gentle, so very gentle." His throat burned, hands shaking as he reached for the edges of the blanket. "I-I won't let go of you for a second, I swear. I'll help you feel better.” They’d forget all about this once his co*ck was inside them. After a few org*sms, they’d be mollified and things would be patched up between them. They would be happy. They would let him stay. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, darling? For me to make you feel good?"

Yet Nanne shook their head. “Can we just stay like this?” they asked meekly. “For a little while?”

The thought had never occurred to him before.

Dumbfounded and ashamed, Astarion could only nod. “Whatever you'd like, darling,” he whispered. And, as he looked into Nanne's eyes, he realized he sincerely meant those words.

For a long, long moment, neither of them said anything. Nanne wiped their eyes with the corner of the blanket, then started tapping their strange rhythm with their fingers on the bedroll. They swallowed a few times, lips opening as if preparing to speak, then pressed them together again.

After a few minutes, Astarion couldn’t take the silence. “What is it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice soft.

Their fingers fell still. “Sorry. I just wanted to say… this is more than I ever dreamed of. And…” They took in a deep breath. “If… If you’re bored—”

“No, no, no,” he said firmly. And then, because the tease in him could never be fully restrained, he smiled as he poked the tip of their nose. “Darling, you really have no idea how lovely you are if you think I could get bored of all this—” He waved his hand, sculpting an approximation of their curves. “—anytime soon.”

They flushed again, and he thought back to that night in Fraygo’s again: how their blush had painted their cheeks crimson in the firelight. And then he couldn’t speak, his throat too tight and his eyes stinging.

I’ve done it again.

He’d flirted with them that night. Roped them in with seduction, words as sweet as the honey of their scent — then broken their heart. And here he was, ten years later, in the exact same position as before. He’d roped them in, played their heartstrings as cleverly as they played that lute of theirs, and now they were severed. Oh, it had been such a nice simple plan, in his mind. Use Nanne for protection. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. He wasn’t supposed to get attached. He wasn't supposed to be lying here, on the verge of tears, sick with guilt and yet clinging to them with white-knuckled fervor.

Because, despite the guilt, despite the disgust, despite the ache that was threatening to swallow him whole, he didn’t want to let Nanne go.

He should. It would be better if he did, he knew. He should break their heart again, so viciously and cruelly that they would never, ever bother with a terrible person like him. He should say that none of this meant anything, confess that he was using them for protection, because that was the nice, simple plan, wasn’t it? To use their love until they were nothing, because he’d been used so many times before, and turnabout was fair play.

But that, Astarion realized as the ache overwhelmed him, would be a lie. Because Nanne was not a victim who used him for one last night of pleasure before dying terribly. Nor were they a night he’d rather forget in the guest chamber or in Cazador's boudoir. They were… something else.

They made him want something else.

In that moment, just as he had ten years ago, he realized the truth. But this time, it wasn't panic that gnawed at his insides. No, it was shame.

I can't do this anymore.

Nanne lay just a handspan away from him, their warmth soft against his bare skin. They didn’t move to get out of the blanket, didn’t tell him to kiss them. They just lay there, their eyes a soft glow in the dark. And, thinking back with shock, he realized that never, not once had they asked him for sex. He had been the one to push, every time. Instead of using his body, they let him exist. Laughed with him. Played songs and comforted him with words, and when words ran dry, sat with him in the dark. With them, the rules of his existence shattered and warped into something different.

Something good.

He… He wasn’t just a thing to be used anymore. Was he?

He could still see the tear tracks on their cheeks. Had they cried that night in Fraygo's Flophouse? Gods, of course they had, because even though he'd done the right thing, it didn't make it any less cruel. And while he relished being cruel at times, lashing out at the world and the people in it who didn't give a damn about him, Nanne wasn't like that. They were good.Kind.

They both… They both deserved better, didn’t they?

He knew, in that moment, that the truth would break them. Nanne was not nearly as naive as he’d first imagined them, but it was clear that they thought of him highly for some bizarre reason, in spite of everything he’d done. They cared. They trusted him. He had wounded them enough tonight; he couldn’t bear to make them cry again, not after seeing it twice now. But letting this miserable farce go on for any longer would be like dosing them with small amounts of poison, watching them wither away, and he couldn’t do that to them either.

No. He would tell them the truth. He had to. Because, gods curse him or save him, they deserved it.

“Astarion?”

His name jarred him from his plans. “Yes, my sweet?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow. “What is it?”

“You look sad,” they said softly. “What is it?”

sh*t. They saw him so easily. He should hate that.

Instead, he sat up. “Just some idle thoughts, darling, nothing more.” He looked up at the position of the moon, then sighed. “We should go back. You need your beauty sleep, and the others are probably wondering what dark dungeon I’ve sequestered you in.”

Nanne giggled, a sleepy little sound that made his throat tighten further. “Right. Let’s go.”

They dressed in silence, though it wasn’t awkward; he’d grown used to Nanne’s lack of speech after a good f*ck. The mood was more solemn tonight — solemn, but not unpleasant, in spite of everything that had happened. Instead, he felt… calm. Steady. After folding up the blankets, he tucked them under his arm, then froze as Nanne held out their hand. “Ah, it is cold,” he agreed, handing over a blanket. He didn’t have any more in his tent besides his shroud; he’d have to pilfer one from Shadowheart.

“No, I… I want to hold your hand, while we walk.” Their gaze fell to their boots. “If that’s all right.”

“Darling, I am scandalized,” he gasped. “Whatever will the others think?”

They shrugged, cheeks still dusted with that adorable flush. “I mean, you said it yourself; they’ve probably got all the ways I scream your name memorized.”

He barked out a laugh. But his hand took a second longer than necessary to find theirs, awkwardly wrapping his fingers around their palm.

Their hand — strong, warm, tough — was small. Perfect to cup between his own. Sighing, he pushed the thought from his mind, then began walking down the rocky path towards camp. They followed at a slightly slower pace, seemingly content to let him take the lead. It was… strange, returning this way. He was used to sending them back alone, then creeping back into his own tent afterwards, as if they were tangled in some sort of sordid affair.

The idea that Nanne wanted to flaunt their relationship like this had never occurred to him.

All too soon, they were back in camp, everyone asleep in their tents — except Halsin, predictably. He kept watch, same as always, and Astarion’s own cheeks felt a flush of warmth as he looked at the two of them, then smiled.

Astarion rolled his eyes back, then looked at Nanne with what feeble scraps of a smile he could muster. “Rest well, darling.”

“Wait.” Nanne’s grip tightened around his fingers. “Could… Could I kiss you goodnight?”

Astarion was not unused to requests from his marks, and as Cazador’s charming, eager whor*, was always prepared to fulfill them. He could twist himself into the Bugbear Bend perfectly. Sink down onto his knees to choke on co*cks without a word spoken. People had described the most bizarre and depraved fetishes to him without him batting an eyelash. There was hardly a lecherous act he wouldn’t perform, all for the sake of a meal and avoiding the Kennel.

Nanne asking to kiss him left him a speechless, flushed wreck.

“I… But of course,” he said sweetly, plastering over the numb surprise with a purr. “How could I say no?”

Nanne seemed to chew on his words for a second, shifting from foot to foot.

Then they leaned up and he closed his eyes, puckering his lips—

Something soft and slightly wet and warm caressed his cheek, and all too soon, it was over.

“Good night, Asta,” Nanne whispered.

And then they were gone before he could say anything, off to their own tentless corner of camp. Leaving him standing there in silence, comprehending what in the hells had just happened.

But then he remembered Halsin sitting there, and while the druid was making a very good show of whittling and ignoring what had just happened, that didn’t stifle any of his embarrassment. So Astarion fled into the privacy of his own tent. Took a deep breath. Buried his face in the blanket folded in his arms.

And screamed.

Oh, his nice simple plan had fallen apart in such a horrible, wonderful way.

Chapter 15: Hello, My Old Heart

Chapter Text

The next day, Astarion kept his distance, and Nanne knew that everything they’d done last night had been a mistake.

When they asked him how he’d tranced, he didn’t flash a smile, didn’t crack a joke about “dreaming of you” or “recovering from those thorough exertions.” Instead, he’d calmly but quietly said, “Fine, thank you,” and then moved on. It was polite, it was calm, and it was the complete opposite of how Astarion normally was. Which could only mean one thing, really: they’d f*cked it all up.

Their party headed to Moonrise Towers today. It would be a two-day journey, taking into account the risks of traveling through the curse. Considering just how dangerous Moonrise would be, especially with all of the Absolute’s forces inside, last night would be the final night Astarion would risk sex for a while.

Which meant that there wouldn’t be a time for Nanne to explain their blubbering and whining until much later.

They couldn’t exactly bring it up while traveling. “Sorry for breaking down while you f*cked me, Astarion, I’m scared that you’re going to leave me again for someone better even though we’re not even together. Oh, and sorry for asking if you’re imagining Wyll while you f*ck me instead.” So they walked in silence, ate in silence, and picked out a spot to camp just outside of Reithwin in silence. No jokes. No stories. No gossip, not that there was anything cheerful to gossip about. When Karlach asked for a song, they did their best to pick something lighthearted and upbeat, something that would go over well in a tavern, but their voice faltered the second the last verse was over. There was something joy-sucking about this place. Like a layer of frost had settled over their skin, and the sun would never rise to melt it.

When they settled down for the night, Astarion set up his tent beneath a gnarled oak tree and went inside before Nanne could ask him if he wanted to feed from them tonight.

Now they were useless in that way too.

They tried to keep up their fake cheer as the night stretched on. Shadowheart asked where Astarion was; they lied about him feeling under the weather because of the curse, and she took that answer well enough. Halsin volunteered to take first watch again; Nanne turned him down. Halsin looked even more stressed than they felt, despite freeing Thaniel and Oliver. They could stay awake for a few hours, and so they took the watch.

They sat on their bedroll and looked around as everyone else retreated into their tents. The night air was chilly but stale, that feeling of opening an old icebox and standing in the cold. Standing around was the worst way to deal with it, so they moved in circles around the camp, always on their feet. Every fifteen minutes, they’d check the torches lit around the perimeter, watched the shadows. Every fifteen minutes, they hesitated at the torch besides Astarion’s tent, fingers shaking just a little as they made sure it burned brightest. On the last round, they daubed all the torches with pitch, then sat on their bedroll and looked at the tents. Everyone was asleep, leaving them alone. Even Astarion’s tent didn’t have a light on.

Rubbing back sleep from their eyes, Nanne stared at it furtively.

You knew it wouldn’t last. You knew that, and you walked in eyes wide open. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.

They’d known that this… thing wouldn’t ever be real from the moment Astarion had approached them at the start of this journey. He’d flirted with them, smiled as they’d stumbled and tried to play along with his lines. Even before they realized he was the handsome pale elf from ten years ago, Nanne had known that Astarion wasn't the type to get attached. That was the entire reason why they'd let him take them into the woods. You couldn’t get brokenhearted over a one night stand. It was… safe. Easier, in case Astarion rejected them for their body. If it was anyone else, their expectations would destroy them, just like Maria had. But Astarion, who just wanted to f*ck around? They could laugh it off and he’d move on to someone better, and there wouldn’t be any feelings hurt.

But Astarion hadn’t rejected them. No, he’d come back for more. That was when everything had started to change. They knew the flirting was just for fun, they knew he was just using them for an easy lay, but those had been the terms from the start. They had an understanding. And, well, if Astarion didn’t remember that night ten years ago, they would try to forget it too. A fresh start for the both of them – except Nanne wasn’t some stupid bard who still dreamed of love overcoming all with moonstruck eyes. Well, at least, they tried not to be.

