Chapter Text
Lazily turning the pages of his book, Astarion soaks in the warmth of the afternoon. The sunlight feels electric on his cold skin, leaving soft tingles with every gentle caress. It’s still such a novel concept to him – to be revered by the sun as a lover, rather than a fiend to be scorched with the holiest of light. In the days since his abduction and subsequent infection with his parasitic guest, he’d grown to appreciate the subtle beauty that even the moon goddess herself could not highlight in the cold glow of her dominion. The way the world sparkled after a light rain, the shine of a bird’s wing in flight. Gods – the way gold flashed with blinding brilliance every time he idly fidgeted with his loot, skipping it over his fingers.
He and the gang of idiot adventurers had camped just south of the goblin-infested village, and while they searched for more information on a cure or their druidic saviour, he’d offered to stay behind. Not because his feet hurt – despite what Shadowheart, that haughty cleric, might think. He still feels conflicted on being an active part in removing the tadpole. His companions may fear ceremorphosis but to remove the tadpole before he learned how to control it would risk his enthrallment to another kind of monster.
He looks up from the page as a flurry of fabric passes through his peripheral vision. Gale scurries by, vegetables tumbling out of his overstuffed arms. The man had practically jumped out of his skin the other day when Astarion presented him with the fresh ingredients he’d looted from under the goblin’s noses in the blighted village. Going on about stews and broths and shit, Gale looked ready to kiss the elf on the spot. Not an idea he was opposed to, but usually it took a lot more than carrots and bread rolls to woo a target. Thrown off his rhythm, he’d foolishly let the moment pass. Now, Astarion wonders how quickly he could gain the wizard’s undying loyalty one potato at a time.
Setting his tome aside, he follows Gale to the campfire, picking up the few neglected vegetables off the dirt. A garlic bulb sits on the ground, innocently concealing its nefarious intentions. Astarion hesitates, but sensing nothing out of the ordinary, he picks it up cautiously. He sits down and drops them by Gale who has conjured a spectral hand that stirs the broth while Gale chops the ingredients and tosses them into the pot.
‘Darling, I’m insulted you’d call on a disembodied hand before asking for my help,’ Astarion half-complains, a teasing tone in his voice.
Gale doesn’t even look up. ‘Would you have helped, Astarion?’
‘No,’ he admits flippantly. ‘But it’s beside the point. I’m still insulted.’
‘Be insulted all you want,’ Gale finally turns his head, his big brown eyes sparkling with a challenge. ‘I can’t make a meal of snarky comments and boyish good looks.’
Astarion’s eyes flit to Gale’s lips. He lowers his voice. ‘Oh I’m sure you’ll find they make for quite a tempting meal.’
Faint red rosiness blooms along the wizard’s neck. He opens his mouth as if to retort but seems to recognise a battle of wits he won’t win, only responding with ‘mm.’ Instead, his eyes dart between Astarion’s, trying to read the elf’s expression like a novel. The ghostly mage hand suddenly vanishes, the spoon hitting the side of the pot with a clank that snaps Gale out of the intense focus on his pale companion.
‘Oh no-no-no,’ he cries. ‘Come back!’
‘Something distracted you, Gale?’ Astarion teases.
Gale humourlessly thrusts the spoon into Astarion’s hands. ‘There, now you can help.’
‘Wha-?’ Astarion sputters in protest. ‘I don’t know how to make a stew.’
‘You’re not making the stew,’ Gale replies. ‘Just stir it. Give it a taste. Let me know how the broth is.’
Astarion makes a face. Gale notices and throws a quizzical look his way. ‘You don’t like my cooking?’
‘No-no, darling,’ Astarion assures him, his secret gnawing at his conscience. ‘It’s just – I haven’t had a chance – the thing is… It just hasn’t come up naturally.’ He rubs his neck where his master had bitten him two centuries ago. ‘I’m a vampire.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘And nothing has to change. I’m still the same rogue you know and love – shit. You knew?’
‘You are not as subtle as you think you are, my friend – and don’t bruise my ego so carelessly. I am rather intelligent, you know. It wasn’t hard to figure out.’ Gale begins to ramble. ‘I’ll admit the walking-in-the-sun thing gave me pause – but you never eat, you disappear late at night, you’re without freckles or any evidence that the sun has ever touched your skin. And how were you going to explain that look of terror when you picked up the garlic?’
‘Allergies.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘You’re not angry? Ready to throw me out of camp? To stake me and feed me to the gnolls?’
