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She's good. 她很厉害。

It's the first thought that flits through Astarion's mind as the woman's head jerks back his way, the boar forgotten as she catches sight of the knife in his hand. Few could spot a trick of his in the midst of it unfolding. Fewer still could dodge the first strike. Still, whatever seedy life had given her those reflexes, they were no match for the speed of a vampire. By the time Astarion had steel beneath the drow's pretty neck he'd convinced himself it was only the sun that had given her an edge. He'd forgotten how blinding the blasted thing could be.
这是阿斯塔里昂脑海中闪过的第一个念头，当那女人的头猛地转向他时，野猪被遗忘了，因为她看到了他手中的刀。很少有人能在这一切展开的过程中识破他的把戏。更少有人能躲过第一击。尽管如此，无论她的反应能力是怎样的，都是无法与吸血鬼的速度相匹敌的。当阿斯塔里昂的刀刃抵在那位黑暗精灵的美丽脖颈下时，他已经说服自己，只有阳光才给了她一些优势。他忘记了那该死的阳光是多么刺眼。

"Shh. Not a sound." “嘘。别出声。”

Old habits, truly, to couch a threat in a lover's whisper; to slip his legs between hers without a hint of hesitation, the bold invitation morphing into a restraint. Why someone like her was working with those tentacled freaks was beyond him but then, Astarion knew well that monstrous things often came in pretty packaging. Tangled blonde hair. A sharp scar across her lips. Skin the color of a blue flax flower, far lighter in shade than he'd ever seen on a drow before. Then again, Astarion had only bedded a few, none of which smelled of soot with a cool smear of grass.
旧习惯，真是如此，用爱人的低语来掩盖威胁；毫不犹豫地将他的腿滑入她的腿间，那个大胆的邀请变成了束缚。像她这样的人为什么会和那些触手怪物合作让他感到困惑，但阿斯塔里昂很清楚，怪物的东西往往包装得很漂亮。纠结的金发。嘴唇上有一道锋利的伤疤。皮肤的颜色像蓝色亚麻花，比他见过的任何黑暗精灵都要浅得多。话说回来，阿斯塔里昂只和几个黑暗精灵上过床，没有一个闻起来像烟灰，带着一丝草的清香。

"I need her alive. Stow that blade or I'll show you just how messy things can get!"
我需要她活着。收起那把刀，否则我会让你见识到事情有多糟糕！

"Promises, promises." 承诺，承诺。

Strange companion too. Oh, despite his flippant words Astarion had no doubt that the dark-haired woman was a threat, but they both knew she could do nothing so long as he had steel in hand — and she was foolish enough to admit to her needs. Funny though, despite the magic crackling at her fingertips, it was the drow Astarion kept his eye on. Even immobile she radiated a tension that made him... wary.
奇怪的同伴。哦，尽管阿斯塔里昂口中轻浮的话语，他毫不怀疑那个黑发女人是个威胁，但他们都知道，只要他手中握有钢铁，她就无能为力——而她愚蠢到承认自己的需求。虽然有趣的是，尽管她的指尖闪烁着魔法，阿斯塔里昂却将目光锁定在那个黑暗精灵身上。即使不动，她也散发出一种让他...警惕的紧张感。

He hadn't been wary of anyone but Cazador in a long, long time.
很长一段时间以来，他对任何人都没有像对卡扎多那样的警惕。

Remembering his Master, even for a moment, sent a cool shiver down his spine, followed by every muscle tensing as one. Astarion waited for the inevitable pull at the back of his mind, the ever-present need to return when venturing about without orders. It never came, and for one bright, wild moment Astarion questioned what in the Hells he was doing. He was free. He was basking in the sun as he hadn't in centuries...and he was risking both miracles by threatening the very creatures that had given him them in the first place.
即使只是一瞬间，想起他的主人也让他脊背发凉，随之而来的是每一块肌肉如同一体般紧绷。阿斯塔里昂等待着脑海深处不可避免的牵引，那种在没有命令时外出时始终存在的归属感。它从未出现，短暂而狂野的一刻，阿斯塔里昂质疑自己在地狱里究竟在做什么。他是自由的。他在阳光下沐浴，仿佛几个世纪以来从未有过……而他却因威胁那些最初给予他奇迹的生物而冒着风险。

Of course, miracles didn't exist. Tit for tat, darling. However the worms had given him these priceless gifts, they'd want something even more precious in return. The fact that Astarion couldn't even begin to conceive of what that might be didn't make it any less true. Payment was a fact of life. Or afterlife, as his case may be. Dead didn't mean invulnerable.
当然，奇迹是不存在的。以牙还牙，亲爱的。然而，虫子给了他这些无价的礼物，他们想要的回报却是更珍贵的东西。阿斯塔里昂甚至无法开始想象那可能是什么，这并没有让事实变得不真实。支付是生活的一个事实。或者说是来世，视他的情况而定。死并不意味着无懈可击。

As if reading his mind the drow suddenly jerked, surprising Astarion with a powerful elbow to the ribs. He instinctively locked his legs in an attempt to keep her still, banking on the blade at her throat doing the rest of the work, but she arched and slipped under the blasted thing, taking the shallow cut with barely a blink. The woman gracefully rolled to her feet and caught the staff her companion threw to her. Then she merely stared, blood slipping down her neck in a lovely stream.
仿佛读懂了他的心思，黑暗精灵突然猛地一动，用强有力的肘部撞击了阿斯塔里昂的肋骨。他本能地锁住双腿，试图让她保持静止，寄希望于她喉咙上的刀能完成剩下的工作，但她却弓起身子，滑过那把该死的刀，几乎没有眨眼就接受了那道浅浅的伤口。那女人优雅地翻身站起，接住了她的同伴扔给她的法杖。然后她只是盯着，鲜血顺着她的脖子流下，形成了一道美丽的溪流。

Astarion might have admired the skill with which she'd just slipped her bonds.

He might have been envious of the coordination these two shared, something he knew was born only of hardship, yet it was something had never experienced among his so-called 'siblings.'

In short, Astarion might have been impressed. He might have been anything if he weren't so hungry.

"Well," he said, huffing out a shallow laugh.