So, it all became a game. The rules were easy: when Astarion came calling for sex, pretend that they were desirable, that they were beautiful, and he wanted them. Simple.

It turned out that Astarion liked having sex. And, well, now that they’d found someone that pretended to not care about the downstairs problem, Nanne liked sex too. So, when Astarion sauntered over and flirted with them, they played the game again. They were a desirable, f*ckable person. They were normal. They could be naked and have sex. So they had sex, and they ignored it when Astarion’s eyes went hazy and he imagined f*cking someone prettier, better, not defective.

They knew it wasn’t from passion, like he’d claimed last night. Passion seized you in the moment, made your face scrunch up and your body tense and coil, like a string pulled taut. Passion didn’t make your eyes glaze over from boredom. It didn’t make your body glide smoothly, too perfectly, going through the motions. Astarion didn’t feel passion for them. They understood. They wouldn’t feel aroused at the sight of themselves either. Why should he have to settle, when he’d had so many lovers before?

But he still made them feel warm inside. Their heart still jumped when his hands fell on their shoulders, or when he drew close to whisper a snarky comment in their ear. His voice still made them lean in, desperate to hang onto every word. They still melted when he smiled, deepening his laugh lines.

Outside of the game, their relationship felt like an entirely different beast. An… odd beast. They were friends. Had been, anyhow. Now, they weren’t sure they could even have that. But Astarion hadn’t talked about Cazador or his scars with anyone else, and so they hadn’t talked to Gale or Wyll either. Nanne was who Astarion had chosen to trust, and they didn’t take that lightly. And…

They smoothed their hands down their new trousers. Perfectly tailored. Their fingers traced the flowers embroidered around their collar, and they had to take a deep breath because no, they wouldn’t cry about everything falling apart. Not tonight, anyway.

To Astarion, the trousers were just trousers. But to them, they were worth their weight in gold. No more tying rope as a makeshift belt and having the cloth bunch against the small of their back. No more hems rolled up or stuffed into their socks. No more seams pressing in uncomfortable places or too loose in others. It was a kindness that was so Astarion that they’d cried.

That night, sitting on the couch and playing while Astarion had done his neat little stitches, they had dared to hope. Maybe this thing wasn't a game after all. Maybe Astarion hadn't been flirting as a joke, and when he said this was special for him, he meant it. Maybe he… Love felt too strong of a word. But maybe he cared for them beyond friendship.

Then he never came back for his cup of wine. Then, last night, his eyes had gone hazy and distant after a few rolls of his hips even after they’d selfishly tried to hold him to reality. They had ruined everything after that, and that hope was dead and buried now.

The truth was simple: Nanne wanted too much from him.

And what right did they have to ask for more, when Astarion truly asked for so little? He only fed upon them when they asked him to; with no prey to hunt in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Nanne asked him every night. He filched spoils from dead bodies with clear glee, but he passed along all the potions to Shadowheart and all the gold to them. When Nanne offered to read their scars, piecing together the strange Infernal that Da had taught them as a child, he'd pushed back — then called Nanne sweet when they’d been able to translate the scars in part.

It was… confusing, having Astarion open up to them so slowly, while they'd been playing the game this whole time. But Nanne couldn’t blame him for it. Cazador had clearly left scars on his mind as well as his body. The bastard had f*cking tortured him. If Astarion found comfort from sex, then Nanne would play along. If they could give him just one moment where he could feel good, they’d lie on their back for hours.

Not to mention, the sex was… good. Incredible, honestly. They’d been curious in the past, of course. Touched themselves. But having a partner somehow made it all so very, very different. Having another set of hands on their skin, a different voice in their ear, fingers carding through their hair. They’d first felt that spark, that want when Astarion cut their hair, tilting their head back against his chest. A simple touch, but one they’d craved.

That was the strange part. The sex was fantastic. Astarion was as talented as an opera singer, fingers even more nimble than their own on rapid arpeggios. With just a flick of the wrist and a few kisses, he could make them feel pleasures they’d never even knew existed. But every time he pulled back after finishing, all they wanted was more touch. To hold, to be held. Half of the time, the sex wasn’t even the best part – it was the feeling of his hands on their skin, his voice in their ear, the closeness that came from being in his arms.

Last night was the first time they’d gotten more than just a taste of that feeling. Astarion’s hands roaming over their body, feeling them without a hint of disgust on his face. Holding hands as they walked down the path. Feeling Astarion’s palm against their own. But that had been too much for him, and now it was all crumbling apart and–

You are not going to cry. You are going to get in your bedroll and go to sleep and wake up tomorrow with a smile. The future is bright. The future is always bright.

They’d survived being rejected before. They could do it again.

Nanne took off their jacket, folding up beneath their pillow. They’d talk to him tomorrow and tell him that the kiss and the handholding didn’t have to mean anything at all. They’d asked for enough, and Astarion asked for so little. So very little. They would not become a burden to him. And really, would it be so bad? Even if what they had would never become the relationship Nanne hoped for, it… it would be nice, while it lasted.

They tried to believe that as they pulled open their bedroll. Watch was over. Time to sleep. Karlach would be up in a few minutes; she rarely slept through the night. A habit from Avernus, they guessed.

“Nanne?”

They nearly jumped out of their skin, whirling around. Then their heart dropped into their stomach as they saw Astarion standing above them, hands wrung in his lap. “Do you have a moment?” he asked, and Nanne’s brow furrowed at his voice. Not the velvety seductive purr, not the lighty floating tease. Not the pompous accent. It was… soft. Gentle. “I-I think we need to talk.”

Nanne had to take a breath, focusing on the words instead of Astarion’s voice — gods above, the man was tailor-made to ruin them. “All right,” they said tiredly, climbing up from their bedroll.

Then they paused as they saw Astarion’s hands shake against his thighs.

“Are you all right?” they asked immediately. Something’s wrong here. They’d seen Astarion angry before, annoyed, even exasperated. But this… He wasn’t angry, but upset. Shaken? “Are you hurt?” They’d daubed the torches, hadn’t they? A shade couldn’t sneak past into the light.

“Oh, darling, I’m fine,” he said quickly. Then, a shaking breath passing his lips, “I just… feel awful.”

Nanne swallowed thickly; vampires couldn’t get sick, could they? “Is this about last night?”

Something flashed in Astarion’s eyes, and in that moment, they knew. Their time was up.

The game was over.

“I…” Their own hands shook, and they couldn’t keep their voice steady. “I-I’m sorry. I know I asked for too much.” You need to tell him you didn’t mean any of it. You need to tell him—

Astarion laughed, and they clamped their lips shut at the sound. But it wasn’t that teasing giggle, or the mocking bite after a sassy quip. It was… soft. Almost a stuttered exhale instead of a laugh. “No, darling, you didn’t. You’ve never done a thing wrong.” His eyes fell to the ground, and in that moment, Nanne had never seen anyone so beautifully, terribly sad. “It was sweet, what you asked for. Very sweet. And that’s why I need to talk with you.”

A lump rose in their throat. “All right.”

Astarion took a deep breath. “Look, I… had a plan.” He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. “A nice, simple plan! Seduce you, sleep with you—”

“Playing the game,” Nanne said.

Astarion faltered. “What?”

They nodded, biting their lip hard. Damn it, they would not cry now. “That’s what this has been, right? A game. I understand.” They smiled brightly, despite how their eyes stung. “I get it, Astarion.”

But when they looked into his eyes, they realized they didn’t get it at all.

Astarion, ever unflappable, always ready with a quick retort or a tease, looked like Nanne had just slapped him across the face.

“No,” they breathed. “No, no, no, I’m sorry! That — I made it sound mean, but I understand! You… You want sex! So we’d play the game where we’d flirt and then we’d go out to the woods, and…” They tried to smile again, but their cheeks ached too fiercely, and it slid off their mouth a moment later. “Y-You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

But had he? They’d f*cked up last night, demanding more affection. Not just sex, but cuddling and hand holding and kisses. Stupid greedy Nanne, always wanting more. Being a bother, a burden. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

“Yes,” Astarion admitted, but he didn’t look happy. No, he looked pained, as if Nanne had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart with their bare hands. “Yes, I… I got exactly what I wanted. I slept with you, manipulated your feelings so that you’d never turn on me, and in turn, I received your protection.”

It was Nanne’s turn to feel slapped now.

So that was it, then. He wasn't sating desires, he wasn’t horny, he… He slept with them so they'd like him? No, so they'd protect him. Protection. Like bedding them was paying rent. He… He didn’t even like the sex, probably, judging by the look on his face.

But of course he wouldn’t. Da was right. “The only way you’re getting a lover, kiddo, is if you get a job at Sharess’ Caress and get some coin for it. Not being mean — just a fact of life. You’re different down there. People don’t like different unless they're paying for it.”

“It was… easy,” Astarion said, lip curled, and Nanne folded their arms over their chest in humiliation. Yes, they’d been easy. “Instinctive.” He laughed bitterly. “Habits from over two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it.”

And they had. They’d fallen so hard, even though they’d known it was a game this time. How many times had they told themselves it would never last?

How many times had they secretly begged for it to never end?

Astarion’s breath left him in a pained shudder, despite the smile on his lips. “And all I had to do was not fall for you. Which is where my nice, simple plan… fell apart.”

Right. The game was over. They’d made too many mistakes and now—

No. No, that wasn’t what Astarion was saying. Because he was looking at them with a soft smile, his eyes crinkling and sparkling in the firelight. Not a leer. Not a smirk. Not anything they’d ever seen on his face before. A smile. Warm and soft and…

Kind.

How had they never noticed before that Astarion had the softest, roundest eyes?

“You… You’re incredible,” he breathed. Nanne’s heart spasmed in their chest; he said it as if it were true, and it made him happy. “You deserve something real.” His smile faded, but his eyes were still round, still full of so much life and color. “I want us to be something real.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Nanne hugged their chest tightly — was it to hide their scars, despite them being beneath their shirt, or was it to keep their heart from bursting out of their chest? They didn’t know anymore. The entire world had tipped upside down because somehow, their wildest dreams had come true.

Astarion cared. For them.

But one question burned in their mind, selfishly.

“Did you…” They swallowed hard, unable to look him in the eyes anymore. “You… You’d disappear when we did it. So, were you ever attracted to me, or was it…?” Was that a lie too?

Astarion’s breath left him in another huffed laugh. “Darling, believe it or not, I have standards.” He swallowed thickly, loud enough for Nanne to hear in the cool night air. “You’ve surpassed all of them.”

Their head jolted up, looking at those round eyes. But they found no mocking glint there, no hint of deceit. Just Astarion, smiling. “Of course I was attracted to you. Look at you, for goodness’ sake!” Their heart leapt as his smile widened, fingers elegantly dancing through the air as he gestured to them. “You’re a vision, Nanne. Even when you had that dreadful haircut,” and Nanne couldn’t help but laugh at how he said it, “you were still a vision.” His smile faded, yet when he spoke it was soft, kindly. “And you… You are so much more than that to me. You always have been, honestly. Even before, when…” Nanne flinched as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, looking pained.

But it was the sweetest answer they could have ever been given.

Their eyes stung, face hot as tears started to well. sh*t. Clumsy from exhaustion, they rubbed at their eyes with the heels of their palms. Hold it together, hold it together.

“Oh gods.” Astarion gulped so loudly they could hear it. “Nanne, I… I know that I have a tendency to… embellish the truth, so to speak, but I’m not lying. I meant what I said.” His voice was solemn, deep, eyes boring so fiercely into them that they couldn’t even stand to meet his gaze for a full second. “Every word.”