Gale’s expression softens. ‘We all have our secrets.’
‘I doubt your secret threatens the lives of our campmates.’
Gale throws his head back and laughs. He places a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. ‘We’re more alike than I think you realise. I understand hunger…’ He trails off before his secrets come tumbling out of his mouth. ‘For instance, the smell of our stew is making me positively ravenous.’
Despite his curiosity, Astarion decides not to push him further. That sounds like a conversation the wizard will be more open to indulging in after a few more potatoes. He turns back to his own problem. ‘Do the others know?’
‘Only if you want them to.’
A smile threatens to crack his suave and nonchalant façade. He turns away from Gale and notices the rest of their merry band shuffling toward camp, less energetically than when they set out this morning. Lae’zel is covered in grime and blood, scowling as she ends a heated discussion with Wyll about their tadpoles and the githyanki creche. Karlach hangs back, following behind a limping Shadowheart.
‘Praise the triad!’ Wyll exclaims, taking in the scent that wafts from Gale’s pot. ‘Gale, you outdo yourself every night.’
‘I helped.’
‘You barely lifted a finger!’
‘I simply improved it with my snarky comments and boyish good looks,’ Astarion quips back.
Wyll gives Astarion a firm pat on the back. ‘Thank you, my friend. I’m sure this will be the best-looking soup in all of Faerûn.’
‘What happened to her?’ Astarion asks, rubbing his back tenderly, as Shadowheart and Karlach go past.
‘Stepped right into a trap,’ Karlach answers. ‘Engine be damned, I would’ve offered to carry her home, but she insisted she’d be able to walk all the way back. And she did! I’m so proud.’
Shadowheart flushes a deep red. ‘You’re sweet Karlach.’
Astarion pantomimes a deeply thoughtful look. ‘You know, it’s just too bad we don’t have a cleric. You’d feel better in no time…’
‘Wow! I never even thought of that,’ Shadowheart shoots back. ‘Thank you for your input, Astarion.’
The vampire sends a kiss into the air and lazily gestures a bow with his arms. The cleric rolls her eyes but can’t hide the mischievous twinkle behind the annoyance.
‘Shadowheart used up all her healing spells on Lae’zel and Wyll,’ Karlach explains as Shadowheart stumbles to a nearby log. ‘They got pretty messed up out there.’
‘You didn’t bring any potions?’ Gale asks.
‘Not enough. None of us expected the beautiful sun-lit wetlands to actually be a fae-infested swamp. And – get this – that sweet old lady from the grove? A hag!’
‘You’re kidding!’ Gale leans forward, immediately captivated.
‘Nope!’ Karlach’s eyes go wide, and she begins to gesture wildly. ‘We came across these guys looking for their sister. So obviously we told them we’d help. Auntie Ethel vanished and we came across her tea house – you know, the one she told us about? – and there she was. The sister, not Ethel – well, Ethel was there too, but she’d transformed into a grotesque hag and had Mayrina – that’s the sister’s name – held hostage with a pie. Ethel and her sheep were not thrilled about our meddling, let me tell you. Beat us to a pulp then disappeared behind her fireplace.’
‘Did you follow her?’
‘No.’ Lae’zel’s sharp bark resonates through the open space. ‘We ran like cowards.’
‘It was a tactical retreat, Lae’zel.’ Wyll annunciates each syllable in way that hints this was not the first time they’d had this argument today.
Astarion shares a glance with Gale. ‘Shame we couldn’t be there.’ His voice drawls with sarcasm.
Wyll slaps him on the back again and Astarion swears to every god listening that if the warlock does it again, he’ll lose his hand to one of Astarion’s blades. ‘Lucky for you two, Shadowheart will be resting tomorrow and Karlach offered to keep her off her feet. We have two empty spots in the party.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Rest up, eat well – and be wary tonight.’
‘Of fireplace hags and angry sheep? I think I’ll be just fine.’
‘No – vampires!’ Karlach interjects.
Astarion just about swallows his own tongue. He senses Gale staring directly at him before the man awkwardly offers warm bowls of food to the others standing close to the fire.
‘Vampires?’ he chokes.
‘We met this fascinating fellow outside the hag’s home,’ Wyll continues, grabbing a second bowl to take to Shadowheart. ‘He’s certain there’s a vampire spawn hunting around the area. Told us to keep an eye out.’
Astarion purses his lips and finds himself glancing over to Gale. ‘Ah yes. Well. About that…’