"Well, indeed," the drow agreed. She had a deep voice that fit her muscular physique, though it was soft and a bit scratchy, like she too hadn't spoken much in recent years. There was also the distinct thread of an accent. "I am Tala and if you had allowed me to speak before you attacked, I would have told you we are not with those... things."

"Ah, but would I have believed you, darling?"

The other woman's eyes narrowed. Perhaps at the endearment, perhaps at the annoyance of him being right. Astarion flashed her a quick, closed-mouthed smile.

"We can still kill him," she said.

"This is Shadowheart. She is very pleased to meet you."

"Shar save us."

“Oh, I think we’re far past any hope of that.” He swept into a low, mocking bow before Shadowheart—Gods, what a name! —could fix him in place with that glare. “Astarion, decidedly not at your service, though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to watch each other’s backs given the circumstances, hmm?”

Tala’s lips twitched. “Agreed.”

Astarion stowed his blade in good faith, though not before swiping his thumb along the edge, collecting a single drop of blood along the way. She wouldn't miss it, but to Astarion it was a song he hadn't heard sung in years.

Under the guise of wiping sweat from his brow he took a taste. Astarion felt his eyes dilate, his nostrils flare, and the deaf could have caught the growl that slipped from his throat. Tala's gaze snapped his way, but by then he already had a reassuring smile fixed in place.

"Like what you see, darling? I can't blame you, though I'm afraid we have more pressing matters at the moment, do we not?"

With a huff and a strangely affectionate eye-roll Tala marched off, practically dragging Shadowheart with her. Astarion traced the curve of her arm down to the narrow tapering of a bruised wrist. He could see her pulse pounding from here.

By nature, Astarion was a creature of patience. Even so, it took all his willpower not to devour her then and there.

༺═────────────═༻

Back in the dirt he’d thought that Tala’s moves had been so precise, so fluid, that it was like she was reading his mind. Then, mere yards from where they’d met, the blasted drow actually did.

He’d looked out over the burning landscape of their wreckage, eyes flitting to the whip of Shadowheart’s hair, then to Tala’s gaze as she turned, saying something about druids nearby and—

He was stalking the streets of a seedier part of Baldur’s gate. No, he was sauntering. Head high, body open and welcome, Astarion trailed pale fingers along the brick until the sleeve of his shirt fell away, the merest hint of flesh that said ‘follow, follow me’—

“—no matter the personal cost.” Cazador gazed out over the city, not bothering to look his way. Astarion kept his head pressed to the stone. “After all, you wish to please me don’t—?”

“—touch me!” he howled, but the tentacled freak didn’t even blink. Could it blink? Gods, what a ridiculous thought; a stupid and useless thought as he was dragged towards some pod-like structure, a prison, a coffin, and oh he knew coffins so very well—

Astarion’s whole body jerked, very nearly sending him to his knees. He kept his feet though and did his best not to show his fangs as he bared his teeth in a grimace: part pain, mostly horror.

“What the bloody Hells was that!”

“Some kind of resonance,” Shadowheart said. Amazingly, there was no bite in her voice, only a resigned exhaustion. “We’ve felt it too. If nothing else, it proves you’ve got one of those things in your head, so something you’ve said is true.”

“Oh, I’m so glad I could reassure you by having a fucking parasite shoved into my eye!”

The thoughts came in wave after wave, laden with curses, and incomprehensible beyond the panic that these people could read his mind. Even Cazador never had that power and if Astarion couldn’t deny these strangers that then he needed to get away, far away, and—

No. No, no, no. He needed to kill them. Eliminate the threat they posed and then gouge that wiggling bastard out with the nearest sharp object. He was weakened, but so were they, and wargs would fly before two nobody fighters took out a vampire spawn. All he needed was to incapacitate the Shar slave first and then he’d be free to bite the…

…the hand?

There was a hand on his arm.

The drow—Tala—gripped him tight. She did not restrain him, but merely offered a steady counterbalance to his shaking limbs. Her own arm was likewise weak with fatigue, grimy, so unnaturally blue against the paleness of his skin. Astarion stared at the difference, briefly hypnotized by the contrast.

“Are you okay?” Tala asked. Astarion slowly pulled his arm out of her grip. The fact that he could was the only thing that kept his knife out of her neck. 

"Oh, I'm fine," he hissed. "You should worry about your own pretty head." 

He marched off, entirely unsure of where he was going, knowing only that he had to put some distance between himself and these new... friends. He was calmer now. Astarion's mind was clearer and more importantly, his own. They would live—for now—because if he'd learned anything over years of servitude and survival, it was that a dead pawn was a useless pawn. Within an hour or two you couldn't even drink the damn thing. 

Astarion licked his lips, tongue catching on a tapered fang. Gods he was hungry. 

A few seconds later he heard two footfalls following behind him. 

A second after that Shadowheart spoke, her tone more disgusted than teasing: 

"He thinks you're pretty." 

༺═────────────═༻

Later that night they pitched camp and Tala scrounged three piles of leaves together, reminiscent of bedrolls. Astarion felt his eyebrows raise as she arranged them in a triangular knot around the fire, each of their feet nearly close enough to touch another's head, like they were siblings who could not bear to be separated, even in sleep. He didn't bother to hide his scowl. She, apparently, didn't bother to hide that she'd noticed. 

"It is safer this way," she said, simple confidence oozing from her words. "I can speak only for myself, but I doubt I will get much sleep tonight, despite my exhaustion. I will watch my corner of the camp and I suspect you two will do the same. Nothing will sneak up on us. Though if something manages it, we will be together, all our weapons in easy reach, the light of the fire to guide our strikes." Tala smiled a little, almost teasing. "Being close also keeps us warm." 

Astarion scoffed, raising hands into the balmy air. "It's not exactly cold out."

"No? You seemed awfully chilled, even in the sun." 

He resisted the urge to snap that she couldn't have possibly felt his skin through the thick material of his doublet, knowing very well that a vampire's unnatural temperature could permeate clothing. It would only draw more attention to himself. 

"You are awfully observant," he said instead, certain that his tone had carried it as an insult, not a compliment. So why was the blasted woman still smiling? 

"Yes. I have had to be." 