“I know,” they breathed, taking a few steadying breaths of air. “Sorry, I’m just…” They giggled tiredly. “This is a lot?”

“We should sit down,” Astarion said hastily. “I should have—”

“Astarion,” they murmured, wiping their nose. “I’m crying because I’m happy.”

For the first time, they saw his jaw actually drop, full lips forming a perfectly round “o.”

If Nanne sat down, they knew they’d never stand up again. So they took a step forward, away from the warmth of the fire and into the coolness of the night. Closer to Astarion, just a few small steps away. “When I thought this was a game,” they murmured, “I told myself to never expect more. I have, in the past. It never ended well.” They could still taste sour red wine on their tongue, still heard Maria’s shouts. Rubbing their arms, they smiled sheepishly. “But you know how the heart is. It never does what you want it to. So, I found myself hoping anyway.”

“Hoping for what?” Astarion asked softly.

“For this, honestly.” Nanne chuckled, smiling up at him. “For what happened last night. Not the part where I thought you imagined Wyll while you f*cked me, but… after. Just laying there with you under the stars.” They swallowed. “And the handholding. And the kiss.”

Could vampires blush? Nanne had no clue. They swore Astarion’s cheeks darkened, but it could have been the moon disappearing behind the clouds.

“You want us to be real?” They smiled. “I want that too. More than anything.”

Astarion’s eyes slid back over, meeting theirs, and in him they saw themself. Nervous. Scared. Unsure.

Lowering their arms, they tried to smile just a bit brighter.

He huffed out another laugh, but it couldn’t hide how relieved he looked. “Oh good. There’s just, er, one problem.” The nervousness crept back into his face, his smile strained. “I just don’t know what ‘real’ looks like, to be honest. I’ve been playing the rake for two hundred years. Saying the same lines over and over.” His voice faded, dropping down to almost a whisper. “Every word I said that night in the woods, all those stupid lines I recited at the party with the tieflings, it was from a script. All of it. Being close to someone — any kind of intimacy — was something I performed.” Nanne’s heart ached as he choked on the last word, and suddenly, despite being taller, Astarion looked so very small. “To lure people back. To him.”

Oh.

Oh sweet f*cking gods.

They were back in the Flophouse, watching the pale elf sit pretty in that merchant’s lap, biting back tears as he kissed him so easily. Watching as Astarion led the man outside despite the snow, his lips against their ear as he’d whispered, “Drink that wine for me, sweetheart.”

They had. Marcellan, the bartender, had seen the whole thing and pitied them and slipped them the bottle when Fraygo’s owner wasn’t looking. Then they’d sobbed the night away, drinking the entire bottle in a fit of self-loathing, and puked their guts up on the cobblestones come morning. Because of course the beautiful stranger was just f*cking with them. Of course someone as elegant and handsome as him wouldn’t dare wet his co*ck with someone so ugly, and even though they hated the pretty bastard, how could they blame him? When they had saggy, tiny breasts and flabby thighs and too-wide palms and they’d never been beautiful a f*cking day in their life, but he’d been born beautiful?

“To lure people back to him.”

That merchant never came back. And if they’d gone with Astarion that night, they wouldn’t have either.

“I’m sure he has no idea what I spared him from.”

Nanne thought back to the night before. Seeing the glaze in Astarion’s eyes, the way he smiled and praised them with every thrust, yet had never shown a hint of arousal himself. Nausea curled in their stomach as they realized why. It hadn’t been from boredom. He hadn’t been imagining anyone else.

It was never about me. Oh gods, it was never about me.

“You never wanted the sex,” they whispered, a hand to their chest. “You never…”

“Darling,” Astarion said quickly, “you’re overthinking things. I wasn’t miserable with you, not for the reason you’re thinking. It has nothing to do with your body, o-or what you look like, or anything about you at all.” He sucked another breath between his teeth. “Things between us are different. I know that in my mind, but being with someone still feels… tainted.” His face sank, pained. “It still brings up those feelings of disgust, and loathing.”

And how could he not feel disgusted? How many times had Astarion slept with someone when he clearly didn’t want to? How many times had he been forced to fawn over and seduce and f*ck strangers — not because he enjoyed sex, but for Cazador to have a meal? Gods above, he’d told them that his role was to bring beautiful people back to Cazador, and Nanne hadn’t put two and two together. That endless parade of lovers that they fretted over, worrying if they’d measure up, hadn’t been for pleasure or an escape from Cazador’s torture, it had been the torture. Picked over like a piece of meat, always ogled instead of seen.

That merchant had his hands all over Astarion that night. Squeezing and groping and kissing, tongue on his throat. And the entire time, he’d sat there and taken it — taken worse — with a smile.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me.”

To not be a person, but a doll for someone else’s amusem*nt. Never loved, never held, just used. A fetish, a fantasy, a way to rub one out and get off. It was all of Nanne’s worst nightmares combined, every reason why they’d never set foot in Sharess’s Caress and begged for a job no matter how hungry they got or how cold the nights grew. And Astarion had to live that. Every day. For two hundred years.

Nanne had never been the one who would lose their game. Astarion would. Every time.

“He made you,” Nanne choked out. “Cazador. You tried to tell me and I didn’t understand, and I… I’m so sorry, Astarion.”

“Shhh.” Their eyes widened as Astarion hushed them softly, fingers lifted as if to press to their lips. “No, Nanne. He didn’t make me do this to you. This mess I’ve made of things, this was all my own fault. My nice, simple plan.” His brow furrowed as he stared at the ground. “Even here, without him, I’m still following his damned rules. And you…” His voice choked. “You deserve better than having to play along with this script. I’ve hurt you with it so many times. But I… I don’t know how else to be with someone.” His eyes squeezed shut, hands balled into fists. “No matter how much I’d like to.”

Their eyes stung. And I’ve got no idea how to be with someone at all.

As bizarre as it felt to realize, they had something in common that way.

“I understand if you want nothing more to do with me.” Astarion took a deep breath, and though he looked in agony, he still spoke. “Say the word, and I’ll… I’ll leave you be. You can start over with someone else, someone better.”

Start over? With someone better?

The way Astarion held himself was painful. Hunched, balled up, like Nanne would lash out with a belt or scream at him or slap him. They knew that look. The shame, the self-doubt. The fear of disappointing someone.

That knowledge that no matter how charming and sweet and kind you were, no matter how much you worked yourself to the bone and ate yourself alive, it would never ever be good enough.

“Don’t talk like that,” they choked out, voice breaking and small. “Please.”

Because gods above, yes, this whole situation hurt. Everything about it was awful. Astarion had lied, and Nanne had known that he was lying, and they’d swallowed it all anyway, because even breadcrumbs were better than starving. But now here he was, offering a feast, and that still wasn’t enough in his eyes. He didn’t understand, did he? A trashy script was more than Nanne had ever been given, and now it wasn’t a script at all. And still he was afraid. Still he didn’t think that was good enough.

“I don’t want you to leave me be,” they said, despite their body doing its damndest to break down at the absolute worst time. “I care about you, Asta-Astarion.” They winced at the stutter, but soldiered on anyway. “So what do you want?”

His lips moved without sound, eyes darting between Nanne’s face and the ground. Wringing his hands, his brow furrowed, then relaxed, then furrowed again.

Finally, “I don’t know. It’s been so long since I had to decide what I wanted.”

Nanne smiled weakly. “I know the feeling. But, if we keep this going,” and gods above, that was still a gigantic if, “I want you to know that the sex doesn’t matter. I really don’t care. I’ll wait until you want it again, or if you don’t want it at all, that’s fine too.”

Astarion laughed, but his eyes had gone doelike again with how wide they were, his breath unsteady. “Darling, why, that sounds like a challenge.”

“I mean it, though.” Nanne’s heart fluttered as they looked at him. “You’ve already brought me a lot of happiness. You’ve given me so much, so it’s time for me to give you something in return.” That was how love worked, wasn’t it? A fair exchange, a gift gladly given? “I don’t care if you’ve hurt me, because the good’s always outweighed the bad. So I’ll be here for you. Promise.”

Astarion’s lips trembled. “Really?”

He looked so similar to when they’d found him staring into his blank mirror. Lost, tired, sad. And Nanne knew, in that moment, that they wanted to see that smile of his again.

So they lifted their fingers to their temple. “I can show you, if you want.”

Astarion blinked, then smiled faintly. “All right.”

Nanne closed their eyes, focusing, concentrating as their tadpoles connected once more. It was easy to recall the moments when Astarion had made them happy, but they needed to envision them perfectly. It was harder than they’d expected, especially when it wasn’t just showing Astarion what they were seeing already.

But it was like performing, wasn’t it? Getting the notes right wasn’t the most important part. Letting the feelings and emotions through, that was what made the instrument sing.

So that was what they focused on. The feeling of laughter bubbling in their chest as he stumbled into camp drunk on bear blood. The warmth they’d felt as Astarion tucked them into their bedroll after feeding from them, whispering that it was a gift. The flutter of their heart as his fingertips brushed their cheek when he’d cut their ruined hair. Joy as they saw his eyes light up as their tadpoles brushed, and he could see himself through their eyes. Anger as they’d traced his scars in the dirt, furious that Cazador had mutilated someone who didn’t deserve it. Comfort and safety as he held them while Halsin mended their leg. Soft contentment as they lay beneath the stars, not touching but close in a way that sex couldn’t manage.

The tears that slid down their cheeks as they wore clothes that finally fit, mended by Astarion’s needle and thread.

We fit together, they thought with a smile.

A choked gasp tore them away from the memory, and they opened their eyes to see Astarion looking at them, hand clawed at his chest. “Asta?” they whispered, hands outstretched. “What…?”

Then they saw the tears rolling down his cheeks, and they understood.

Still, it hurt seeing him like this, alone and crying in the cold. So, hesitantly, they took a step forward. “Can I hold you?”

They didn’t know if Astarion nodded, or if his head just bobbed from crying. Still, they took the chance anyway. Closing the distance in just a few steps, they wrapped their arms around his torso and pressed their forehead to his shoulder. I’m here, they thought, in case their tadpole connection still lingered. I’m here, and I want this.

He was cool to the touch, almost cold against them. They felt his weight pitch back, his limbs stiffen, and they winced. f*cking hells, they’d done it again, done something wrong—

Then his arms slowly, gently encircled them, and it was their turn to tear up as his cheek brushed their hair. The movements were jerky, a bit awkward, a bit unsure. But they understood. The first time was always the hardest.

Astarion’s nose brushed their neck, and they felt just as much as heard him inhale. An exhale, then another breath taken and released.

Together, they stood and breathed.

Then his cold skin stung a little too much, and Nanne pulled away, a sheepish smile on their face. “Sorry.”

Astarion smiled, eyelashes fluttering as he seemed to come back to himself. “You… You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Then he laughed again, leaning in close. “Honestly, darling? I have no idea what we’re doing. Or what comes next.”

“Thank the gods,” Nanne murmured back, unable to keep themselves from smiling back. “Because I sure as sh*t don’t know either.”

That tore a barking laugh from Astarion’s lips, and Nanne’s heart melted at the sight. Then they froze as Astarion’s hand stretched towards them, fingers slowly uncurling.

Is he…?

Breath caught in their throat, their fingertips brushed his palm, tracing the lines and creases there. Then his other hand pressed over theirs, and their lips trembled as he cupped it. Such a simple touch, but… No one had ever held their hand like this before. It felt soothing.

Safe.

“I do know one thing,” Astarion murmured, eyes round and bright in the moonlight. “This is nice.”

A lump rose in their throat as he didn’t let go. Didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked at them with that soft smile, and the world and all its worries seemed so far away and distant.

Yes, Nanne thought, eyes drifting closed as they felt Astarion’s fingers warm up. This is nice.

