Chapter Text
Lesson #1: Everything is Flammable.
Gale was impressed by the ease in which Astarion wielded magic.
They’d been traveling together for several weeks now, this ragtag little band of infected misfits, and the wizard was still getting a feel for everyone. He read the other magic users easiest – could feel the warm, bright clerical magic radiating from Shadowheart, tainted ever-so-slightly by her Dark Lady. He could feel the power of the warlock spells Wyll summoned forth from his patron, the magic heavy and foreboding in the air. He’d even been able to sense Halsin’s druidic magic, despite it being the form of magic he was least familiar with – it was crisp and clean, cutting through its surroundings as easy as a breeze.
But Astarion . . . up until a few moments ago, he’d never seen the rogue cast anything more than a simple fire cantrip, and even that he’d struggled with at first. He had sensed some sort of power from the man, but until now he’d assumed it had something to do with his vampirism. Something like that was sure to emit some sort of aura, but being unfamiliar with it as he was, Gale hadn’t quite known the difference.
They’d been spending more time together – at first unwillingly, as Astarion had very vocally proclaimed, simply needing each other and the others to survive. There had been a few petty squabbles, some glares shot over disagreements, but they soon fell into step with each other in battle, making for a formidable pair. Astarion was a silent, deadly shadow, and Gale was a firecracker with the weave at his fingertips. They complimented each other well, staying well out of range to shoot arrows and fling spells, but were just as deadly up close with daggers and enchantments. They’d taken to watching each other’s backs, and it slowly but surely melted into them doing so outside of fights as well.
They had more in common than Gale would have thought. Both were quick witted and ready with a remark, be it sarcastic or clever, and often their quips went over the heads of the others, landing only with each other. Both had a thirst for knowledge, picking up any book, scroll, or artifact they could find. The rate at which Astarion consumed literature rivaled even Gale’s reading speed, and they had amassed quite the library between them.
Both had spent quite some time in isolation, albeit for different reasons.
Gale had been surprised when Astarion had sauntered up to him that evening. So surprised, he hadn’t even heard the man, and realized it was too late when the vampire’s eyes landed on the conjured image of Mystra. Quickly, Gale had moved to change the subject, deflecting with what he knew best: magic.
Of course, he hadn’t expected Astarion to actually take him up on the offer to learn a bit of weave shaping. He’d figured he’d prestidigitation a few sparks from the vampire’s hands to make him think he’d accomplished something, but he soon found that unnecessary. Astarion had effortlessly followed Gale’s movements, mimicked them just as easy, and the incantation rolled from his lips as easily as one of his sarcastic retorts. The magic that had flowed from him was strong, roiling with power, an unhinged sort of movement that left Gale nearly staggering back. He’d meant to say something, but before he could, he quickly caught a glimpse of a projection of Astarion’s feelings – the mere idea of brushing hands, warm skin on cool, and soft lips. So quickly was the image and feeling gone, however, that Gale wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Has my magical prowess rendered you speechless, wizard?”
Astarion’s sarcastic lilt pulled Gale from his thoughts. He blinked, glancing at the man, and quickly shook his head.
“Apologies. You . . . surprised me, is all. I wasn’t expecting . . . that.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Astarion replied innocently, but there was a glint in his ruby eyes that said differently.
Not imagined, then.
Gale cleared his throat, a steady blush working its way up his neck and over his cheeks. He quickly let go of his own hold on the weave, stepping back to put some distance between them – just until he figured out how to feel about all this. Still, he smiled, shaking his head in surprise.
“You should have told me sooner that you knew magic! This whole time I thought you were using what talents you had at your disposal, but you have an entire other arsenal I’ve yet to see you dip into!”
Astarion rolled his eyes, waving a delicate hand. “Oh, yes, I’m a regular magical prodigy. Very funny, darling, if I’m that bad you can simply say so. You don’t have to attempt to humor me.”
Gale’s smile twitched, his brow furrowing slightly. “Are . . . are you serious?” Surely he jested? There was no way he hadn’t felt it. Right?
Astarion raised a brow.
Now Gale’s smile did fall, a firm, confused frown taking its place. “You didn’t feel that?”
“Feel what, darling?”