Tala began humming then, a strange, meandering tune that Astarion would bet was an improvisation. How annoying. Grating, even. He waited for Shadowheart to snap at Tala to keep quiet, or for either woman to look his way again, and when neither did Astarion let out a strangely frustrated breath. Tala continued fussing with a leaf pile. His, he assumed, if the lack of personal affects was any indicator. 

It left a low, simmering anger in the pit of his gut. How dare this thing pretend to know his needs? To care? 

"What strange companions I've found myself with," he finally said, the words slipping out with too much truth behind them. 

Shadowheart snorted, laying down with one arm tucked behind her head. "Looked in a mirror lately?" 

If Astarion had known then and there that one day they would fully understand the irony in her comment—accept it, revel in it—he would have fled into the deepest forests of Faerun and never emerged, not even when the parasite began to take him. 

As it was, Astarion sat in the space Tala had vacated, dignified in his silence. He convinced himself he couldn't feel the patch of warmth she'd left behind. 

The leaves were softer than a coffin. They smelled fresh; nothing like the stink of bodies that permeated Cazador's deepest dungeons. If only for a night they were his, gifted by a stranger who laid down with her head at Astarion's feet. Somehow, the choice didn't come off as the act of a subordinate. If anything, this was Tala's group that she had cobbled together, her choice of camp, her offers of comfort, and her strategies of safety, should it come to that. 

It didn't. Exhausted by their escape the women slept, eventually. Astarion meditated. 

And for the first night in years, he did not dream. 

༺═────────────═༻

How in the Hells had they increased this freak show? 

Less than a week later their little piles of leaves had been replaced by bedrolls—gifted or simple stolen—and the number was now too large for them all to fit around the fire. Somehow, they'd picked up a collection of victims even stranger than their initial trio of monk, cleric, and (masterfully hidden) vampire. There was Gale, a self-proclaimed genius at the arcane arts and Lae'zel, an Astarion-proclaimed danger. Too often he'd caught her watching him with toad-like eyes, none-too subtly sharpening her sword. Well, if she ever wished to test her skills against something tougher than the gnolls they'd encountered, he would be happy to oblige her. 

Stranger still was the celebrated hero who'd joined their party—the famed Blade of Frontiers! —and the literal devil he'd been hunting, a tiefling named Karlach who, astoundingly, laughed about her time in the Hells. Astarion watched them all, the small part of him not disgusted by the frivolity standing amazed at the skill displayed in so small a space. Oh, not that he would ever admit it aloud, but even their most prideful residents had titles and talents to back that pride up. Whatever those tentacled-freaks' plan was, it involved a higher quality victim than the commoners of Faerun. Powerful casters, defenders of Baulder's Gate, beings from other realities entirely... it made one anxious, thinking about the purpose behind consolidating and transforming such a group. 

At least, such thoughts should have been his primary concern. Were he the magnanimous sort, which Astarion certainly was not. No, he cared only about his own survival, his immediate survival, in fact, which meant that even more than carving that wiggling thing out of his brain, any and all introspection was devoted to food. 

Specifically, the blasted lack of it. 

"We're eating good tonight!" Karlach said, plopping so hard down on their shared log that Astarion felt like he was about to fly off it. Looking down at the odd fare they'd collected that day, he supposed he could see the appeal. Remember the taste of it even, dim as that memory was. There was some bread and hard cheeses, cured meats, fish that was only just this side of fresh —currently smoking over a makeshift spit—a couple of pears Wyll had sliced and arranged in a stunning flower design, and, of course, plenty of alcohol to go around. The clinking of bottles was as consistent as the crackling of the fire and Astarion pursed his lips, knowing a snide comment was rising and entirely unable to stop it. 

"Really? I was under the impression that our generous leader had set aside most of our spoils. As donations." 

"There's still plenty left," Gale chided him, poking at the charred fish. Astarion honestly couldn't tell if all the prodding accomplished something. "I feel ridiculous saying it, but we're blessed to have come across so much, especially when those at the Grove have to do without. Plus, you all are doubly blessed to have such a talented cook in your midst!" 

"Hear, hear!" Karlach lifted her bottle in a toast, splashing some onto Astarion's doublet in the process. He scowled and in the brief chaos he was probably the only one who caught Lae'zel quiet "Blessed?" across the fire, followed by a disgusted spit. 

"Besides, the tieflings only need 'donations,' as you call it, because the druids refuse to spare even a small portion of their plenty." Finished with his arrangement, Wyll passed the plate to Shadowheart with an overly gallant bow. She rolled her eyes. "We have had the chance to learn from their mistakes, and so we shall." 

Throughout all this Tala had kept quiet, but at that she bowed her head, the firelight glinting off a small smile, and she echoed Karlach's "Hear, hear."  

She was the first to offer Astarion his share. 

A plate, lifted from an abandoned home and carefully cleaned, loaded with offerings to tempt the living. She had stacked the food so that most of it was balanced into tiny bites: bread, a slice of meat, then pear, and some of the drippings from Gale's still-cooking fish. Truly a feast for the eyes. Astarion took the plate with his own mocking bow and set about the chore of chewing and swallowing. 

Gods, but he was starving. 

Vampires could eat, but it was only as authentic as their breathing, or the beating of their hearts: monotonous tasks one had to think about to maintain the illusion. Astarion's job had demanded that he become quite skilled in the art, so it was no real hardship to scoop, chew, and swallow where, inside, his body would literally burn the food away. The hollow, ash-like taste of it didn't even make him wince anymore; hadn't in decades. Yes. An almost smile. A noise that suggested approval. Even placing one hand near his stomach when the meal was done, as if there were any satisfaction there. Astarion could eat, but he needed to feed. Blood sang around the fire and he couldn't drink a single damned drop. 

They'd found the boar. 

He'd gotten sloppy. Worse, he'd grown trusting, like the world had offered him enough breaks this last week that he could afford to let down his guard. In truth, it was mostly stupidity. Astarion had assumed that no one would pay any mind to a dead animal amidst a whole forest of dead and dying animals, especially when they themselves were living on borrowed time... but of course Tala had. 

Observant little minx. 

Although, there wasn't much little about her. Side-eyeing the woman across the fire, Astarion noted the defined muscles of her arms and the strong thighs taking up twice the space of Shadowheart. The only one who dwarfed Tala in size was Karlach, though the drow possessed far more grace. It must be her training. Astarion had not forgotten the ease with which she'd bested him in the dirt and he knew, somehow, that the image—the feel of it—would not leave him any time soon. The woman was danger packed into a soft-spoken package and that alone was why he hadn't gone for a deeper taste of her blood; an entree to follow the tease of a smeared blade. 