Then, without thinking, they yawned.

f*ck.

“Oh gods,” they whispered weakly, scrubbing at their face, “I’m so sorry, I—”

But Astarion laughed. Not that mocking laugh, or that tittering giggle, but that breathless little wheeze that made their heart flutter. “No, no, darling, I’ve kept you awake long enough.” He took a step back, but there was no mirth on his face. “I should let you rest.”

“Okay.” Biting back another yawn — it still escaped through their nose — they smiled. “Good talk.”

Astarion laughed, turning to go back inside his tent. But he only took a step before he stopped, standing there in the dark.

“Astarion?” Nanne asked, sitting down on their bedroll. “You okay?” Then they paled. “Oh, gods, you must be starving. You didn’t eat this morning.”

“It’s not that, darling.” To their horror, his voice cracked, rough and aching. But when he turned around, he didn’t look sad — at least, not with the way his jaw was set. He stalked towards them like a predator approaching prey, and gods did Nanne feel like prey as he stood over them. But then his face went soft, eyes doelike again as he held out his hands. “You can’t sleep out here.”

They blinked. “Huh? Why?”

“Hmm. Let me give that another go.” Astarion squatted, taking their hands and pulling them to their feet. “I refuse to let you sleep out here for another night when I have a perfectly nice, large tent that has room enough for the both of us.”

Nanne blinked.

Then flushed red hot as they realized what, exactly, Astarion was saying. “It’s yours.”

“You gave it to me,” he corrected. “But you’re right, it is mine. Which means I can share it with whomever I want, and that means you.” He took a deep breath, then gave their hands a little squeeze. Even though his fingers felt like ice cubes, a pulse of warmth spread through their chest. “Please, Nanne. I want to give something back. You understand, don’t you?”

Not really. But they were so exhausted, and the idea of sleeping in an actual tent instead of in the dirt felt so luxurious that they just nodded. “Okay,” they whispered.

“Okay,” Astarion whispered back, a smile on his lips.

It didn’t take long to gather Nanne’s things — it was literally just a pack and a bedroll. They felt a slight pang of shame as Astarion looked around, clearly expecting them to fetch more things. Instead, they just stood there, pack on their shoulder and bedroll in their arms. His face morphed into something painful and sad, yet knowing. A lump rose in Nanne’s throat because they knew, in an instant, that Astarion knew what it was like to have everything you owned be able to fit in your arms.

But then he smiled, nervous yet hopeful and warm, and Nanne didn’t mind how chilly his skin was at all as he wrapped his arm around their waist to guide them inside his tent.

Chapter 16: Hunger

Chapter Text

“I’ve seen worse,” Nanne said mildly.

Astarion assumed the words were meant to be comforting. They certainly didn’t feel comforting inside his tent.

It had felt natural, inviting Nanne to stay with him in his — their — tent. All the fears of them using his body to pay for it had evaporated like the morning sun, once he realized that they would never press him for sex. But more than that, he wanted them to be close. Nanne’s presence was… comforting, especially now that they knew the truth.

Not the entire truth. Just the parts that mattered.

And Astarion now knew the truth about Nanne: they truly cared for him. In a way that he never thought he would welcome, or desire, and especially in a way he did not deserve. But they did. The memories shown through the tadpole were proof enough. And the hug. His skin still tingled at the feeling of them — small but strong, hardy, warm — in his arms, face pressed to his shoulder. It was another thing he never thought he would welcome or desire or deserve. But it felt… good.

That nice, good feeling dissipated like dew before dawn as they stood in his tent.

Nanne held their own bedroll in their arms, which was the only bedroll in the tent. Astarion grasped his elbows as he looked at his tiny little sanctuary for the past two months. Some slats of wood to make a bed. His burial shroud, along with a few other ragged blankets he’d filched from the tiefling refugees. Straw — all right, that he had no idea how he’d tracked that in — and broken blood containers, hoarded in reserve for nights that Nanne finally refused to share their blood and kicked him out of their merry band of weirdos. One flat, half-stuffed pillow.

Nothing else.

It was an inside that did not match the outside. Some poet would have a field day with how the tent was a reflection of its owner, and he’d garrote them for it. Right now, he felt like burrowing a hole into the ground and hiding. Taking a deep breath, he began, “It’s…” But quickly realized he had no idea how to end that sentence, so let it die.

“It is what it is,” Nanne said, and honestly, that was probably the kindest observation they could make. Then, looking up at him before their gaze flitted to the wood slats, “Do you want to make it better?”

He shrugged. Did he? He didn’t know. So many questions circled in his mind, like the bats in the palace. “If you can magic up a feather bed, be my guest, darling.” But instead of light and teasing, his voice dragged on the ground like lead chains.

“Sorry,” Nanne said with a rueful smile, “bards don’t get to learn that spell. But I’ve got ideas.”

And they were, frankly speaking, good ideas. Nanne didn’t bring in the cushions from outside; Astarion let out a silent breath of gratitude at that. No one else in camp had to know what his sleeping conditions were, at least. Instead, they hauled in another bedroll. Astarion blinked as they threw the wood slats right out, then swept the hay into a pile. “Insulation,” they explained. “You had the right idea; a layer between you and the ground helps keep you warm. We’ll weave it into mats as we go.” Then they laid the bedroll on top. In an odd way, it resembled a nest. He rather liked that.

They carried out the glass jars without comment. The broken ones went into the fire, suffusing the camp with a smell akin to roasted pork. The remaining ones Nanne washed out, then placed in a rack Astarion had stolen from the blighted village.

Finally, they reached for the burial shroud — and Astarion snatched it up. “I need this,” he said, his voice far too small.

“You’re right, sorry,” Nanne whispered back, their voice also small. “Sorry.”

They apologized so much. It reminded Astarion too much of Dalyria, of frantic bowing and scraping. “No, darling,” he murmured. “I wasn’t… It’s my burial shroud,” he admitted. “Vampire’s resting place and all that.”

Nanne actually started at that, eyes as wide and round as dinner plates. “Oh f*ck,” they breathed — then blushed. Astarion’s lips twitched as they fidgeted with their hands. “…I guess I forgot.”

“Forgot what, darling?” he asked, smiling.

“That you’re, um, dead.” They shuffled in place. “Undead, actually.” Nanne let out a breath. “Right, let’s… Let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Astarion almost laughed. Almost.

They situated Nanne’s bedroll so that it was closest to the tent’s opening. When Nanne asked him if he was sure about the placement, he shrugged. “They already know we’re sleeping together, darling. I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know, but we’re not sleeping together now.”

A lump rose in his throat, icy fear still creeping down his spine. “They don’t have to know that.”

Nanne paused, kneeling on their bedroll. “Asta,” they said softly, and the way they said that nickname made all sorts of light and floaty feelings dance around in his chest. “I’m not going to tell anyone about what…” They took a deep breath. “What that bastard made you go through. I promise. I haven’t told Gale or Wyll about your scars. It’s your business.”

“I know, darling,” he said softly. “I trust you.”

“But, if they ask what’s going on between us, I’m not going to lie either.”

He folded his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. “What do you mean by that?”

Nanne set their pack in the corner. “I don’t want them to keep talking about you the way that they do.” They let out a heavy breath. “They think that you’re a…”

“slu*t?” he said lightly, despite the sour taste in his mouth. “Maneater? whor*? Incorrigible rake?”

Nanne winced, as if he’d twisted their arm. “That… sums it up pretty well, yeah.” They smiled up at him faintly. “After our first time, Wyll came up to me and asked if I was okay. Then he said that if I ever needed help chasing you off that he’d be first in line.”

Astarion snorted, because he’d be even more shocked if Wyll hadn’t said anything at all. “Oh, naturally. The Blade of Frontiers, defender of chastity and virtue, helping poor defenseless bards preyed upon by devastatingly handsome vampires.”

“That was the easier conversation to have.” Nanne swallowed, their face somehow alternating between blushing bright red and paling to a wan, sickly color. “Shadowheart asked me if I wanted her to test me for diseases.”

Astarion blinked – then cackled, an actual laugh, so hard he fell down onto his bedroll.

“It’s not funny, Astarion,” Nanne said sourly.

“Oh, you just need a better sense of humor,” he wheezed. “Darling, I’m dead. I can’t pass on diseases anymore than a table could.” Sitting up, still partially breathless, he placed his hand over his heart. “And I pride myself on my hygiene. You’ll never meet a more squeaky clean lover than I.”

Nanne looked at him for a second – then chuckled, shaking their head. “I’m still going to tell them the truth if they ask.”

The laughter died in his stomach as he laid on his side, looking at them. “Which is?”

“What you told me. You want us to be something real, so we’re figuring that out. And I’m happy.”

The ache he’d felt the night before returned in full force, constricting his chest.

“Can I tell them that much, at least?” they asked, pulling aside the covers to their bedroll.

“Of course,” he whispered, voice far more raw than he’d ever allowed before.

“I’m happy.”

Nanne shot a look at him. “Well?”

“Well what?” he asked back.

“Are you going to try out your new bedroll?”

Ah. He opened it up, then slid inside – and immediately tugged the blanket to his chin. “Oh gods, this is so much more comfortable,” he groaned, sinking into the soft downy fur. It wasn’t as good as an actual mattress, but dear gods, he was so tired that anything other than wood slats was bliss. He actually felt a few pops from his spine as he laid down.

“I’m surprised you didn’t steal a bedroll before,” Nanne said, sliding into their own with a soft “oof.”

“It never really occurred to me,” he admitted.

He expected Nanne to say something about that, but they seemed content to leave the subject be. Which only made him more curious. “How did you know that the straw was insulation?” he asked, turning on his side to look at them better. “And you can weave?”

It hit him, in that moment, that aside from the fact that they were very pretty and could sing with the voice of an angel, Astarion didn’t really know anything about Nanne. He could say with confidence that he knew them. He’d known enough to know when to confess his feelings, anyhow. But aside from that one night ten years ago and the few and far in-between facts he’d gleaned from them, Nanne’s past was a complete mystery.

“What other secret talents are you hiding?” he teased, though it came out as a thoughtful murmur.

Nanne laughed softly. “When you’re on the streets, you pick up a thing or two about keeping warm.”

“On the streets?” he asked, eyebrows hitting his hairline. “Darling, don’t tell me you’re an urchin.” They’d mentioned paying rent before, hadn’t they?

“Not entirely. Da’s still alive. I’ve seen his posters around the city. He’s on tour right now.”

“You're telling me that I'm lying in the presence of someone famous?” he asked, hand held to his breast in mock shock.

Nanne snorted. “Gods, no. I haven't talked to Da in, what?” Their fingers curled as they counted. “Uh, fifteen years? I was seventeen.”

Astarion frowned; for an elf, that was akin to being a small child. But they were half drow. “What happened?”

He did not miss how they curled up under their blanket, burrowing into the bedding. “We had a fight. Said some nasty things to each other. Next morning, he was gone. Left me a wallet and my lute.”

A lump rose into his throat. “He abandoned you? Just like that?”

“Like I said, we had a fight. Bad one. I think that was the only time I ever yelled at him in my life.” Nanne sighed, eyes drifting closed. Their lashes looked like snowflakes, fluttering as they spoke. “Anyway, it was the streets from that point on.”

“For how long?” he asked, propping his head up in his hand.

“Six years. Then I managed to get a room at Fraygo’s Flophouse.” They smiled, a triumphant grin. “I’ll show you, when we get to the city. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

Astarion was glad Nanne’s eyes were closed. They’d doubtless be confused by the pained grimace that had passed across his face.