“That . . . crackle, in the weave when you casted? You truly didn’t sense the way it clung to you?”
Astarion rolled his eyes, waving the wizard off. It was becoming quite obvious he didn’t realize.
“Astarion . . . do you not know you’re a sorcerer?” Gale asked, his frown deepening.
Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms. “Please. Now you really are having a laugh. Yes, I’ve secretly been a very talented magician this entire time. That’s why I use these archaic pointy sticks and my teeth to rip through our enemies. I simply didn’t want to outshine our resident wizard.”
“I’m serious,” Gale said, brow furrowing. “Look – I can sense the weave, yes? In all its forms. All magic is different, it has a distinct flavor, if you will, a distinct feeling. Clerical magic is pure, druidic magic is clean, warlock magic is power, even wizards magic has a strong nuance about it. But what you did while you were casting, it was like . . . unbridled chaos, trying to get out. It’s a very distinct type of weave formation. Wild magic flows through you, Astarion.”
Astarion was frowning, had dropped his arms from where they were crossed across his chest. “I think I would know if I were a sorcerer,” he all but snapped, and Gale wondered if he’d struck a nerve. Still, that’s what Gale was best at striking, so he’d been told, so he kept pushing.
“Think back. You really can’t think of any other times you might have accessed this power? Any sort of untamed bursts of magic or any family members being casters themselves? Anything?”
As he spoke, Astarion’s eyes had widened slightly, and he’d taken a step backwards. His eyes suddenly darted around, and a strange emotion shadowed his handsome features – fear? Vulnerability? His irritability at the line of questioning had evaporated, and now he simply looked nervous.
“I . . . I have to go,” he said quickly, turning and walking away.
Gale jumped forward, reaching for his hand. Astarion hesitated, looking at where Gale’s hand was wrapped loosely around his own.
“I’m sorry,” Gale started. “I shouldn’t have –”
“I should hunt,” Astarion said shortly, distantly, and Gale let him slip away, into the woods. The wizard watched until he disappeared, kicking himself for not having more tact. He could practically hear Tara scolding him, and he turned back to his tent with a sigh, hoping he hadn’t just shattered the connection they’d just started to build.
“Astarion! Do you have any idea how much this vase cost?”
A tall, strikingly beautiful elf stood with her hands on her hips, tsking as she waved a hand over the shards of glass and ceramic. The broken pieces of the vase lifted into the air and reassembled seamlessly, sparkling with magic. The mended vase landed gently in the woman’s hands, and she set it carefully on the mantle, before turning to look at Astarion.
She had striking blue eyes, and shining, white-silver hair that had been braided and pinned up. She was wearing a lovely gown of gold silk brocade with red accents. Her features were sharp but her eyes were soft, and Astarion realized as he looked upon this woman whose face was a distant memory that he loved her very much.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say, but it wasn’t himself, it was a child, much younger and genuinely apologetic – an emotion he hadn’t felt in years.
The woman tried to look firm, but sighed, dropping her arms. She raised a hand to gently lay on his head, carding her slender fingers lovingly through his hair. It felt divine. It felt like home.
“Just be more careful,” she said. “Your magic can get away from you easily if you’re not paying attention – Corellon knows your father broke who knows how many vases as a boy.”
“Could you teach me a few spells, mother? Please?”
The woman smiled, leaning down and tapping his nose. “Tell you what. If you promise me you can behave at the gala this evening – no pranks or tricks – I might be convinced to show you a cantrip or two. Deal?”
“Deal!” his arms wrapped around her hips. She was warm. She smelled heavenly – like warm sugar and lavender. She laughed, a light, tinkling sound, and hugged him back. He wanted to remain in the embrace forever. He wanted to drown in this feeling – safety. Warmth. Love.
“Run along, my star, and don’t get your new boots too muddy!”
The memory faded as quickly as it had formed. Astarion blinked, holding onto the fragment of his past life, as he sat on the forest floor, back against a tree and arms wrapped around his knees. His face felt damp and, upon raising a hand to his cheek, he realized he was crying.
It had been two hundred years since he’d last seen his mother’s face. So long now and so detached from his wretched unlife that he’d forgotten what she’d looked like, what she smelled like, how it had felt when she held him. But even with what he could now remember, pieces of her were still lost. What was her name? Was she still alive? Had she mourned her son and moved on?