Astarion swallowed. Each night his instincts became harder to hide and he grappled with any suitable, long-term plan. Killing them all was no longer an option, not now that their numbers had grown to the point of a party, and much as he hated to admit it, Astarion wasn't sure he could survive all this nonsense on his own. He needed protection, Tala's specifically, but continuing to sneak off and gorge himself on animals was simply asking to be found out—and that, Astarion knew, was an invitation for a stake in his chest come morning. Besides, the wildlife had grown sparse around the grove and somehow he didn't think the druids would take kindly to him drying up one of their bears. 

Food to live. Allies to live. Allies who couldn't know about his particular preferences in food. The only choice then was to make the allies his food. 

It should be easy. Well, easier than much of what they'd accomplished in recent days. Few knew that a vampire's bite could be many things to many people: unfathomably painful, euphoric... or nearly nonexistent. Their venom was a malleable thing and with just a twist of his thoughts Astarion could ensure that his victim had little memory of his late-night snack. Any that formed would be so fuzzy as to be attributed to a dream. They were getting in fights on the daily now—most of which had absolutely nothing to do with them, he would like to add—but so long as Tala's golden heart led them deeper into danger, the group as a whole would suffer the consequences. Exhaustion. Blood loss. Whoever would suspect a vampire for their ills when they’d already been bleeding out that afternoon? 

All Astarion had to do was ensure that he didn't punction too deep—and that his prey didn't get the best of him. 

Tala already had. Crossing her again would be a mistake. 

Except, who else was there? He didn't fancy acquiring burns along with his meal, so the oversized child sitting beside him was immediately out. As was the toad—Hells only knew what Githyanki blood would do to him—and though Astarion couldn't say what, there was something distinctly wrong with the wizard. The fool had tried to play the hero two days past and taken a blow meant for Lae'zel. He'd received a large gash to his arm, as well as the threat of a deeper laceration should he ever interfere like that again. Nothing that Shadowheart's magic and a few soothing words from Tala couldn't fix. But in the moments between, when the blood had soaked Gale's robe and the wind carried the scent his way, Astarion caught the intense wrongness of it; something deep and putrid and ancient, though fuck if that made any sense. All Astarion knew for sure was that touching the stuff was foolhardy and drinking it downright insane. He'd sooner starve than sink his teeth into the wizard's neck. 

That left the cleric and newly-minted devil, neither of which was terribly appetizing to him, even now. Shadowheart in particular posed a problem. Astarion didn't think that drinking from a cleric would immediately set him aflame, but his instincts hissed at getting so close to holy power, and should she wake... 

He shuddered. No. Absolutely not. 

Wyll might have been the best of bad options if the blasted man ever slept. Ever since that demoness' visit from the bowls of the Hells he'd taken to wandering the forest through the night, returning at dawn bleary-eyed, but smiling. Given his continued proficiency in battle, Astarion assumed that late night angst-fests weren't new to their Blade. He'd be mildly impressed if that hadn't denied him a decent meal these last few days. It was too risky to stalk the warlock and his presence made hunting any nearby game that much harder... 

"Fuck," Astarion muttered. 

"Something wrong?" Tala asked. She was collecting plates as she spoke, carefully scraping the remains into the fire before, Astarion knew, carting it all to the nearby river for a wash. Honestly, what woman of her skill and sheer prominence went around acting like a maid? 

Astarion flashed her a smile—closed-lipped, of course. "Oh nothing, darling. Just mourning the end of an excellent meal." 

Gale waved a spoon at him. "Don't be greedy now. They'll be plenty more tomorrow." He grimaced. "Hopefully." 

Yes. Very early tomorrow, in fact. 

There was nothing for it. Tala remained the best, most enticing morsel for Astarion to sample. Skilled she might be, but he knew her tricks now and would not be caught off guard a second time. If anything, she was the one who had let her guard down. Soft and trusting, he'd overwhelm her as she slept and Astarion would be full of sentient blood for the first time in—

He sucked in a breath. Salivating, Astarion resisted the urge to bear his fangs and leap upon the drow then and there. 

A long time. A very long time. 

"Who's tired?" he asked. Astarion stretched and faked a yawn, fangs hidden behind one carefully placed hand.  

༺═────────────═༻

She woke up. 

The blasted, fucking, Hells-bound, Gods-abandoned, shit-for-brains drow woke up. 

Astarion would have screamed in frustration if he weren't so terrified. 

For the first time in days hunger was driven back by a more immediate concern. Tala stared up at him, confusion clouding her eyes, but it would only be a moment before she sounded the alarm. Astarion could take her—maybe—but not the whole camp, and killing her quietly would still raise too much suspicion, and he couldn't weather those tentacled freaks on his own, and it wouldn't fucking matter what the Mindflayers were up to if the party burned him at the stake—

Astarion realized his breathing was too loud. He didn't need to breathe, yet the roar of ragged breaths filled his ears. He could feel Tala's body beneath his, still oddly relaxed, but a sudden jolt sent him scrambling backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. 

"No—no it's—it’s not what it looks like. I wasn't going to hurt you! I—I just needed... blood." 

What possessed him to tell the truth, Astarion would never know. He could have told any number of plausible lies, though selling them with his hands shaking and his knees weak would have been a task. Tala's eyes widened, then narrowed, and Astarion resisted the urge to fall to his knees as he would have for Cazador. Running was safer. After all, begging had never saved him before and Tala would be no different. 

...right? 

A sliver of Astarion's mind questioned why she hadn't reached for her weapon yet, or called for help. Instead, Tala continued staring at him, keen eyes skittering over his body, her gaze insistent... but not hostile. Instead, it was with a genuine curiosity that she said, "You're a vampire."  

He took a step backwards. 

"Yes, but it's not what you think. I'm not some monster." Yes, I am. "I feed off of animals. Boars, deer, kobolds—" Rats. "But I'm slow right now. Weak. If I just had a little bit of blood I could think clearer, fight better..." 