The Flophouse had been ten years ago. Doing the math, that night, they hadn't been huddled next to the fire because they had room and board — they'd still been living on the streets. Another wave of guilt flooded him. He'd nearly brought home a starving child who didn't even have a bed to curl up in. He must have made a sound, because Nanne turned to look at him. Such a young, innocent face. He could scarcely imagine what they’d look like even younger. Abandoned on the streets, alone.

Now he could understand their ire when he’d made that flippant comment about seeing dead urchins frozen in the snow.

“You okay, Astarion?” Their fingers curled up in the bedding. “Do you want me to go? I’m fine sleeping–”

“I am not kicking you out of this tent when it shouldn’t even be mine in the first place,” he said snippily. “You’re staying right here, where I can see that adorable face of yours instead of staring at the ceiling listening to Gale snore for another godsdamned night.”

It was too harsh of a tone, he knew — not the way one should talk to a lover. Yet instead of recoiling, Nanne snickered into their hand. “All right, love.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Good,” he replied haughtily – he was not going to melt just because of a simple pet name – settling himself back down in the blankets. “Still, I hardly know anything about you.”

“Well, as it turns out…” Nanne rolled over so they laid on their side, green eyes glowing in the dark. “My name’s actually Jonathan, I’m a princess of House Nightstar, and I’m married to a tarrasque.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, because after holding back tears for the entirety of the most grueling conversation of his life, what else was there to do? “Oh, really?”

“Uh huh.” Nanne giggled themself, and the sound was like the birdsong he so badly missed. “But really, what do you want to know? I’m pretty boring.”

“Oh, the usual things,” Astarion said. Never mind that he had no idea what the usual things were. Normally at this point in the conversation, he would have his tongue down their throat or whispered in their ear all the various positions he could contort himself into. Just as it had gone ten years ago, this conversation with Nanne was completely off script.

He loved it.

“I, uh…” Nanne’s fingers tapped that fun little rhythm on their bedroll. “My favorite color is purple? The blue kind of purple.”

“Not a bad choice,” Astarion murmured. So I was right to put forget-me-nots on their shirt. He’d had the intuition, but it was nice to know there were still happy coincidences in the world. Up until the Nautiloid, most coincidences were rather unhappy.

“And yours?”

He pursed his lips. “Anything but red, really. Red and gold, absolutely not. Far too garish and gaudy.” Rubbing his chin, he mused on the question. “I suppose… blue. Blue and silver.”

Nanne’s lips quirked up, eyes flickering like candlelight.

“And green,” he found himself saying, voice far softer. “Like emeralds.”

“Pretty.”

“I suppose, since we’re actually an item now, I should ask about flowers,” Astarion said with a sigh.

“You don’t like flowers.” It wasn’t a question.

“They’re far too flashy. And some of the smells, ugh.” He curled up beneath the blanket – was that a fur lining? How nice. “If I never smell rose-scented perfume, it’ll be too soon.”

“I like the littler flowers anyhow.” Nanne’s eyes slowly closed. “You smell nice, though.”

“Rosemary, bergamot, and a dash of aged brandy,” he said proudly. “My own little invention. Covers up the grave rot quite nicely, if I do say so myself.”

Instead of giggling or a compliment, a soft little sigh.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Good night, Nanne.”

“Good night… Asta.”

A lump rose in his throat, eyes pricked and stinging. Asta. Such a simple collection of sounds, and yet the way it made him feel…

It was dark in the tent, but light from the fire still shone through the fabric. It haloed Nanne’s face, their hair shimmering as if it wreathed their head in flames. Though their face was cast in shadow, he could see the bags beneath their eyes and those snowy eyelashes. Looking, really looking, he could see the scar on their lip, cutting across the left corner of their mouth. He should kiss it, sometime. Make them laugh, watch those eyelashes flutter over fuller cheeks.

They’d gained weight. A softer belly, thicker arms to handle pulling back crossbow bolts and carry Phalar Aluve. It was a good change. If he had met a Nanne that looked like this on that night ten years ago, well…

Holding his breath, he reached over and pulled Nanne’s blanket up and over their arms, all the way up to just below their nose. He tucked them in carefully, watching as their face slackened from the resulting warmth. Sinking back into his bedding, he listened to their breathing: slow, low pitched and steady. Fast asleep. Safe.

Closing his eyes, he matched their breathing and began to trance.

For an evil villain’s lair, Astarion expected more… panache.

Granted, Moonrise Towers was no cuddly resort, but it felt more run down and archaic than a true lair. Where were the bodies on spikes? The finery? The glitz and glamour? At least Cazador went to the trouble to decorate his palace, even if it was tacky and tasteless. Moonrise wasn’t a fortress or a gilded castle, it was a tomb crumbling to pieces.

The puddles of slime on the floor didn’t help with the ambiance.

“Disgusting,” he muttered as he shuffled to the side, letting a cultist pass by. At least most of them didn’t stink — though the general bouquet of the tower was somewhere between “graverot, same as usual” and “bog full of piss.”

Nanne took a deep breath, looking at their party. “Remember, we’re not here to start fights unless we absolutely have to. We’ll split up into groups of two, cover more ground. Find out everything you can about where the tadpoles are coming from and where the tieflings have been taken. We’ll meet back up in two hours.”

So, their group paired off — and Astarion was very smug when Nanne beckoned him over. “I knew I was your favorite,” he teased, jokingly taking them by the arm. “Though I could think of a better place for a first date than here.”

Nanne chuckled. “Who says I asked you to be with me because I like you? Maybe I’m trying to make sure you don’t get us in trouble.”

“Darling, I’m hurt,” he gasped in mock horror. “Me? Causing trouble? I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

“Astarion, you tried to pickpocket a Zhentarim and then they tried to murder us.” Nanne shot him a flat, unamused look, but the blush on their cheeks gave them away. “You’re a beacon for trouble, love.”

Love. He still loved the sound of that on Nanne’s tongue.

“This way?” Nanne said, gesturing to their left. Astarion let them lead the way. He didn’t hold their hand, nor did he walk at their side. Instead he followed close behind their left shoulder, looking around warily. The place practically swarmed with cultists, from goblins to bugbears to humans and elves and half orcs. He sighed as he nearly tripped over a gnome, who at least had the decency to stammer, “A-Apologies, True Soul!” before scampering off.

The bowing and scraping, he could get used to. But Nanne had made it clear that they had no designs to try and take over the cult — and looking at this place, Astarion could see why. The only place more miserable than here was inside the depths of Cazador’s palace.

“Ah, another drow in Moonrise! How fortunate for me.”

Astarion flinched as Nanne jerked around. They’d stumbled into some sort of lab, apparently; test tubes and flasks and kettles were strewn about the place, various dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Their interloper looked harmless enough, just a shorter drow woman with unkempt white hair.

Then Astarion caught a whiff of her and changed his mind immediately.

Everyone, as he’d told Nanne, had a particular scent to them that had nothing to do with soaps or hygiene. A… taste, really. Nanne’s he found particularly pleasant, but most of the time a person’s scent was simply a different note to their overall aromatic composition. A hint of sweetness or bitterness, some musk or sharpness. But this woman? She smelled… wrong. Like rotten food or mold or…

The Kennel.

Then she looked at him, and he nearly turned tail and left on the spot. He’d seen that look in her eyes before during Cazador’s more hedonistic parties. Noblewomen who feigned modesty and decorum, yet evaluated every specimen in front of them like a piece of meat. And naturally, to most, Astarion was the prize stud on auction that they’d bid for each night.

The only thing that kept him in the room was Nanne’s hand resting on his arm. Not gripping, not tugging – just warmth seeping through the spidersilk armor.

He had armor. He had friends. Things were different. He was different. A man, not something to be used.

“You talking to me?” Nanne asked, looking just as shaken as Astarion felt. Apparently the drow had spooked them too.

The drow woman offered a smile that was mostly a sneer. “Araj Oblodra, expert and trader in the sanguineous arts. It is a… pleasure to stand before a True Soul such as yourself.”

Ah. A barely concealed sense of superiority. This was going to be fun.

“I’d like to offer my services, if you’re willing,” she continued. “I suspect, with your choice of company, it would be of quite some interest to you.”

“My choice of company?” Nanne asked flatly.

She smirked. “Not one for coyness, I see. Don’t fret. I’ll ensure your lovely companion–” Astarion snorted “–is perfectly safe from any monster hunters or particularly sharp stakes.”

Well sh*t. So it wasn’t the fact that he was pretty as sin that had the drow all riled up. Astarion kept his lips pressed tight together as he flashed her a particularly loathing smile.

“That’s very kind of you,” Nanne said slowly. “What does a blood trader do?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, with a bit of alchemy on the side. With your blood, True Soul,” and there it was again, the disdain beneath the honorific, “I could brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest, I’d keep for myself.”

“And what kind of potion would that be?” Astarion asked snidely. “Elixir of Hair Removal or Tincture of Lesser Diarrhea?”

The drow sneered, which was a welcome change of pace from her hungry expression before. “I suggest that you keep your companion on a shorter leash, my friend. Lesser insolences have been punished far worse here at Moonrise. General Thorm is most intolerant of blathering.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm,” Nanne said quickly; Astarion held himself back from rolling his eyes as they smiled sweetly at her. “My friend’s just concerned.”

“There’s no need for alarm; it will only take a few drops, I assure you,” Araj said. “Enough for the potion, and for me to reserve for further study.”

“Can’t hurt,” Nanne murmured, holding out their hand. Astarion watched sharply as the drow took out a smaller, needle-like dagger, pricking the flesh of their thumb and squeezing. The familiar hunger coiled in the pit of his stomach as Nanne’s sweet scent permeated the air. Though he didn’t trust the woman, not at all, at least her nauseating stench wasn’t quite so strong as before. Araj pulled out a phial, squeezing the fat droplets of Nanne’s blood inside. They popped their thumb into their mouth as she moved back to her workstation, sliding one drop into a flask and shaking it vigorously. Astarion half expected some puff of smoke or flash of light, but no. Just one drop of blood in some viscous substance that he certainly hoped Nanne wasn’t expected to drink.

“And there we are,” Araj said, handing the flask to Nanne. “All of your best traits in a bottle. While it would be more efficacious if you were pureblooded, I’m sure a half-drow’s blood will provide some use.”

Astarion’s lip curled. “So that’s it? You just hand out flasks with people’s blood?”

Araj chuckled, and he did not like the sound of it. “There is, of course, something else I would like to discuss with you. Your friend – he’s a vampire spawn, isn’t he?”

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone else,” Nanne said sharply, eyes flaring in the dark.

“And I will not. I have no interest in letting such a beautiful specimen end up on the wrong end of a pike.” Astarion’s lip curled as she looked at Nanne with that same haughty superiority. “I am also not as prejudiced as some of my sisters,” she said primly. “They would simply force you to relinquish your bed slave, but here, we are all equal under the Absolute. Name your price for the spawn.”

“My bed slave?” Nanne’s voice cracked in clear stupefaction.

Honestly, as epithets went, Cazador had used far worse. whor*. slu*t. Harlot. Bed slave, at least, was somewhat accurate, considering that he’d never had a choice in the matter. It didn’t stop him from seeing red as he grasped the hilt of one of his daggers.

“I’m not— I don’t own him.” Nanne’s eyes sparked, lips pressed in a thin line. “He’s his own person. We belong to each other. There’s no one and nothing to sell.”

A lump rose in Astarion’s throat at those words — and at Nanne’s hand grasping his, stepping slightly in front of him to shield him with their body, despite being shorter.

“I suppose you would be ignorant of our traditions, half-bred as you are,” Araj replied; Astarion bit back a snarl as Nanne shrank down. “Still, I would like to conduct an arrangement with you. Do you have a name, spawn?”