Fragmented pieces had come back to him like shards of glass lodging in his skin when Gale revealed his magical nature. Tiny slivers of a past life – of young, untethered magic breaking vases and other antiques, or being used in pranks and sneaking, or magical “experiments” going array and his mother patching him up with light scoldings. The memory of her promising to teach him cantrips was the first full one to form.
He opened his palm, a small ball of flame forming as he uttered the incantation. Ignis. It was the only spell he knew – he thought. Did she teach him this? He’d always been able to do so, at least as long as he could remember, but had been forbidden from using or learning any magic as a spawn under his master. He used it for the first time in two hundred years after escaping the Nautiloid. He hadn’t even given a second thought as to why he knew how to do so.
He hadn’t expected to actually be able to do magic when Gale had offered to teach him. He figured the man needed to get his divine ex off his mind, and that he’d be able to fumble through with enough sleight of hand to distract the wizard he was slowly and begrudgingly beginning to . . . like? Respect? He wasn’t sure. When he’d felt that spark, that jolt of power that ran through him and flowed from his fingertips and set his hair on end, he’d figured it was a side effect of the wizards own power – not his own. And when his mind wandered, betraying him with thoughts of intimacy, he certainly hadn’t meant for Gale to see it.
And now the man knew more about Astarion than Astarion knew about himself. He desperately wanted to resent him for it, but he couldn’t make himself feel anything other than apprehension at the sudden revelation that there was, in fact, more to him than ‘vampire spawn.’
And that . . . made him laugh.
It made him laugh that, underneath it all, he was more than Cazador’s pawn, more than a body to be used and mind to be abused. He was a person. He had memories buried beneath what his master had done to him. He had power. And that bastard could no longer stop him from embracing it.
He just had to try and remember how to wield it, or if he’d ever even bothered to learn.
Not everything was lost to Astarion. He remembered bits of his life before Cazador. He knew his last name was Ancunin. He knew he came from nobility, and that he was an only child of an influential couple. He knew that he was not born in Baldurs Gate, but had lived there most of his life. He knew he was a magistrate, and that he wasn’t particularly good at it. And he remembered being beaten within an inch of his life by the group of Gur who then left him to bleed in the street, who damned him to being found by his new master.
Everything else was a blur at best, completely lost at worst. Even now he tried to remember more – his father’s face, his time at school, anything – but was coming up blank.
Unable to continue dwelling on it with his stomach starting to pang with hunger, he sighed, pushing himself off the ground and stalking towards the river. He caught the scent of something up ahead – a deer, he figured, and quickly dropped into a crouch as he began his hunt. He stalked her for a while, finding her in a small clearing. Her ears twitched as he approached, and he went still, watching her while she looked around for the source of her disturbance.
Normally, at this point, Astarion would draw a dagger and dash across the clearing, cutting her throat or sinking his fangs into her jugular, whichever part of him got to her first. This time, however, he hesitated. He sheathed his dagger, instead dropping into a crouch and concentrating. He focused – he’d seen Gale do this dozens of times. He just needed to mimic him the way he had earlier that evening.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he did as Gale had told him. Followed the movements. Focused on something – this time the memory of breaking a vase and being comforted by a formerly faceless woman – and willed his intentions into the weave he could feel forming.
He let the spell formed on his lips go, centered on the creature. Immediately the doe fell into a deep sleep, collapsing to the ground, and Astarion felt a strong sense of accomplishment.
The feeling was fleeting, however. Immediately, the crackling, wild feeling of magic filled his chest, and he stumbled as it burst forth from him in a violent explosion of flames. He threw his hands up to shield his face as hot air and the crackle of fire surrounded him, and after a moment, he slowly lowered his arms, peeking around him. The surrounding area of trees, grass, and undergrowth had been burnt to ash or was steadily burning, flames crackling lazily as they slowly began to die out, leaving everything charred and black.
“Ah . . . . oops,” he said aloud, examining the carnage. Right. Wild magic was . . . wild. Best make note of that. He sighed when he caught sight of the formerly sleeping, now charred doe on the ground.
Looks like he’d be having his dinner well done tonight.