It hardly escaped Astarion's notice that he was throwing every excuse in the book at her, just hoping one of them would stick. From a promised harmlessness to appealing to their leader's practical nature, he tossed each like a clumsy, if sufficiently sharp knife, though Gods only knew if any landed. Tala was a near expressionless statue under the moonlight, only a calculating gleam in her eyes—and a body carefully angled towards her staff—that gave her thoughts away. 

Desperate, ready to run, Astarion hurled his final weapon. 

"You can trust me." 

"...I know." 

It slipped between them as easy as a night breeze. For once in his undead life Astarion was grateful that his heart did not beat. That saved it stopping just now.

As if in a dream he inched closer. A literal inch across the divide. Astarion heard the words and only realized a beat later that he'd been the one to say them. 

"Perhaps you'd be willing to take that trust a little further?" 

She was. She did. Tala stretched back out onto her cot and bared her neck with such ease you'd think she'd fed a hundred vampires across a hundred years. There was something positively wanton about the act and it had nothing to do with her reclined position, or sleep clothes, or the private stillness of the camp. Instead, intimacy oozed out of how relaxed she was, every muscle in her body a river that flowed, but did not freeze. Astarion knelt over her prone form with fangs protruding in the moonlight and Tala smiled. She truly did trust him. 

Gods. This woman was stupid. 

Lucky him. 

Astarion drank his fill with abandon, semi-euphoric after years—no, decades —without the blood of an intelligent creature on his tongue. The heady feeling engulfed him, blocking out all other sensations. Astarion paid no mind to the feeling of a fit body slotted against his own, the obscene near-grinding motion as he tried to get closer, drink more, feed faster. He was not aware of the rough nature of Tala's hair gripped tight between his fingers; the locks gone too long without a wash. Her stuttered breathing right up against his ear. The smell of sweat and ground-in grime. Her hand, tentative as a bird, perching briefly on his shoulder. Astarion felt none of it as her lifeblood poured into him. 

But he felt it later. 

When the high was gone and the shock that she'd do this again—willingly! —had lost its edge, Astarion returned to the memory as a drunk would the fine remembrance of an ale. Except when he laid down at night and looked to the stars, it was not the taste of her blood that his mind wandered back to, no matter how exquisite a vintage it had been. No, it was the solid weight of her body under his. The texture of her hair. One hand on his shoulder, just resting. The last detail burned like a brand through his nightshirt and Astarion raised his own to mirror it, squeezing until pain bloomed. 

Astarion stared at the stars rather than Tala across the fire. He could still feel her touch through the pain. 

"Shit," he whispered. 

༺═────────────═༻

"Stop,” she said.

Astarion froze. 

Beneath him Tala shifted until she was no longer trapped against the tree trunk. A lithe mass, she contorted until she was just to his side, chin up, eyes glinting with what moonlight shifted through the trees. Astarion couldn't read her expression. Hells, he couldn't fathom what was going through that head of hers most of the time, but especially now because never once in his decades of seduction had he gone in for a kiss and been told to stop. 

(Astarion had said the word plenty. No one had ever heeded it. That he was gifting Tala something he himself had never been given should have made him hate her all the more.

It didn't.) 

"Stop?" he asked, and was proud that his voice didn't shake, displaying the depths of his uncertainty. There were rules to these interactions. They played their parts. There was a script. Tala wasn't following the script. 

"Why, darling," he flashed a winning smile. "We've hardly even begun." 

Everything up until now had played out precisely as he'd planned. Despite her strange personality and their stranger circumstances, Tala had responded just like any other prey. A blush here. An admission there. He'd reeled her in with honeyed words, fleeting touch, and the illusion of that trust she'd put her faith in until they were here, far from camp, him without a shirt and her without reservations. 

Or so he'd thought. 

Astarion resisted the urge to flinch under her gaze. 

But Tala suddenly quirked that small smile, as if to reassure. "We are moving a bit fast." 

Astarion blinked. Fast? A second later he realized he'd said that aloud and added a scoff. "I regret to inform you that we've been positively glacial." 

"Glacial?" 

"Yes. Slow as an ice melt and twice as cold. Although, I'm more than willing to help warm us up a bit..." 

A ridiculous suggestion given that his own skin was freezing, though the smoldering line had never failed him before. Astarion leaned in closer, rakish grin pinned to his face—

—and stopped at a single hand laid against his bare chest. 

Fuck. She was warm. 

"Why?" Tala asked. 

Astarion spluttered. "Why what?" 

"Why do you think that is the only way to keep warm?" 

He felt like he'd taken a tumble and fallen into another dimension entirely, one where the rules of a lifetime and a death three times as long just didn't apply. Getting into Tala's good graces had been easy, staying there child's play after the clusterfuck that was his first feed, and yet Astarion wasn't willing to trust his continued existence to the flimsy nature of friendship. Better to seduce her and craft an iron emotional chain, one she wouldn't realize had rusted until these damn parasites were delt with and he was far, far away. 

How infuriating then that she wouldn't let him. 

"Darling," he tried again, raising a hand to gently sweep a bit of hair out of her eyes. "I assure you that I have ample experience in—" 

Tala grinned. 

With sudden, horrifying speed she snatched the hand he'd had up near her face, tugging him down and to the side. Right when Astarion thought his head was about to hit the tree his legs were swept out from underneath him, his whole body plummeting down, near perfectly horizontal. He felt warm appendages latch around his shoulders and knees, the world turned, and with a landing far softer than it should have been he found himself seated against the tree, waiting for the rest of the forest to stop spinning. 

Tala was beneath him. 

Slowly, she spread her legs so that Astarion settled fully onto the ground between them and her arms came up, hands in view as she laid them gently in his lap. Her body was loose now. Like the first touch she'd ever given him, Astarion knew he could pull away and she'd do nothing to stop him. He could see anything that came their way now, he knew where her hands were, she was pinned against the tree... Astarion sucked in a sharp breath as he realized that the minx had manipulated him into... what? Being comfortable? 

Tala laid her chin against his shoulder. Astarion could barely feel the point of it, but the position ensured that her chest was now entirely flush against his bare back. Then she began to hum. That stupid, meandering tune reverberating through his body. 

He should have made a beeline back for the camp. Or better yet, turned and caught Tala's mouth against his in a bruising kiss, finally kickstarting what they'd fucking come out here to do. Astarion needed her dependent on him, weakened by sentiment, not controlling him like—

Stop. 