Astarion paused as he realized the drow was talking to him. Plastering a smile on his face, he made sure to expose his fangs. “Astarion, darling. And it’s as you said, dear,” he replied icily. “We’re all equal under the Absolute. But don’t worry — I won’t bite.” He wasn’t stupid enough to commit murder in the enemy’s camp. Though he did know he’d enjoy fantasizing about tearing her throat out later in bed with Nanne.

“Oh, I would prefer it if you did,” she said, a deceptively bland smile on her lips. “I have dreamed of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl. I would not dare let the opportunity pass while it is within my grasp.”

His jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, you want to be bitten?”

“To feel one’s lifeblood slipping away? To dance between the boundaries of life and death?” Her eyelashes fluttered, lips parted in a sickening hunger he recognized all too quickly. “Yes.”

There truly was a fetish for everything, wasn’t there?

His stomach churned, flipping as her stench washed over towards him. Her arousal mixed with that awful bile taint, giving it a pungent sharpness that only accentuated the wrongness of it all. Despite their smaller frame, he found himself stepping half behind Nanne, recoiling as her eyes didn’t leave him for a moment.

“I would, of course, compensate your master for this,” she said, as if she had said something very reasonable instead of getting turned on over him sucking her filthy blood. “A potion that would greatly enhance the strength of whoever drinks it. A permanent enhancement, mind you. It’s not for sale, but it’s yours – if you bite me.”

There it was: the reward for getting on his back again. Not a rat, not “favors” from party guests, but an actual potion of strength. It was… better than he’d expected, honestly. Just one bite, not even a kiss by the sounds of it. Just one little moment to push through.

Astarion took a deep breath, to steady himself, to prepare – then nearly gagged on the stench of Araj’s blood. The sweet perfume of Nanne’s scent had faded, dulled by saliva and scabbing, yet oddly enough it was Araj’s blood that cut through instinct and gave him clarity.

Cazador had offered him clearly diseased rats before. It was one of the very few lines that Astarion refused to cross – because as awful as a trip to the Kennel was, nothing came close to the agony of finally being fed, given a taste, then having to force it all back up because it was too rotten to stomach. It had also been one of his very few ways to actually frustrate Cazador. The “gall” and “impudence” to refuse food, to willingly starve in the hopes of something better – to somehow still resist, despite everything else that Astarion had done to avoid punishment and get some pitiful reprieve.

Never again.

Swallowing hard, he stopped breathing – then froze as Nanne’s hand rubbed up and down on Astarion’s wrist. Not grasping, again, just gently buffing against the armor. It felt soothing. Safe, despite being in her presence.

Cazador didn’t loom over his shoulder. No, Nanne stood by his side, defended him, despite the drow’s own barbs towards them. They’d understand, wouldn’t they? They’d support him, because they–

“It’s okay,” Nanne said with a smile, and he smiled back. “You can go ahead and drink from her, if you want.”

Every bit of warmth in his body turned to ice water.

“If you want.” He knew the lie in those words. No one liked a whor* who had standards. That wasn’t his role. His was to be charming, sweet, fawning and simpering and so very, very willing to fulfill the fantasy. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he looked down at Nanne, waiting for the cold emptiness to take over. But instead of resigning himself, as he should, his chest tightened, throat raw, every muscle straining and flexing with terror.

This… This wasn’t supposed to happen. Nanne was supposed to understand. They were supposed to… They were supposed to be safe. They were supposed to care. And here they were, using him as a bargaining chip, when they’d said so many sweet and wonderful things last night, when they’d promised…

Sharp daggers pierced his stomach, as if Araj’s blood was already running down his throat.

“I won’t be mad,” Nanne murmured softly, their smile fading, but their eyes still soft and kind. “You can do it.”

The words made no sense. Nanne made no sense. “I…” He turned back to Araj with the most condescending sneer he could manage. “I’m sorry, would you excuse us for a moment?”

He didn’t give a sh*t what answer she gave; he took Nanne by the hand and all but darted to the farthest corner of the room. “Astarion?” Nanne asked, looking as wide-eyed and innocent as a babe in the cradle. “What–”

“Don’t make me do this,” he begged, grasping their hands. “Don’t trade me for some potion. I can… I can pickpocket it from her, o-or I can…” He swallowed, feeling something delicate and fragile within him crumble to dust, because of course he’d been foolish to hope for something more, something better. “Tonight, I can–”

“Wait, Asta, stop.” Nanne’s voice was soft, gentle instead of rebuking or commanding. “This isn’t about the potion.”

“Then what is it about?” he almost shrieked, hands shaking around theirs.

“You haven’t had anything to eat except my blood in tendays,” they said simply.

Oh gods. Of course. The strain of constantly feeding him. He’d been too greedy, too selfish, drinking from them too often. Of course they’d shunt him away, growing frustrated, angry, resentful. After everything he’d done, after all the lies, of course they’d—

“Astarion, slow down– Asta. Breathe.”

He had been breathing, hadn’t he? But then he heard the fast wheezes that sounded too much like gasping.

“Love, come back to me, please,” Nanne whispered. “Deep breaths?”

He inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

Then whispered, “Please don’t make me do this.”

They paled instantly. “Oh gods, Astarion, I…” Nanne’s fingers intertwined with his. “I’m not making you do anything, I promise. I just thought… Aren’t you hungry for something else, anything else? You’ve got to be sick of my taste by now.”

Oh.

That was almost sweet. It would be sweet, if not for the fact the alternative to their blood was a fetishizing drow that reeked of decay and rotting blood and wrongness.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. Her blood is filthy, darling. If only you could smell how rank…” He shuddered. “Something’s wrong with her. No one should ever smell like that, not even if they’re sick.” He’d taken victims back to Cazador that had been ill with blood diseases, completely by accident – not that Cazador had cared for that fact when he’d sentenced Astarion to three months without so much as a nibble of a rat. But even then, their scent had been so subtle that he hadn’t noticed until it was far too late. If their blood was the whiff of rotten food, Araj was the Kennel stacked with rotting bodies.

Nanne winced. “So, if you drink from her, it’ll hurt you?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know, but I…” He swallowed thickly. Being sick, disturbingly enough, wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. “She would be… excited in the moment.” The words were a new brand of humiliation, but sickeningly familiar all at once. He could almost hear the music at the ball: some disgusting tripe about love while forced to endure mockeries of it, Cazador smiling graciously as his patrons fought over a special night in the guest room with his prettiest son. Isn’t it an honor to be so desired, my child? Let her indulge in her fantasies. You want nothing more, don’t you? Just a moment of discomfort, then it will all be over, as always. I raised a better child than this. Picking over his food like an ungrateful brat. No, I know that you will deliver.

You are exactly—

Nanne tore their hands from his, and Astarion trembled in his boots as they marched over.

“Well?” Araj asked, picking at her nailbeds. “Have you reached a decision?”

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing.

“No, thank you. We’re going to leave now.”

All the breath in his lungs left him in a rush.

“Surely you can talk some sense into your charge,” Araj said, voice sickeningly sweet. “The potion is–”

“He said no. End of story.” When Nanne’s eyes met his, they flickered, full of warmth. “Isn’t that right, Astarion?”

For a moment, he stood there like an idiot, mouth gaping, because it still felt like a trap. He’d been in this situation before. “Go on, child,” Cazador had whispered in his ear. “If you truly don’t like it, you can always say no.” He’d done that so often at the beginning, when he’d been naive enough to think that word still had power. He’d said it to Cazador’s face, once.

It had taken six days for his tongue to regrow after Godey had pulled it out with the pliers.

But Nanne was not Cazador. This… All of this was different.

“That’s right, dear,” he croaked out, voice ungainly and stumbling. “I gave you my answer.”

There. That was close enough, wasn’t it?

“We’re going to go now,” Nanne said sharply. “We won’t change our minds in the future. Don’t talk to us again.”

And just like that, their hands grasped his again, and their voice was far softer, that familiar murmur. “Let’s go outside. Get some fresh air.”

There wasn’t anything like fresh air in this whole damned cursed land, but he let Nanne pull him out without a word of complaint, stumbling through crumbling corridors and a mess hall where slime dripped from the rafters. Eventually, somehow, Nanne found a door that did lead outside — and the second that the door closed, Astarion bolted to the far wall and felt the lurch of his stomach desperately trying to empty itself into the churning water below.

Of course, his stomach didn’t actually hold anything, so all that got him was a mouth too full of saliva and bile.

“I’m so sorry,” Nanne whispered, voice shaking as he grasped the stones, convulsing with the strength of his heaves. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t— I thought it was a good idea, I didn’t know.”

That was it. That was all. They didn’t know. How could they? They couldn’t smell her blood, and they’d been a virgin before he’d come along. Of course Nanne wouldn’t know. They didn’t know so many things; he couldn’t hold that against them.

It didn’t stop the bile in his mouth, but it did help his hand stop shaking as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Nanne whispered again. “I’ll go—”

Then froze as Astarion seized their hand. He couldn’t say anything, not yet. But he did look them in the eyes.

“Oh.” It was more of a soft exhale from their lips than anything else. “I’ll… We can just stay out here, then.”

Astarion nodded, before he turned and began spitting out the bile and saliva pooling in his mouth. He wouldn’t cry, not here and now. Perhaps never. Why should he cry? Compared to some of the things he’d been asked to do, a simple bite was tame. Had two months being away from Cazador already made him go soft? Violet would mock him endlessly for it. “Too dramatic for your own good. It’s no wonder you can only bring back meals half the time with an act like that.”

Back sliding down the wall, he sat down with his knees pulled to his chest and the back of his skull against the damp stone. It helped alleviate the pounding in his head, all the tension and strain building in his neck and shoulders. He’d be sore tonight, he knew.

In the distance, something splashed, and he looked up to see Nanne’s arm stretching over the palisade. A chill ran down his spine as he saw the scowl on their face.

But then they looked at him, and it was gone. “I tossed her potion,” they explained quietly. “Probably poison anyhow.” Then they sat next to him, close enough for him to feel their warmth, but only brushing against him a little. It was… soothing.

Safe.

The urge to laugh welled so strongly in his chest at that moment. Just two minutes ago, he’d been convinced that Nanne would sell them off without a thought. Nanne. The bard who had let him sit by a warm fire, who gave him their blood freely, who insisted they rescue the tieflings who had gotten themselves captured in Moonrise Towers because “it’s the right thing to do.” Even now, though, he felt the dregs of fear still sitting in his gut. Shame and guilt mixed with it now to form a particularly bitter elixir. No, Nanne wouldn’t sell him out. They’d never.

That didn’t change the fact that ten years ago, he almost had.

After the sobbing and wailing and sappy reunions, Nanne bid Rolan’s siblings, Danis, and Lakrissa to go enjoy themselves in Last Light, then walked back into camp. Astarion waited for them there, just outside of his tent while Gale cobbled together an evening meal. Karlach laughed with Wyll as he did a silly looking flourish that Astarion recognized as one of the more popular dance moves as of late. Lae’zel was at her grindstone as always. Shadowheart, curiously, wasn’t in prayer as usual. Instead she paced — just like he had been for the last fifteen minutes, stewing in his embarrassment.

But, when Nanne passed by his tent, he was ready. “I wanted to thank you,” he said softly, grasping their arm.

They paused, lingering in the shadows with him. “For what?”

He almost laughed. “For what you said, darling, whilst we were in front of that vile drow.” He swallowed. “And I want to apologize for that display, back there. I know you would never…” His throat ached as he looked at the ground. “I know.”