Astarion thought the word. He even parted his lips slightly, preparing to air it—demand it—but all that slipped out was a shaking, full-body sigh that had him suddenly looking down, unable to risk meeting her gaze. In response, all Tala did was gently take one of his hands in hers. Astarion felt a calloused thumb exploring his knuckles and bit hard into his lower lip, willing that incessant shaking to stop. 

Stop. Stop, stop, stop. 

He directed the command at his body, at his thoughts, at the ghost of Cazador trying to sneak between the two of them but not quite finding room. Astarion did not, however, direct it at Tala. 

She might have actually stopped if he had. 

Instead, they sat until the sun rose, humming and shaking, until he felt warm enough to stand.

༺═────────────═༻

"What the hells are you doing to me?" 

Astarion could now freely admit that he was more terrified of Tala than the parasite in his head. At least he knew what to expect from the latter. 

This though... 

"I can scribe it for you," she said. 

He had no doubt that his little drow knew precisely what she was doing and yet never once had Tala voiced the strange... intimacy that had befallen them post-their night in the woods. The fact that it sounded so untoward yet was decidedly not rankled unexpectedly. As did, despite nothing truly having happened between them, that Astarion was loath to describe the experience to any of the others. Karlach had whooped and grinned and sent saucy winks their way after they'd come stumbling back into camp, Astarion's shirt rumpled and his heart stuttering for all the wrong reasons. He'd hissed at the tiefling to mind her tongue, knowing all the while that her endless smiles must be a lie. No one lived in the Hells that long and escaped them with such joy at their fingertips. Astarion certainly hadn't. 

What are you doing, boy? Cazador whispered. Baring yourself before this creature all so that you can, what? Find some way to beat me? Free yourself of me? You know that's not possible. Hmm. So then perhaps you do this because you like it. Is that it, Astarion? Do you wish to kneel before this woman instead? 

"Then hurry up!" he barked. 

Tala merely shook her head, pressing one hand hard into Astarion's shoulder in a clear order to stay, hold still, good boy. Except the gesture silenced the laughter in his head rather than feeding it and despite himself Astarion settled, muscles loosening marginally as he knelt in the dirt, bare back to the firelight. This was far from the first time Tala had seen the freakish scaring on his back, courtesy of Cazador's 'creativity.' It was, however, the first time she'd brought a pad of paper to their nightly... excursions. 

Gently her hand appeared—now shockingly familiar—laid against the center inscription and then spiraling out, slow like she was actually intent on understanding whatever was written there. Astarion resisted the urge to flinch away. Not because of the touch itself anymore, but from the idea that she might actually succeed, unlocking Gods only knew what about Cazador's madness. About himself. 

Perhaps proof that he'd deserved this. 

Astarion let out a shaky breath. 

"Attempting a masterpiece back there?" He directed the words towards a bird in a nearby tree, unable to turn and see his back through Tala's eyes. Was she disgusted? Pitying? Indifferent because who very well cared about the scars on a nobody thrall? There couldn't be anything good in her gaze and Astarion was content to let his imagination torture him instead. 

For a moment there was only the scratching of her pencil. "I am trying to be accurate," she said. Fingertips traced another raised welt, feeling out the edges. 

"It's a fucking scar, darling, not a sunset."

"Yes. I can see that." Her voice was as dry as a good red. 

A pause, then: "Do you like sunsets, Astarion?" 

"But of course. Goodbye, horrid sun; hello, night. That is a vampire's time to feed." 

A distinctive snort sounded behind him. "Is that all you think about? Food?" 

"No! I'm quite fond of jewels too. Silver and gold. Anything that can earn me a hefty sack of coins." 

"To buy food with. Oh, I am sorry: you would call them 'victims,' right? Honestly, you are as bad as Karlach." 

He'd just opened his mouth to oppose that insulting and ridiculous comparison when Tala's arm appeared in front of his face. When Astarion didn't immediately take the bait she wiggled her fingers, enticing. 

"You need to clean your nails," he muttered, but took the offering nonetheless. 

"Keep from passing out in the mud next battle and my nails will be clean. Or I will not help you up again. Whichever." 

Fully ignoring her now, Astarion sank his fangs into the soft flesh of her wrist, careful not to pierce too deep. Tala may have offered the left, but she needed both hands to wield her staff. It did not escape his notice that he would not have held such consideration for any other 'victim.' 

I spoil her, he thought. 

They must have looked quite the sight if anyone had chanced upon them: a drow kneeling before a shirtless vampire, transcribing insane runes, one arm awkwardly wrapped around his shoulders so that he might feed from her wrist. Astarion didn't care. The moment her blood touched his lips his eyes slipped shut, familiar ecstasy coursing through him. It didn't matter how often they did this—and Tala was nothing if not generous in her donations, often relying on a disgusted Shadowheart to patch her up the next morning—the feeling of being full was one that Astarion knew he would never tire of. Blood on his tongue. A fire to warm his back and the weight of another's limb weighing against his. A part of Astarion was sure that tonight would finally be the night, with Tala demanding true reciprocation for everything else that she'd bestowed. After all, what woman was content with fleeting touch and nightly wounds (of the non-erotic variety)? Yet so long as her pencil scratched against paper Astarion knew they would stay like this, suspended, and he sunk deeper into that knowledge, very nearly purring against her skin. 

The sharp jab of her implement roused him. Astarion's purr turned into a deep growl. 

"Less venom," Tala chided, giving him another poke for good measure. "I am trying to concentrate." 

He hadn't even realized he'd let any slip through. You can't afford to grow soft. Unfortunately, a small part of Astarion worried that it was already far, far too late for that. 

They sat there a while longer, Astarion content to snack as opposed to outright feed, occasionally tempting fate with a kiss along the unblemished skin of Tala's forearm. She merely clucked and demanded that he cease pestering her. Another sliver of tension eased its way out of his frame. 

"There," Tala finally said. "I am done." 

He didn't want to look. Of course, he knew the scars were there, could feel them and had heard others comment on them before, but somehow it was different with them immortalized on paper. As if Cazador needed any more immortality. Astarion very nearly used his speed to snatch the image from her and toss it straight into the fire. 