“It’s all right, Asta.” Nanne gently pulled their arm out of his grip — then his breath caught as they held his hand instead, fingers interlacing. “It’s my fault. You looked uncomfortable. I should have seen that. And I should have known that what she asked was… nasty.” Their face warped into a wince. “I didn’t realize that… People have never acted like that in front of me. But I still let you down.”

“No, you didn’t,” he murmured, sitting down in the cushions. Nanne joined him, easing down with a tired sigh. “You’re innocent, and that isn’t a bad thing. It’s what makes you different from her. From all the others.” A bitterness seeped into his mouth as he stared at the fire. “I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back to him. What I wanted, how I felt about it, it never mattered. You’d think that with all that time spent dulling my mind, I should be used to it by now. The way she leered at me.” His lip curled, nails digging into the nearest cushion even as he squeezed Nanne’s hand. “There’s nothing more desirable in the world than a vampire, is there?”

A long, thorny silence stretched between them.

He stared at the blanket spread before his tent, swallowing past his sore throat. “I’m sorry. I was being too precious back there, wasn’t I? We could have used her potion. I’ve survived far worse than just biting a drow.” He chuckled bitterly. “A moment of unpleasantry doesn’t matter much if there’s a fine reward. Just a moment of disgust to force myself through. I should have just gritted my teeth and let her have me for a bit.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.”

Astarion nearly flinched at how sharp Nanne’s voice was, cutting through the night like a knife. There was a ripple there, a pop that he recognized immediately as the Weave itself. And when he looked into their eyes, the flames roared, sparking like a hammer beating down on white hot steel.

“I don’t give a sh*t about that potion,” they said, but their voice was softer now, calmer. “What I care about, Asta, is you. I’m never going to use you like that. It’s disgusting. No potion or weapon or anything like that is worth hurting you. Understand me?”

A lump rose in his throat. “Yes,” he whispered, voice far too raw.

It isn’t worth the scars. Not anymore.

Nanne nodded, and his eyes widened as they leaned in — but not for a kiss. Instead, they laid their head on his shoulder, a soft and warm weight. But he could only savor it for a second before they jerked back. “Sorry, I should have asked.”

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to, darling. We’re…” The sentence died as he stared at the rug beneath them. Because, in truth, he had no idea what they were. Someone important, obviously, and someone special. Someone he couldn’t bear to lose. But beyond that, a label was ephemeral. Dangerous. As if the second he declared them a lover, they’d fade away, like mist in the sun.

Nanne let the sentence die. “Then, is this okay?” Their cheeks glowed red as they asked. “Cuddling?”

“Darling, that barely counted as a cuddle,” he protested.

“Still, I want to ask.” They swallowed thickly. “If you’re upset from what happened, I can give you space?”

“Gods, that’s the last thing I want,” he huffed out. “Come here.” Fingers sinking into their hair, he guided them to lean against him, head resting on his shoulder. “It’s freezing out here anyway.”

They chuckled softly — but their body easily molded to his, and he felt a warmth that had nothing to do with their body heat inside his chest. The guilt chased it, of course. It was a shadow that always haunted him, these days. But it would fade with time, as it always did. So he carded his fingers through their hair and relished the sensation of a body just resting against him. Just pressure and weight. It was… novel. Soothing.

And though the silence between them was no longer laced with hurt and anger, he found himself talking anyway.

“For so long,” he said softly, his arm winding around their waist to hold them close, “I had nothing. Not even my body. That was owned by Cazador, to be sent out to tempt fools back into his palace for his supper. I’ve bedded thousands of people. I barely remember half of them; most of them didn’t even give me a hint of temporary bliss. I tried to enjoy it, in the beginning,” he admitted, staring back down at the fraying threads of the rug beneath them. “It didn’t last.”

“Oh,” Nanne whispered.

“I let my mind grow numb to it all, I suppose.” A cool breeze ran through camp, wicking away the sweat that had begun to bead beneath his shirt. “It was so easy to think of myself as an actor on the stage. If I just lost myself in the role, then it would… hurt less, when they used me. A knife doesn’t cry when you stab it into meat. Everything and everyone told me that I was just a means to an end, so… I embraced the thought.”

Nanne didn’t crane their head to look up at him, and he welcomed that. He didn’t know if he could ever face them directly when talking about this. “Is that why you’d go away when we slept together?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I didn’t always mean to do it. Especially later, when I…” He swallowed thickly. “When I wanted us to be more than just tawdry sex. But, I suppose, after two centuries of slavery, old habits die hard.” He stared at the flickering fire, watching as Gale diced ingredients. “People loved it, too. The charming whor*, eager to fulfill all their fantasies. What more could you ask for than a devastatingly beautiful man who wants nothing more than to give you a night you’ll never forget?” His chest felt too tight, tongue too heavy. “It felt so easy to go back to that mask. To say those stupid lines and woo you right into my bed.”

“I wish I could have told you no,” Nanne whispered, voice far too pained. “I should have. That night on the riverbank—”

“I sprung a trap, and you walked right into it, exactly as I planned,” Astarion interrupted. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned, cupping their cheek with his hand. He didn’t tilt their face up to meet his gaze; Nanne was never the type to look into his eyes except in rare circ*mstances. But he did run his thumb over the apple of their cheek, his eyes rooted on their face. “Darling, none of this was ever your fault. You… You couldn’t have known.”

And that was the loathsome truth. He hadn't consciously picked them because they were naive. But they fit his type perfectly. Young. Innocent. Sweet.

“But I hurt you,” they protested, even now, sitting in his arms. “I just went along with it, when I knew you weren’t fully there. I should have said something.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he said hollowly, because that was the second loathsome truth. “I’d have just doubled down, darling. And you don’t know…” His throat ached. “For two centuries, everyone I met thought of me in terms of sex, because that’s all I could let them see. And then you came along, and you… you saw me. I threw myself at you and you treated me like a friend. You are my friend. I’ve had so many lovers, a veritable parade, but a friend?” He smiled, pressing his nose to their hair. Their scent was almost floral tonight, clean and sharp after washing up in the river with real, actual soap. “Until you, not a single one.”

“Is that what you want?” Nanne asked softly. “To be friends?”

“Friends and more, my sweet.” Tilting up their chin, he looked into those emerald eyes. “I’m not about to let you start thinking that I don’t want to kiss you.”

They flushed, again, and he fixed the sight in his mind — if their face showed up in his trances tonight, it would be more than welcome. “You want a kiss right now?”

His answer was to lean down and press his lips to theirs. Just a simple peck; he wasn’t about to shove his tongue down their throat in front of the whole camp. But when they parted, Nanne had a dazed, nearly delirious smile on their face, as if he’d kissed them senseless. “Oh,” they whispered, and he bit back a laugh at how breathless they were. “That’s nice.”

“Mmm, yes it is,” he murmured sultrily. Then bit his lip as they frowned, leaning back. “I… Forgive me. It’s so easy to…” Slip. Fall back into old habits. Be afraid.

Yet instead of leaving, they laid their head back down on his shoulder. “It’s fine. And I… Is it bad to say that I like the flirting, sometimes?”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have deflowered you if you didn’t, now would I?”

Nanne snorted, and he half expected a thwack to his side — but it never came. Instead, they curled up against him, hands resting on the tops of their knees as his arm rested on their waist. “I still wish I could have helped you sooner.”

“And what I’m trying to tell you is that you did.” His fingers went back to stroking their hair, relishing the soft sigh of contentment that misted on his chest. “You made me see that I never stopped thinking like I was Cazador’s slave, even in freedom. And…” He took a deep breath. “It was because of you that I realized that I’m more than that. More than a thing to be used. That I don’t… I don’t have to get on my back for breadcrumbs ever again.”

“And I’ll never ask you to,” Nanne murmured.

It was a beautiful, touching thing to say — and very rudely interrupted by Nanne’s growling stomach.

He laughed. “Go on, now. I’m sure Gale’s managed to whip up something edible in this realm of horrors. Cursed mushroom stew, perhaps?”

Nanne chuckled, climbing to their feet. Then, curiously, they didn’t leave; instead, they extended their hands towards him, smiling. “Come on.”

He frowned. “Darling, you know I can’t eat.”

“No,” they said lightly. “But you can still sit with the rest of us. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Merely a tenday ago, he would have protested, cracked a joke about communal dinner cutting into his very important brooding time. But tonight, he followed Nanne, just their fingertips touching as they sat by the fire. “Well now,” Shadowheart said, dark eyes twinkling. “Look who’s joined us.”

“Ah, Astarion! I was wondering when you’d come round,” Gale cut in cheerily, ladling out bowls of what looked like… mush. Pleasant smelling mush, but mush. “And Nanne, as always, an extra serving.”

“Thanks, Gale,” Nanne said, taking the bowl with both hands. “It looks delicious.”

Astarion snorted — then paused as Karlach gave him a sour look. “Look Fangs, I know it’s not a nice bowl of blood, but Gale works hard to keep us fed.”

“I think he could stand to work a little harder, judging by that bowl’s contents.”

“The look of food has no effect on its taste,” Lae’zel said, shoveling her food into her mouth with military efficiency. “Nor its nutrients.”

“Ah, but it does affect the appetite,” Gale conceded, sitting down with his own bowl. Idly, Astarion noticed Nanne leaning against him again as they started to eat. Not a true cuddle by any means, but more contact than they’d ever shared with him in front of the others. “Once our unwelcome guests are evicted, I’d love to host everyone in my tower. I make a marvelous Hundur sauce! Perfect for roasts.”

“We’d love to take you up on that, Gale,” Wyll said kindly. “It’s been years since I’ve visited Waterdeep — or had a roast.”

“Gods, a roast,” Karlach sighed, a dreamy look on her face. “I could eat a whole cow by now.”

The conversation shifted as they ate, turning to different types of food. Apparently, githyanki actually ate miniature space hamsters, which was not a combination of words Astarion had ever expected to hear in his undeath. To his surprise, Nanne didn’t interject into the conversation much, even after they’d finished eating and scrubbed out their bowl. They seemed content to sit with him in silence, still leaning against him as the fire flickered.

Then, to Astarion’s embarrassment, Nanne whirled around to look him with a soft “Oh.” Their hand brushed his. “You must be hungry.”

He was hungry. He hadn’t had so much as a droplet of blood pass his lips for two days. Yet, to his shame, their words from before still swam around in his head. “Aren’t you hungry for something else, anything else?”

It was kind of them to say. But was it kindness that had prompted those words, or exhaustion and weariness? Was Nanne hoping that he’d say yes? The pendant he’d stolen from the Emerald Grove revitalized them and cured their blood loss, yes, but…

Astarion forced himself to smile. “Oh, it’s nothing, darling.”

He’d survived for far longer on far less. A few hunger pangs wouldn’t kill him. Hardly anything would.

Nanne’s lips, however, pursed together in a thin line of obvious disapproval. Astarion blinked as they looked at him for a long, long moment — or, well, at his mouth. It was one of the most intense stares he’d ever seen, and yet completely unthreatening. Strange.

With a soft little groan, they got up from the ground, then walked over to the fire. The camp went silent as Nanne stretched their upper body over the flames, craning their head to the side.

“Nanne, what are you doing?” Gale asked, utterly baffled.

Nanne… smirked? “I’m heating up dinner for Astarion.”

…What?

Karlach burst into uproarious laughter, slapping her knee so loud it made a deafening smack. “Awww! That's bloody romantic, soldier!”

“Do you not get tired of sacrificing your blood?” Lae’zel asked seriously, even as the others let out a few chuckles; Shadowheart was clearly trying to hide her laughter by clapping her hands over her mouth.

“No, not really,” Nanne said simply. “We’re a team, right? It’d be rude if one of us starved while the rest ate.”