Thank the Gods he didn't. 

This wasn't the Gods, his mind whispered, but the rest of Astarion was staring slack-jawed at the image Tala had turned his way. It wasn't the scars at all, but rather a profile view of—him. Sitting relaxed on the ground with firelight shadows dancing across his skin, Astarion gazed at his profile for the first time in… forever. He was handsome as others had said, but that observation didn't warrant more than a passing glance. No, there was something familiar in the shape of his nose and the dip of his chin. Astarion strained, trying to recall if this was a profile his father shared, or if he'd inherited features from his mother, if there had once existed a sibling that Astarion might have called twin. Nothing arose from the depths of his memory, but the niggling familiarity remained and that, he was sure, was more than he'd ever thought he'd get. 

Astarion's fingers instinctively reached out, but stopped just short of smudging the pencil strokes. If Tala's depiction was accurate, his ears were slightly longer than the average elf's. His hair needed a good brushing. Vampire eyes really did glint like an animal's in the darkness, but she hadn't drawn him as a predator. There was nothing but a gentle peace in his expression. 

Looking closer, Astarion realized he couldn't make out his scars in the image at all. Tala had replaced them with the fire's shadows and, he realized with a jolt, the very edge of hers. There was nothing of Cazador in this piece. Even the pants he wore, just visible at the bottom of the picture, had been gifted to him by Lae'zel a week before, chucked his way as they cleared another household. Astarion wouldn't have recognized the elf in this image months ago. It wouldn't matter that he hadn't seen his reflection or any other depiction since he'd turned; this version was... 

Happy? No, not quite. Content, perhaps. Or as near as he could ever hope to get. 

Why then must all his words sound so piqued? 

"Well, whatever am I supposed to do with that?" 

Tala merely shrugged, pressing the drawing into Astarion's fumbling hand. "Pin it to your tent so that we can admire your beauty when you are away." 

"Ha, ha. You were supposed to be transcribing that gods-awful poetry." 

Smile fading, Tala leaned forward until her face was level with his. A shot of fear ran through him—this was it then, the only thing people ever wanted from beautiful Astarion—but when the kiss came it was gifted to his cheek alone, so soft and fleeting that Astarion was unsure that it had happened at all. When Tala pulled back her face remained as grave as when that idiotic woman had first asked them to kidnap a Githyanki child; when Wyll had suddenly grown his horns; when Gale had first described Mystra. Astarion swallowed, fully unsure why such a look would be directed towards him. 

"I will transcribe it," Tala promised, "when we find someone who can read Infernal." 

The shock of that—and his ensuing verbal onslaught—nearly made Astarion forget that a kiss of comfort had been Tala's first reaction. 

Nearly. 

He did not pin the drawing to his tent. On pain of dismemberment Astarion got Gale to charm a pouch against water damage or tearing, and then to keep fucking quiet about it. The drawing went in the pouch and the pouch went under his tunic, over a heart that no longer beat. 

Astarion never removed it. Not unless he was planning to meet with Tala during the night. 

She didn't need to know. 

༺═────────────═༻

There was a moment—less than a mile from Baulder's gate—when all was finally lost. 

They'd set up camp on the outskirts of the city, relieved to see their destination finally in sight, yet wary of whatever might be housed within it. They all knew that they could have easily pushed on and crossed that threshold before the sun sank. Instead, each dragged their feet and said nothing of others doing the same. 

"We will rest," Tala said, definitively setting down her pack. Astarion's followed not a second later. "Tomorrow, we face the city." 

"That's the spirit," Wyll said, dropping his own bag with a groan. He flashed Tala a teasing smile. "Procrastination! A devil's best friend." 

"Wasn't that you?" Shadowheart asked, deliberately flicking her braid in his face. Karlach let out a whoop of laughter as Gale shook his head. 

As the others bickered fondly a calloused hand slipped into his. Astarion looked up and was met with Tala's back, his absurd drow tugging him along. His feet moved on their own accord. As did his thumb, gently tracing over Tala's scarred knuckles in an echo of what she’d once given him: back and forth, back and forth. 

"You know," he said. "Some people might be concerned when a suspicious woman leads them off into the woods at night." 

She shot him A Look over her shoulder. "Suspicious, am I?" 

"Oh, undoubtedly." 

"What is that Common expression that Gale is so fond of, but does not realize applies to him? Something about pots and kettles..." 

"I may be a vampire, darling, but past that little revelation what you see is what you get. You, on the other hand, are a truly dangerous enigma." 

Astarion fell silent as he realized those words hit just a bit too close to home, both the admission that he was little more than what Cazador had taught him to project and that she, in turn, was terrifying in a way he merely played out. Maybe Tala caught the quick twitch of his hand in hers. Or perhaps she—horrifyingly—could read him with even greater ease than she had at the start. Either way her own hand squeezed hard and only his enhanced hearing caught the whisper: 

"We are both simpler than we think." 

Walking faster, as if to outrun him while refusing to let go, Tala led them deeper, dodging old roots and low branches with the expertise of a local. 

"You've been here before," Astarion said. 

Tala gave a sharp nod, but did not turn around. "Before the city, before finding others on the street like me... before the monastery became my home, this was the safest place for a half-drow child."

Isolation. Yes, Astarion knew that well, though he wouldn't have guessed that sociable Tala did too. 

He eyed the scars along her arms and, not for the first time, took note of the shifting gaze, ever wary of an attack. Hmm. Perhaps he should have. Guessed, that is. 

How the Hells was she a mystery and easily readable at the same fucking time? Astarion huffed, finding he was more amused with the contradiction than annoyed nowadays. At least she wasn't boring. 

His ears suddenly twitched, head instinctively cocking towards the sound that had appeared. "Water?" he asked. 

"Water," Tala agreed, grinning as she hurried them along. 

A moment later the trees parted and they were met with a stunning sight. Situated on a cliff overlooking the city was a natural hot spring— it couldn't be anything else with that steam rising from the water—and Astarion stared, something loosening in the center of his chest. Objectively the spot had little to recommend it. The view was mostly obscured by a series of boulders and the spring itself, lacking any amenities, would scarcely be large enough to hold their party. Still, after months on the road the mere concept of a hot bath was enough for him to release a glorious sigh. 

"Come," Tala commanded, already stripping out of her robes. Astarion hesitated only a moment, realizing suddenly that he had never seen her naked below the waist—nor she him. Tala was as perfunctory as ever though and within moments her clothes were a messy pile on the grass and all but her head had slipped beneath the steaming water. She gestured for him to hurry, but Astarion folded each garment with care, his and hers. He may have been a vampire, but he was no barbarian. 

...He was also, perhaps, just the slightest bit nervous. Really, what the Hells did someone do in a hot spring if not ravish each other senseless? 

When he finally entered the water and she swam over though, all Tala did was gaze at him, that stupid, small smile on her face. It was strange, horrendously so, but after a moment Astarion dared to smile back. 

Then she dunked him. 

When he came up spluttering it was to the sound of water-logged laughter. He shook like a dog and made sure that most of the droplets hit Tala. 

"What the Hells are you doing?!" 

"You ask me that a lot," Tala said, still working around her laughter, "and the answer has not changed. It is warm, right?" 

Sulking, Astarion nevertheless took stock of his body and yes, it was warm. Bloody hot, in fact. No sooner had he acknowledged that than his body began to relax into it. Thanks to the dunking his hair was already a lost cause so Astarion sank, humming as the steaming water cascaded over him, heat working into every ache and unhealed bruise. He did not come back up until he was sure his expression could contain how fucking amazing this felt. 

Instead, Astarion smirked. "There are perks to not needing to breathe, you know." 

"I can see that." 

By now the steam had worked into Tala's own hair, leaving newfound curls behind, and she was languid against the pool's edge, absurdly relaxed in the presence of a predator. Astarion took a moment to admire her arms—jeweled tones complimenting the water—and the lidded look to her eyes, this time without the influence of any venom. She did indeed look... beautiful. 

They'd conducted this strange dance so many times now that Astarion was only slightly surprised that both their beauty and the romantic atmosphere led only to Tala becoming him to a shallower side of the pool, slotting their bodies together in a chaste, but comforting embrace. In many ways it felt perverse not to do more in such circumstances, but Tala filled the moment with talk instead: about moments of solace here as a child, the looming threats that followed them, the excellent wine that Karlach had found yesterday (which, according to Wyll, was only 'excellent' to an unrefined pallet like hers), the training she wanted to do but would now put off because who wanted to get dirty after such a fine bath? The scathing insult Gale had thrown out that she'd have to remember for the future, the moves Lae'zel had promised to teach her, the fact that she'd caught Shadowheart reading a thoroughly trashy romance and—oops—had promised not to tell... 

...and that she would, apparently, very much like to do this with him again, should they both survive long enough for that to happen. 

Through it all Astarion stayed uncharacteristically quiet. While Tala talked her hands carefully worked through his hair, combing far past the point of necessity and straight into pure indulgence. The fact that he let her said far more than he ever could have communicated with words. 

In time, Astarion slept. 

Tranced, technically, but it was just as vulnerable. More than a lifetime without living and he had never once succumbed so close to another; not without precautions. Curled into a fetal position at Cazador's feet, as commanded, was self-preservation. As was sleeping beside the fire head to boot with his knife within easy reach. Astarion would sleep lightly with someone else nearby provided he always had the upper hand. Better yet, he would pretend to sleep under the same circumstances. He did not, however, drift off unintentionally with only an insane drow to keep him afloat. 

She could have killed me a hundred different ways, was his first thought upon waking, watching as Tala climbed from the pool. Her whole body steamed against the night air, like a mist enveloping the supernatural. She didn't look like a goddess. Goddesses didn't carry scars and smile blindingly at vampires. But Tala did look like someone not of this horrible world—or any other Astarion might have the chance to visit. 

She could have killed me, he thought again and rose naked to follow her, right on the heels of, but didn't.

***

I love you were such hollow words. 

Astarion had heard them a hundred-thousand times across his life and death. More often than not they were given too much weight to be real; grandiose words that stunk of insincerity. Or they became lodged in the throat, garbled, finally forced out and landing with a wet smack against the floor, already half dead. Sometimes, rarely, Astarion heard the words tossed out casually. A mother to her child as they raced out the door. An old man to his wife as they reconvened at the end of the day. He might have read those moments as ingrained and therefore intrinsically truthful. More often than not he saw them as a chore: they said the words because they felt they had to, not because they were meant. 

He would never say them. 

Astarion would, however, allow the woman before him to hold him as he shook through the night—nothing more, yet somehow the lack felt like a revelation. She was allowed to see his scars, record them, read them, and return night after night despite them. She'd drawn him. She'd seen him. Astarion strained to recall when someone had last given him a gift, or washed his hair. He assumed that someone in his life once had, though the memories were long gone now, the true victims of Cazador's dungeon. It had never occurred to him to try and create more. 

After all, if the Gods hadn't seen fit to free him, why would they bother with something as silly and ridiculous as granting him someone to hold his hand? 

He owed them nothing. However, Astarion was beginning to admit that he owed Tala a great deal; a debt that now went far beyond her role in his survival. The fact that she demanded nothing in return continued to make all the difference. 

It can't last. 

It has to. 

But it won't and what will become of you then? 

Astarion knew all too well. 

"Are you coming?" 

Their party had picked up the pace as they finally neared the gates, Karlach going so far as to skip across the boundary. Astarion was less enthused to return to old hunting grounds and the closer he got the heavier his feet became, dragging through the dirt most childishly. No one had noticed. No one except Tala, of course. 

She held out her hand and Astarion's body betrayed him. Tala had been training him for months now and low and behold, he obeyed, picking up the pace so that his hand could slip into hers. Except she didn't stop there. Tala trailed her own hand up until it had settled on Astarion's forearm—precisely where she'd first touched him, what felt like several lifetimes ago. 

Astarion swallowed. He still had no words to give her.

He could, however, follow. 

Astarion did just that, allowing Tala to gently but firmly guide him across the threshold. Objectively nothing changed as they crossed into Baldur's Gate. There were no signs to herald a union, or blessing from absent Gods, nor even curses or omens, certainly no promises given that they weren’t worth the breath that carried them. No, truthfully those next steps were no different than the thousands that had already come before. 

Except that Astarion felt just the slightest bit warmer as he took them.