“Ugh, don’t tell us we’re going to have to watch,” Shadowheart said dryly, though there was still a smirk on her lips. “I’d rather not see our darling bard turn into a husk right in front of us.”

“Oh no, that view is for my eyes only,” Astarion teased back.

“Speaking of,” Nanne said, stepping back from the fire. “We should get a headstart on sleep. We’re going to the Thorm Mausoleum tomorrow.” They turned, holding out their hands. “Ready for bed, Asta?”

Astarion chuckled, letting them pull him off the ground. Their grip was surprisingly sturdy. “You don’t need to ask twice, dear.”

Nanne rolled their eyes but otherwise didn’t say anything as they retreated into his — their — tent. Sitting down on their bedroll with a soft “oof”, they took off their boots, then their jacket. “Whenever you’re ready,” they said, looking up at him expectantly.

Astarion froze.

“I mean dinner,” Nanne quickly clarified. “For you. Do you want me to lay down? I can lay down.”

If he had actual warm blood in his belly, he would have flushed. “Oh. Er, yes, if you’d like.”

Yet they remained sitting, legs crossed. “Maybe, before you eat, we should talk about some things first?” they asked softly.

Astarion sat down on his own bedroll, leaning back on the heels of his hands. “Such as?” This whole night felt off kilter, in so many good and uncomfortable ways.

“The whole sex thing,” Nanne said, hands fidgeting in their lap. “I know that’s off the table, but what else?”

Ah. He swallowed, staring down at the patch of bedroll he could see between his legs. “I… I’m not sure.”

“You said kissing is okay. Do you like kissing?”

“With you, yes,” Astarion said softly, a fang digging into his lip idly. “And… The hug was lovely.”

It was nice that Nanne was even asking what he wanted. But therein laid the problem. It wasn’t like he’d tread this ground with anyone else. Even those that he brought back to Cazador that had been good and kind and innocent, the Sebastians of the world, they had just blithely gone along with whatever he suggested. And, more than that, the idea of going though a list of sex acts and crossing them off felt… stifling. Anxiety inducing.

The undeniable proof that he was broken.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know what I want.”

There. Not a concrete “no,” but also not a lie either. Just the simple, honest-to-gods, humiliating truth.

Because there was a part of him that did want to have sex with Nanne, even with his stomach twisting into knots and his palms cold and clammy at the very thought. It was what they deserved, wasn’t it? Being lavished with all the affection he’d so coldly and cruelly denied them, the affection that they’d been starved of their whole lives? And it wouldn’t… It wouldn’t be bad. Nanne was gorgeous, all soft warm skin and strong hands and sweet little gasps and whimpers. They’d never hurt him, not even unintentionally.

That was the problem. Even during that night in the woods when he hadn’t ever finished, the sex had never been awful or painful.

But it had never been good, either.

And Astarion wanted it to be good. He wanted the arousal to be real, the feelings to be real, the sounds pouring out of his lips to be real and not him Fading into nothing and performing. He wanted to get an erection because he was aroused, not because someone moved against his co*ck the right way. He wanted to finish not because he’d been stimulated enough, but because it was Nanne and he found real pleasure in their body. He wanted… He wanted to want sex, and intimacy, and all of the other bells and whistles that came along with whatever the hells this relationship was supposed to be.

He just had no idea how to get there.

“Maybe we just hug and kiss and hold hands,” Nanne said softly, yet simply, as if they were talking about dinner plans instead of how to navigate this wretched, awful minefield. “And I’ll ask if you want to.”

That was an answer that was just as humiliating as his confession. Hugs. Kisses. Holding hands. Such weak, meager crumbs compared to the feast he could give. Things that ordinary lovers shouldn’t even have to ask about. He opened his mouth to say that, that they didn’t need to ask, but the words died at the simple, pure sincerity in Nanne’s eyes.

“I’d like that,” he admitted, leaning forward and pressing his knees together.

“And, if things go… more,” Nanne said, a little awkwardly, “we can talk about it before? About what you’re okay with?”

He snorted. “What, like what safeword to use?”

“What’s a safeword?” Nanne asked.

Dear sweet gods.

“Yes, darling,” he said quickly, “that sounds very reasonable.”

Nanne’s eyes narrowed in suspicion for a moment, but let it drop. “Good. But for now, I like this. What we have.” Their voice came out soft, hesitating. “I think I’d like to take it slow too, for now.”

Oh.

Astarion’s cheeks couldn’t burn with shame, but his chest could clench. In the past, he’d always tried to phrase his behavior with innocents as a gift: the best night of sex they could possibly have before they died at Cazador’s hands. Going out with a bang, when he tried to put a humorous spin on it. He was so skilled at pleasuring others, after all. That was how he’d thought about it with Nanne: the best sex of their life, to ensure they’d never sell him out, never betray him. What more could they possibly want? Why trifle with the little things when he could give them the finest from the start?

But now he felt like he’d shoved a bottle of Blingdenstone Blush down their throat. It didn’t matter how sweet the wine tasted when you choked on it.

“Of course,” he said softly. “We… We can take it as slow as you would like.” Somehow, that was far easier than saying he wasn’t ready for sex.

Nanne smiled. “As slow as you’d like too. Promise?”

He blinked, then nodded. “I promise.”

“Good. Now, you’re hungry.” They eased back down into their bedroll, letting out a soft sigh as they stretched out. The invitation was clear as day, yet as Astarion crawled on his hands and knees to loom over them, he hesitated.

The first time he’d fed from Nanne, it had been like this: his body over theirs, feeling each jerk and twist of their frame beneath them as he clutched their head. He didn’t know how to feel about that. There hadn’t been any arousal that he could remember, but he’d been so overwhelmed by the taste of the blood of a thinking creature that he hadn’t even stopped to think about it. The thought of taking that same position, especially when they’d just finished talking about his wants, his limits…

Nanne’s head tilted slightly. Then they smiled, rolling up the sleeve of their shirt. “Here?” they asked, holding up their arm.

Swallowing down his relief, Astarion mumbled, “Thank you,” before kneeling at their side instead and biting down into the crook of their elbow.

There were a few disadvantages to feeding from Nanne while they were awake — the first being the soft but unmistakable gasp of pain as his fangs broke their skin and he took his first gulp. He froze, muscles tensing and straining, not daring to breathe. If he breathed, he wouldn’t be able to stop again.

“I’m okay,” Nanne whispered, “it’s okay, go ahead.”

Closing his eyes, Astarion took another deep pull from the artery, and this time Nanne’s sound was a soft exhale. Less pained, but still with a bit of tension, some discomfort. He almost pulled away, insisted they get some sleep, that he could try again while they were unconscious. But their taste was so intoxicating, their sweetness so flavorful yet delicate as it slid down his throat and into his stomach. In the back of his mind, he realized what was happening, his instincts taking over as he slipped into bloodlust. But… it didn’t seem like the right term. Lust implied an overwhelm, a frenzy of sensation and desire. Drinking from Nanne wasn’t overwhelming, it was soothing. Even on that night, sating a centuries-deep hunger, he’d felt a delirious sort of relief.

And he didn’t want it to stop.

Forcing his eyes open, he fumbled out with his free hand, awkwardly reaching for Nanne’s other arm while holding up the one he’d sank his teeth into. Nanne blinked, eyes dim and hazy, but slipped their hand into his proffered one, a simple but sweet smile curling up their lips as he interlaced their fingers.

Nanne’s hand squeezed his every so often as he drank and drank — at first, tightly, but then softer, just gentle presses of their fingertips between his knuckles. It was… nice. A completely different type of euphoria than their blood in his mouth. Sounds of his own began to pass his lips, thankfully muffled somewhat by the crook of their elbow. Little moans, soft sighs. A warmth pooled low in his belly, but nothing like arousal; his co*ck didn’t strain in his trousers. No, this was… it was intimate, but in a way that he’d never used the word for before. It wasn’t just swallowing their blood, it was accepting it as a gift. Their life, willingly offered for his sake, freely taken with no expectation.

When he pulled back, licking away the drops that welled to the surface of Nanne’s skin, the flush that his body had tried to summon all night burned in full force.

The expression on Nanne’s face was hazy, eyes heavily lidded. But not in desire, despite how they looked just as flushed as he felt. It was… sleepy. Content. As if they’d just woken from a nap, still coming alive to the world around them.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered hoarsely.

Nanne didn’t speak. They simply squeezed his hand again, nodding with a lazy smile.

When he crawled over them, he felt none of the anxiety that had pooled inside of him before. That sweet, gentle warmth eased it all away as he slipped his free hand under their head and lifted it up from the bedroll. Fingers curling in soft hair, he leaned down and kissed them. Not the chaste, simple peck he’d given them just a few hours earlier, not with tongue and teeth as he’d done during sex. A… real kiss. Their lips moving together, their chests brushing together, heat radiating between them, but not overflowing.

When he pulled back, he looked at Nanne, truly looked at them — then smiled as he kissed the scar on the corner of their mouth.

Then, he realized with a start, that by kissing them so fully, he’d just smeared their own blood all over their mouth. “sh*t,” he murmured, reaching for one of his blankets. “Here, darling—” But Nanne just giggled, eyes squeezing shut and head shaking with mirth as he tried his best to wipe their face, and his own, clean. “There,” he sighed, smoothing back their hair. “Much better.”

Their giggles died down as they looked up at him. “Happy?” they asked, squeezing his hand again.

The question made his throat burn — but he nodded.

“Good. I think… I think I’m going to sleep now,” they murmured with a yawn, rolling onto their side. They moved slowly, too sluggishly as they peeled back their blankets, and Astarion hastily reached for his pendant, pressing it to their skin. A burst of green light later, and their face glowed again, motions far more steady. “Oh. Thanks,” they said, smiling sweetly up at him.

“Lae’zel asked a good question, you know,” he found himself saying. “Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Feeding you? No.” Nanne eased into their bedroll, snuggling in until the blanket came up to their chin. To give them their space, he moved to his own bedroll — then paused as they still held out their hand.

After slipping beneath the fur lined cover, he took it, fingers interlacing. “It hurts, though,” he murmured softly. Already the camp had gone quiet, a false sort of serenity. “And you look… drained, after.” He took a deep breath. “It can’t be pleasant.”

Cazador had drained him, the night he’d been Turned. He couldn’t remember it fully — not just from the dulling of his memories, but because his mind immediately shirked away from the thought whenever he tried to recall it. It was all tied up in pain and rage and the all consuming terror of knowing that he was going to die. The physical sensation, he couldn’t recall, but the emotions? Cazador had been excellent at summoning those same emotions over, and over, and over again. Not to the same intensity, not with the knowledge that he couldn’t die, and Cazador would never truly kill him. But a burn was a burn, and it could still hurt, even if it didn’t char all the way down to the bone.

It couldn’t be the same for Nanne, because they’d never go through with this otherwise. But the look on their face as he’d fed hadn’t been one of stifled pain. It had been… relaxed. Calm.

“It does hurt, at first,” Nanne admitted sleepily. “It’s cold. Best way I can put it. But then it all goes numb, and…” Their lips twitched up, cheeks still rosy. “I feel you there. Like I’m lying there with you, and there’s a warm fire, and I’m about to fall asleep. It’s not bad.”

Lying together — like they had last night. Like they would in the future. Oddly enough, the way Nanne described it made perfect sense. It was still different for him, more exhilarating than just sharing a cuddle. But maybe, because it was freely given instead of taken, feeding from them wasn’t a burden. It could be better.

Safe.

“Good night, Asta,” Nanne mumbled, fingers still loosely entwined with his.

“Good night, darling,” he whispered back, closing his eyes as he matched their breathing and slipped into his trance.